by Simon Hawke
"What do you see, Mac?" asked the old brigand, bending down with the lantern.
"Right here," said Mac, "scratched into the dirt. The letters 'B' and 'J.'" He stretched out full length on the ground. "Aye, she scratched this into the dirt as she lay here on the ground." He got up and began to move about the site, acting out what must have happened. "She came to release them, and she stood right here, then she moved closer, came around to the side of the stocks... and was struck down from behind."
He grabbed the lantern from Bloody Bob and glanced around. "He must have waited by the corner of the building there, and come around the side. Aye, here's his track. He crept up behind her as she bent down to unfasten the stocks, struck her, and she fell here.... He must have thought that she was senseless. Perhaps she was, but she came to in time to scratch these letters in the dirt... 'B J.'" He scowled. " 'B J.' What might... of course! Black Jack!"
"Who is this Black Jack?" asked Bob.
"A soldier of fortune, a bounty hunter. A killer," said MacGregor. "We've crossed swords before, but he managed to escape me. He was after your three friends, the same as I was. And now he's found them. He's brought more men with him this time. 'Twould cut into his bounty, but I think as much as he was after them, he was after me, as well."
"There's a bounty on you, too?" asked Bloody Bob.
"Nay, but there's a reputation in it for him if he kills me. But now that he's got Shannon, he's found himself a windfall. The bounty on her, together with the bounty on the others, will allow him to pay off his hired ruffians and still have plenty for himself. He'll be taking them all back to Pittsburgh."
"He won't get there alive," said Bloody Bob. "We'll fetch the others and give chase."
"They've had a good head start," said Mac, shaking his head. " 'Twill be dawn before you can get back and rouse the brigands. And by the time they all get moving.... We may never catch them."
"They will have to camp along the road to rest," said Bob. " 'Tis a goodly journey to Pittsburgh."
"Aye," said Mac, "but they will expect pursuit. Black Jack's no fool. He will push hard, without stopping to rest, and the river's but two days journey from here. If he reaches it first, he will cross, then cut loose the ferry ropes and let the ferry drift downstream. 'Tis what I would do if I were in his place. Then there would be no catching him. You ride back hard and rouse the men, Bob, but I cannot wait for them. I must go on ahead."
"Against at least a dozen well-armed men?" asked Bloody Bob. He shook his helmeted head. "Even for you, Mac, those would be stiff odds. I'd hate to wager on your chances."
"I'll be taking my lads with me. They'll help even out the odds. At worst, maybe I can slow them down enough to allow you to catch up with the others. You'd best be off, and quickly. There's no time to lose. They must not reach the river."
"I'm on my way," said Bob, mounting his huge warhorse. "Good luck, Mac. We'll be comin' right behind you."
"Ride like the wind," said Mac.
As Bob galloped off down the road back toward the keep, MacGregor ran up the steps of One-Eyed Jack's and started banging on the door. After a few moments, Jack came to the door in his nightgown and nightcap, his empty eye socket uncovered by the customary patch and appearing very disconcerting. Mac brushed past him before Jack could say a word and bounded up the stairs to the room where the three brothers slept. He pounded on the door. No answer.
"Stop makin' such a racket!" Jack called up, from the stairs. " 'Tis the middle of the night!"
Mac ignored him and pounded on the door again. Frustrated, he rattled it and it swung open. The three brothers were all sprawled out, dead to the world. Two of them were on the bed, Hugh on his back, Dugh on his stomach, and Lugh was sprawled out on the floor, lying on his side with his hands beneath his cheek, like a small child.
"Wake up, blast your eyes!" Mac shouted. "Wake up, I said!"
They didn't even stir.
"Hugh!" said Mac, reaching out to shake him. Nothing doing. "Lugh, damn your soul, wake up!"
He kicked the sleeping Lugh, but with no result other than a grunt from his sleeping henchman, followed by a shutter-rattling snore. Mac grabbed a washbasin from the table and emptied it upon them. Still they slept. And then he noticed the three empty jugs of Mick O'Fallon's peregrine wine lying on the floor.
"Oh, you bloody idiots!" swore Mac. Three whole jugs of that vile paralyzer. If it didn't kill them, they'd be in a coma for at least a week.
One-Eyed Jack stood in the doorway behind him, holding a candle. "You won't be rousing them tonight," he said. "Maybe not tomorrow, either. Never saw anybody drink like that before. Cast-iron stomachs, like my Mary, bless her heart. Drinks like a trooper, she does-"
Mac pushed past him and ran back down the stairs, cursing to himself. There was nothing else to do. He'd have to go after Black Jack and his ruffians alone.
Brewster stood up on the tower of his keep, looking down at the flickering embers of the campfires below. The grounds outside the keep were starting to resemble a shanty town. The brigands were now spending practically all their time at the keep, and instead of going back to the Roost each night, many of them had simply moved lock, stock, and barrel onto the grounds. Beyond the crumbling remnants of the outer wall, the meadow was dotted with tents and wooden shacks, and many of the brigands simply slept in the great hall of the keep below, passing out at the tables and on the floor after their nightly revels. Brewster imagined that it was rather like having a biker gang move in with you. He didn't really mind, though. He enjoyed having them around.
His whole life had been spent in fairly solitary pursuits. As a boy, he had been obsessed with science, and while the other kids were all out playing Little League baseball or hanging out together, he stayed at home, in the basement workshop his father had helped him set up, working on experiments. When other boys were building plastic models of ships and World War II airplanes, he was building radio sets and designing circuits. And when other boys had started dating in high school, he was already in college at M.I.T., amazing his professors. All his life, he had been the classic nerd, and it wasn't until he reached his mid-twenties that other men started to regard him with serious respect and women began to find him interesting. Yet, he realized all too well that he possessed some glaring shortcomings when it came to social skills, especially where women were concerned.
Women were generally far too subtle for him and whenever they had seemed interested in him, he'd usually missed all the signals. If they became bold and came right out with it, he would become flustered. The few relationships he'd blundered into had all ended fairly quickly, due to lack of common interests or his own perpetual absent-mindedness and preoccupation with his work. Pamela was different.
Pamela was the first woman he had ever met who understood him and, more than that, was patient enough to overlook his faults. In her own way, she'd had similar problems. She was from a wealthy, socially prominent family and she was beautiful. She had attracted plenty of men, but often they were intimidated by her intelligence and self-sufficiency, and she had been unwilling to subordinate her own interests and her career to any man. In many ways, they were perfectly suited to each other.
She'd told him that she was attracted to him from the very start. He hadn't had a clue. He had, of course, noticed that she was beautiful and vivacious, and very bright, but it had simply never occurred to him that she could have any interest in him. He had remarked upon that once, soon after they started to see each other, and had been astonished to hear her say that many women found him attractive. He simply couldn't understand it.
Sometime in his mid- to late-twenties, the ugly duckling had turned into a swan, except when he looked into a mirror, he still saw an ugly duckling, awkward, shy, and introverted. When he assumed that women were merely being friendly and polite, Pamela insisted they were coming on to him. He simply never saw it.
At heart, he still felt that most people saw him as "the geek," the nickname the other children had be
stowed on him in elementary school. Even after he'd become a well-respected scientist working in his own private research laboratory at one of the largest corporations in the world and making more money than he'd ever dreamed of, he still remained an outsider. Other men gave him respect and deferred to his judgement, but they never asked him to join them for a few pints at the pub, or watch a football game, or any of those other things that men do to express their camaraderie. But here, in this strange world, everything was different.
He was not only respected, but accepted. These simple, unaffected people genuinely seemed to like him. These brigands were manly men in every sense, rough and coarse and unpretentious, and even the most macho male in the modern world that Brewster came from would seem like a wimp among them, yet they all not only gave him their respect, but clapped him on the shoulder, called him Doc, and treated him with warm affection. And they were genuinely interested in everything he said and did. The women were much like the men, honest, open, and forthright, completely lacking in those devious little subtleties of modem social interaction. He had never felt so comfortable among any group of people before. It was as if he had become a part of one very large, extended family. He wished Pamela could be here, but she would feel as out of place in this world as he felt among her family and high-society friends.
"Something on your mind, Doc?"
He turned and saw Rachel sitting on the wall behind him, her ever-present bongo drums cradled in her lap. She tapped out a soft, rapid rhythm on them with her fingers.
"Oh, Rachel. I didn't hear you come up."
"Elves move quietly," she said with a grin. Since the night she'd shown up at the keep, pursued by unicorns, she had never left. No one had invited her to stay, but no one had asked her to leave, either. Brewster had no idea where she slept, but every time he turned around, there she was, watching everything with an honest, open curiosity.
At first, the brigands had been uneasy in her presence. There was a natural prejudice there. Humans and elves didn't get along. The fact that elves drank human blood probably had a great deal to do with it. However, Rachel was a vegetarian and, apparently, a bit unusual for an elf. Often, late at night, she would sit by a campfire, surrounded by curious brigands, and compose stream-of-consciousness poetry while she accompanied herself on the drums. None of the outlaws understood it, but they all seemed to find it fascinating. To Brewster, it sounded like a strange combination of Alien Ginsberg and Jim Morrison.
"I was just thinking," he said.
"About home?"
"Yes, about home, and other things."
"I've never really had a home," said Rachel, "unless you count the forest as a home, and I've always sort of wandered. Home is where my head is."
He glanced at her and smiled. "Back where I come from, they have a somewhat similar saying. 'Home is where the heart is.' But I think, for me, at any rate, your way of saying it is closer to the truth. I have never been quite so happy as when I was working. Wherever I could do my work, that was where I lived. That was really home."
"So then, in a way, this is home to you, as well," said Rachel.
Brewster shook his head. "No, not really. But in some ways, it's almost beginning to feel like it. The kind of work I usually do, I can't do here. But in another sense, the work I am doing here is equally rewarding. I admit that sometimes I feel lost here, but this is the greatest adventure of my life. In fact, it's the only real adventure of my life. I have always been a quiet man, a man of learning. Yet here, I feel like a man of action." He looked out toward the campfires of the brigands. "I have never known people like these. They're refreshing, stimulating. They've made me realize that although I have accomplished a great deal in my life, I've never really done anything. And here, I feel that I'm doing something. Yes, Rachel, I miss my home, but I'm having the time of my life."
Rachel rapped out a rapid tattoo on her drums, then settled into a steady beat. Boom-chak-chak-boom-chak-chak-boom....
"The dreamer stood upon the tower and looked out at life,
and yearned to leave the security of dreams for what he saw.
So he came down out of the tower to walk life's broken meadows,
and found that he was living out his dreams."
Boom-chakka-boom-chakka-boom.
Brewster smiled. "I really like that. Would you write it down for me?"
Rachel shrugged. "Elves have a rich oral tradition, but we have no written language."
"Take that, Professor Tolkein," Brewster mumbled.
"What?"
"Never mind. Just mumbling to myself."
"I will remember it for you, if you like, and recite it any time you wish."
"It's a deal. Next time, I'll have to be sure and-" A shout from below distracted him and he looked down over the parapet to see a horseman come galloping at full speed into the meadow, roaring at the top of his lungs. He couldn't make out what he was yelling, but he clearly recognized the voice as Bloody Bob's. No one else could sound like that.
At once, the camp below became a flurry of activity as the brigands came running out of their tents and shacks, and out from the great hall of the keep. Torches bobbed below him in the meadow, and there was angry shouting.
"I wonder what's going on?" said Brewster, looking down.
"One way to find out," said Rachel. She hopped down from the wall and ran down the stairs. The commotion below was increasing. In the darkness, illuminated only by the moving torches and the light from the campfires, Brewster couldn't really see what was happening very clearly, but figures were rushing about down there, and there was a lot of shouting. A short while later, Rachel came running back up the stairs to the top of the tower, accompanied by Mick.
"Mick, what's going on down there?" asked Brewster.
"They've taken Shannon!" Mick said. "And Long Bill, Fifer Bob, and Silent Fred, as well!"
"Who?" said Brewster.
"Bob says 'tis some soldier of fortune named Black Jack," said Rachel. "And he had a party of men with him."
"A dozen or more," said Mick. "Bounty hunters," he spat out with angry scorn. "Bob says they'll be taking them back to Pittsburgh. Mac's gone after them alone."
"Alone?" said Brewster. "Against over a dozen men?"
" 'Twas no choice he had," said Mick. "The road to Pittsburgh is broken by the Great River two days journey from here. There's a ferry raft that takes travelers across, and if they cross the river first, they can cut the ferry loose and men there'll be no catching up with them. Mac says they've got a good head start, but if he rides hard, perhaps he can catch up with them and try to slow them down in time for the rest of us to get there."
"He'll get himself killed," said Brewster. "I don't care how good a swordsman he is, one man against a dozen or more is suicide."
"If we ride hard, we might catch them," Mick said.
Brewster frowned. "Even if he rode at a full gallop all the way, it had to take Bloody Bob almost half an hour to get here from Brigand's Roost. And it would take the rest of you at least a half an hour to reach there from here, so that's an hour lost already, not counting the time it'll take to get everyone together and mounted. Those bounty hunters already have several hours head start. They'll know the brigands will come after them, and if they know that getting to the ferry first will effectively cut off pursuit, they won't waste any time. They'll be moving fast." He shook his head. "I don't see how you can catch them."
"We must try!" said Mick.
"Doc's right," said Rachel. " Twill be no use. The bounty hunters will be mounted on fine horses. Such men spare no expense when it comes to their arms and their steeds. Many of the brigands have no horses of their own. They'll have to double up or ride in carts. You'll never catch them."
"Doc, there must be something you can do!" said Mick in an agonized tone. "If they turn Shannon over to the sheriff, she'll be beheaded! And the others will be taken to the royal wizard's tower! 'Tis said no one ever escapes from there!"
Brewster compres
sed his lips into a tight grimace. "I don't see what I can do," he said.
"Will you come with us?" Mick said.
"I have no horse, and even if I did, I'm not much of a rider, Mick. I'd only slow you down."
With a look of exasperation, Mick turned and ran back down the stairs to join the others. Brewster could already see a number of brigands mounted down below, and the rest rushing with their weapons toward the carts.
"Damn. What we need is a helicopter. If only..." he broke off.
"What is it, Doc?" said Rachel.
"Yes, it might work!" said Brewster. He glanced at his watch. "In another hour, it'll be midnight. He always comes around midnight."
"Rory!" Rachel said.
Brewster headed for the stairs.
"Where are you going?" Rachel asked.
"To get my gun."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The brigands got themselves organized quickly and within less than twenty minutes they were riding off down the road to the Roost. The time had seemed much longer to Brewster, and now he waited atop the tower parapet, anxiously, feeling the weight of his Smith & Wesson in its holster on his belt, and he wondered what in God's name he was thinking of. Rory would come, as the dragon came every night at around midnight. He knew that. He recalled the first time Rory came, and how frightened he had felt... no, frightened was too mild a word for it, he'd been plain scared shitless, but amazingly, his curiosity had overwhelmed his fear and he had gone up to meet the dragon. The mark of a true scientist, he thought, with a nervous, giddy sort of feeling. Let's see old Carl try that one! Wouldn't it be wonderful, indeed? He had actually made friends with the fantastic creature, and he could never quite get over the magical miraculousness of its existence. It was, in every sense, a fairy tale come to life, huge, reptilian, with iridescent scales and talons that could rip him open from head to toe as easily as he could peel a banana. And yet it possessed a droll, intellectual demeanor and an avid curiosity about his world, which it claimed all dragons saw in dreams. Meeting Rory was the most dramatic and thrilling experience of his entire life, and he never tired of the dragon's visits, and didn't care how late they stayed up talking, though usually the dragon, in a very gentlemanly manner, never stayed longer than an hour or two, at most, and always apologized for keeping him up late on the occasions it stayed longer. The brigands were frightened of the beast and always kept their distance, but Brewster had come to look upon the creature with affection, for all its fearsomeness. He had never thought that he could ever have an experience to match Rory's nightly visits. Yet now, what he was contemplating was even more fantastic.