Cassie grabs my shirt and pulls me closer. “What do you say, hoss? Up for a romp?”
We’ve known each other since first grade. By the time middle school came around, we were somewhat inseparable, but we haven’t ever been anything more. Then again, neither of us have really had anything close to a significant other in our lives…other than each other.
Cassie shoves me back. “I’m going to kick this kid’s ass eventually. You know that, right?” With that, she strides away, heading uphill and forcing me to drink quickly.
While I cup water to my lips, Levi crouches down beside me. “Seriously, though, did you tap that? Because, man…” He shakes his head, and I know where he’s going. “…I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be with a—”
I drop the water from my hands, grasp him by the shirt and say, “If you say anything about race, you’re going to find yourself alone in the past.”
“Whoa,” Levi says, raising both hands and looking appropriately petrified. “I was gonna say a ‘cougar.’”
“A coug—are you stupid?”
Levi looks clueless.
“Cougars are old.”
“Yeah?” Still clueless.
“How old do you think she is?” My forehead wrinkles. “How old do you think I am?”
“I dunno. Old. Like forty.”
It’s my turn to look stunned. “Cougars are forty?”
“Yeah, that’s like the definition,” he says. “Like I said, old.”
“Forty isn’t old,” I say, releasing him. “And do yourself a favor; keep this to yourself.”
“I ain’t stupid,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna—”
Cassie’s sudden return draws a squeak of surprise from Levi. She lands in the stream beside me, grasping Levi and yanking him down over the incline. He falls onto his back, and for a moment, I think she’s strangling him.
Then I see her hand, wrapped over his mouth instead of around his throat.
When Levi nods and taps her hands, showing he understands the situation, she draws back and turns to me. “Ten men. Some of them armed. Coming this way.”
“Where?”
“North,” she says. “Hundred feet out.”
Geez, that’s close, I think, and then I poke my head up over the stream’s short ledge. It’s just a quick peek, but I’ve been trained to spot and remember details with just a glance. There are ten men, all of them haggard and dirty. A few of them are limping. One looks close to death, and three of them have blood-soaked injuries. The strongest of them are armed, the man in front carrying a revolver. The rest carry rifles, one of which I recognize as a Winchester, not too dissimilar from the weapon I learned to shoot on. The rifle lacks the speed and firing capacity of modern weapons, but it’s no less capable of taking a life.
On their current course, they’ll pass by uphill of us and the stream. If we stay still and quiet, they might not ever see us.
Then all hope of avoiding confrontation evaporates, when one of them shouts, “Water ahead!” and starts hobbling toward us, eyes lit with the hot glow of desperation that leads men to make horrible choices.
8
“Weapons down,” I whisper to Cassie, when she draws her pistol. “We’re not a threat to them.”
Cassie grimaces. “But—”
“For all we know, one of these men could be an ancestor of—”
“None of those white boys is my ancestor,” Cassie says.
“Cass.”
“Fine.” She tucks the handgun back into her pants. “But if one of them looks at me funny...”
“I’ll be the first to put up a fuss.” I pat the holstered gun on my hip. This isn’t the Wild West, but I’m still a quick draw and a better shot than most. I’d rather not shoot down men with whom I have no quarrel, but Cassie and Levi are under my care, and there isn’t anyone or anything—now or in the past—that will stand in my way.
Cassie nods, and I stand up, acting surprised when the hobbling man nearly careens into me. But my act is not nearly as dramatic as the stranger’s. He simultaneously reels back and pitches forward while shouting, “Good Lawd!”
Rather than allow the man to fall into the stream, potentially injuring himself and our chances of a peaceful encounter, I catch him in my arms. The man’s bright blue eyes are offset by a beard full of crumbs, rotting teeth, and a stench that nearly forces me to drop him. The only thing about him that’s familiar is the dry, black stain of coal on his clothes and beneath his nails.
“Arthur!” calls out the nearest of the men. The one with the revolver. Of the bunch, he’s the best dressed, in a tattered suit coat which is free of coal. His face is covered in a thin layer of stubble, but he would have been clean shaven a few days ago.
They’re on the run, I realize, but from who? And why?
“I’m all right,” Arthur calls out, as I set him upright and ease him down onto the spring’s embankment. He looks me in the eyes, his gaze penetrating. “Thank you kindly for the assistance.”
“Weren’t nothin’,” I say, laying on my accent a little thick. It faded during my years in the military, but falling back into it is easy.
The rest of Arthur’s men arrive a moment later. Those with weapons have them aimed, mostly toward me, but there is one rifle covering Levi, and one on Cassie. But these men don’t look like fighters. Judging by the coal staining their clothing, they’d be more comfortable holding pick-axes than rifles. They’re also exhausted and desperate, more interested in the water gurgling behind me than they are in the newcomers they’ve stumbled across.
“Don’t let us slow you down,” I say, arms raised, stepping away from the spring. “Have at it.”
The well-dressed man motions Arthur to the spring. The man descends on the spring like a thirsty vampire, sucking blood from the Earth’s neck. He gags and slurps as he drinks with abandon.
“Name’s Charles Whalen,” the well-dressed man says, his revolver leveled at my chest. “What’re you all doing out here?”
“Hunting,” I say.
He looks us over. “Don’t see no rifle.”
“Don’t need one,” I tell him, and motion to the gun on my hip. He’ll recognize it for what it is, but it’s different enough from anything he’d have seen that he might just believe the lie.
“Ain’t nobody hunts with a pistol,” he says.
“Ain’t nobody can shoot like him,” Levi says. “Once saw him take the—”
“Levi,” I say, trying to prevent him from making claims I can’t follow through on. Last thing we need is these men challenging me to shoot a fly off a leaf at fifty feet or some such thing. “Mind yourself, boy.”
The last bit is to let Levi and Charles know that he’s my subordinate. Cassie plays it smart, staying quiet, eyes on the ground. I’m not entirely sure of the year, but even though slavery is a thing of the past, this is still the South, pre-civil rights movement.
“I picked this up in Germany,” I say, gambling with the year. “Took it from a dead Kraut. Packs a punch, and it’s more accurate than any weapon has a right to be.”
My claim seems to impress the lot of them. When several of the men glance toward Charles, I have no doubt that he actually fought in the war, which puts the year sometime after 1918.
“Who’d you serve under?” Charles asks.
Part of my education was a study of military history. When it comes to warfare, not repeating history isn’t just about learning how to prevent wars, it’s about avoiding the mistakes made on the battlefield. And both World Wars were full of mistakes. “Major Whittlesey.”
When Charles’s eyes widen, I know he understands what that means, and I hope he wasn’t one of the other 194 men who survived the horrible events in the Argonne Forest. If he was, I’ll really have to stretch the limits of my historical knowledge and my ability to bullshit.
“77th Division,” I continue, as if he doesn’t understand. “We—”
“He knows what ya did,”
Arthur says, standing up from the spring. His chest is soaked with water. “Not many men who served haven’t heard of the Lost Battalion, surrounded by Germans, abandoned by the French, and shelled by your own forces. You walked out of that, means you’re a survivor.”
“Also means you have our respect,” Charles says.
There aren’t many things that offend soldiers more than stolen valor, but I’ll deal with the guilt if and when we survive this mess. Also, I’d like to think my own service makes this a case of borrowed valor, rather than stolen. I offer my hand to Charles and give him my actual name and rank. “Captain Owen McCoy.”
As the man shakes my hand, his face contorts again. “McCoy?”
I forgot that my last name carries a lot of weight in these parts. Some of these men would have been alive for the infamous Hatfield-McCoy feud that claimed dozens of lives and became an American legend. Since then, the McCoy name has been recognizable and respected in Kentucky…but who’s to say these men are from Kentucky?
The shift in mood is subtle. Whatever respect being part of the Forgotten Battalion garnered me, my last name erased.
“Don’t hold his name against ’im,” Levi says. “He can be an overbearing prick, believe you me, but he ain’t had no part in the events of past years.”
“And you are?” Charles asks.
“Levi Hatfield.”
I think he’s laid it on a little thick. Running into a McCoy in the woods is one thing, but stumbling across a Hatfield and a McCoy together? They’re not likely to believe his story. But then he goes and frosts his liar’s cake with a surprising layer of history.
“I’m Sid’s cousin, twice removed. Heard what happened. Was coming to help.”
The lie is impressive. Not only does Levi know his local mining history—Sid Hatfield was gunned down by the law on the steps of the courthouse where he was surrendering. As the leader of a mining revolt, he’d become a regional hero and an enemy of the federal government. All of this took place in Virginia, home of the Hatfields. That these men are here in Kentucky means they were part of Sid’s crew, now on the run from the law. Knowing that also gives me a year. 1921.
“With a McCoy?” Arthur asks.
“I saved his life,” Levi says. “The man owes me.”
Charles sags a little bit, the fight going out of him. “Well then, I’m sorry to tell you, you’re too late to do any good. Sid’s dead.”
“What?” Levi’s overreaction borders on the edge of believability. He might know his history, but acting is not his forte. “How?”
“They shot him and Ed Chambers dead in front of their wives,” Charles says. “Right at the courthouse, if you can believe it. We put up a fine stink. Wounded a few of them. But they had the numbers and the guns. We’ve been on the run since.” Charles purses his lips, thinking, and then adds, “You’re more than welcome to join us.” He motions to me. “Present company excluded.” Back to Levi. “But the best thing you can do is go back where you came from. Live your life, best you can. I reckon we ain’t long for this world. Best not throw in with us.”
This is a test, I think. The Hatfield and McCoy feud went on so long and claimed so many lives because the families were fiercely loyal. Levi turning his back on Sid’s men would prove that we’ve been lying up until now. While Charles can’t prove any of this, he smells the stink of our horseshit. If Levi turns him down, he’s likely to gun us all down.
The sound of horse hooves prevents Levi from answering, but it does nothing to improve our situation.
“The law!” one of the men shouts, adjusting his aim away from Cassie and toward the woods, where the sound is coming from. “They done found us!”
The ten men all but forget about us, taking up positions behind trees. Those with rifles prepare to fire. Those without wield knives and tree branches. Each and every one of them is prepared to go down fighting, and I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be their fate.
But it’s not ours.
“Like it or not,” Charles says. “You’re with us now.” He takes up position with his men, turning his back on us. We could shoot them in the backs, or flee, but when I hear the thunder of hooves approaching from behind, too, I realize he’s right. The men gunning for Charles and his people are going to shoot on sight. Guilt by proximity.
When Charles hears the hooves coming from behind, he turns around and gives me a wink. “This feels familiar, right? Surrounded by the enemy. Outgunned. Outmanned.”
“More than you’d ever believe,” I say, drawing my sidearm. “You and your men handle the front, we’ll deal with the men on this end.” I give Cassie a nod and she draws her pistol from behind her back. The look on Charles’s face is amusing, but I don’t linger to enjoy it. A dozen armed men on horseback stampede toward us through the trees and time itself.
9
“Stay mobile,” I tell Cassie. “Use the trees. And…” I don’t want to say it, but this is life or death, even if there’s nothing noble about taking a life. “…fight dirty.”
“I don’t think I’m going to get a chance to kick anyone in the jimmy,” Cassie says, not understanding the depths to which a man or woman with a gun can stoop.
So I show her.
Though the onrushing men are still fifty feet out, I take aim at the man in the front. He’s young and hungry for blood, trying to aim his pistol at me while riding a horse at full gallop. I take my time aiming, timing out the beats between each rise and fall of the horse’s head.
I hesitate for a moment, knowing that if I pull this trigger I likely won’t stop pulling it until either I’m dead, or a heap of men are. I’m reluctant to kill. I thought I had escaped a life of violence. But I’m more reluctant to die, and I’m sure as shit not going to let anything happen to Cass.
I fire. Just once.
The effect is immediate and catastrophic. The horse, now with a 10mm-sized hole in its forehead, collapses at twenty-five miles per hour. A thousand pounds of meat and hooves topples. The rider is thrown to the side, twisting in the air with a shout, before colliding with a tree. Ribs crack like fireworks.
As the dead—or dying—man falls to the forest floor, the two steeds directly behind the still toppling horse trip over its body. Two men are flung. One lands on his head, neck bending at a sick angle. The second man lands on his back, the air knocked out of him.
He’ll be back in the fight inside thirty seconds. But there’s no time to worry about him. The seven remaining horses and riders weave around the chaos, closing the distance.
I glance at Cassie and am met by pale astonishment. “Go!” I urge, and she springs into action, flanking left.
“Stay here,” I tell Levi, stabbing a finger at the stream, “and stay down!”
I break right, heading uphill. Several shots ring out. Men scream behind me. Maybe they’re Charles’s men. Maybe the newcomers. It’s hard to say, even when fighting an enemy that speaks another language. Screams are the same, no matter what part of the world you’re in.
Bark splinters when I duck behind a tree. These men are capable fighters, but they’re limited by 1920s technology. Reloading takes time, especially while on horseback. And their revolvers and rifles need to be reloaded far more often than my handgun, which carries ten rounds. The downside of this situation, aside from being outmanned, is that I’ve only got two spare magazines. Thirty rounds total. Well, twenty-nine. I’m not sure if Cassie has any spare magazines, and she already put three rounds into a racoon. She has at least ten rounds.
I lean out from behind the tree, fire a single shot into the chest of a man caught reloading his rifle. He drops from the side of his mount, revealing a man in a Stetson, leveling two revolvers at me.
The tree shakes from his assault. The man’s heavy-hitting rounds eat up the bark. The man’s aim and speed are impressive. If I were to poke my head out on either side, I’d likely lose it.
But he’s not trying to kill me. He’s pinning me down. Buying time.
When the p
op of 9mm ammo fills the air, I duck down and lean out, four feet below where my head should be. Before the man can adjust his aim, I fire a round into his horse’s ankle. The beast falls to the side, pinning the man’s leg beneath it and providing a very easy shot for me. A single round through the top of his Stetson ends his fight.
I can’t help but wonder how this battle turned out without us here. How many of these attackers lived? Given the shape of Charles’s men, and their limited weaponry, I think most of the attackers would have escaped unscathed. Now…if I have my way, the only ones who survive will be those who turn tail and run. And I reckon not a one of them will do so.
I take a moment to catch a breath and compress my emotions. Killing these men is like killing generations of people. Everyone who would have descended from them will now never exist. I think. Time travel is pretty far out of my wheelhouse. But even if that’s true, I’m not about to sacrifice myself or those under my care, including anyone still alive at Synergy, who, near as I can figure, are the only people who can stop what’s happening.
A man on horseback rounds a stand of trees, shotgun leveled at my head. Knowing I can’t dodge the full spread of a shotgun shell, I pull my trigger three times without aiming. The second round strikes the horse’s flank. As it bucks in pain, the man squeezes his trigger.
I’m spun around by what feels like a punch on my left arm. The deep pain is followed by a cascade of bee stings. I’ve been hit, but it’s not bad enough to slow me down.
Before the man can recover from the shotgun’s recoil and his flailing horse, I put two rounds in his chest. With my tenth and final round already in the chamber, I eject the magazine and let it fall to the ground. My hand drops to my hip, snags a fresh magazine, and slaps it home. The entire process takes two seconds, and it’s nearly half a second too long.
A rifle cracks. Bark and wood fragments spray into my face. A sniper’s round has just missed my head. I slip to the tree’s far side, pinned again and unable to follow my advice to Cassie. But she’s doing a good job.
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