39
MY UNLUCKY STREAK SHADOWS ME LIKE A BAD conscience, taunting me, haunting me.
I catch Andy by the arm and pull her toward the tent.
She tries to push me away. “No!”
“They haven’t seen us,” I hiss. “Think!”
“But Isaac—”
“You’re no good to him dead.”
I feel as though I might drown in my own sweat, but she finally follows me.
The tent’s canvas walls shiver at our entry and I worry they will give us away. My skin breaks into itchy tingling as I remember the time Deputy Granger nearly caught us in Mr. Calloway’s wagon. Trapped in another canvas prison.
We use the rips in the tent’s walls as peepholes.
Ian and Angus come into view at the far left end of the platform, weapons drawn as they slowly approach Isaac. A coil of rope droops from Ian’s belt.
“Ah know they’re here,” says Angus. “We been trekking them for weeks now. And I seen me old naig a quarter mile back.”
“I killed them,” Isaac says defiantly.
“Kilt?” says Angus. “Why would you do that?”
“S’pect that’s my business,” says Isaac in a steely voice.
“Bruv, it’s even better than we thought,” says Ian. “I knew this blackie looked familiar. He’s one of th’ Broken Hand Gang.”
“Weel, bruv, I think yer right. I guess we’ll take you for oor troubles, instead,” says Angus. “What’d that poster say? Dead or alive?”
Isaac remains silent.
“I prefer dead,” says Ian. “Less trouble that way.” He shows Angus a rotting-tooth grin, then his eyes catch sight of our tent. His grin fades. I stop breathing.
“Seems to me, you needs a body before you can collect a prize,” says Isaac. Ian frowns and reverts his attention to Isaac, who adds, “And I’d prob’ly fall off this here waterfall, if you shoot me.”
The Dragoon slips in my sweaty hand, and I quickly put it down to wipe my palms, inhaling deeply to tamp my burgeoning panic.
“I’ll do it,” says Andy, grabbing for the gun. “Quickly! They’ll kill him.”
I shake my head. “My aim is better.” I’ll have to fire two quick shots just like I did at the pinecones the boys threw up for us to hit. My targets stand forty or fifty feet away. Oh please, God, I know I shouldn’t be asking you for help in killing, but let these bullets fly true.
I fix my sight line on Ian. Before he moves, I take a deep breath and squeeze the trigger.
It clicks.
Andy gasps. “What happened?”
I sight again and squeeze, but the gun clicks like the tsk of a tongue. My stomach sinks as I remember dropping it on the shore. It must have gotten wet and now the powder will not burn.
Raw terror freezes me in place. Think!
“Isaac carried a gun in his coat!” I hiss.
We search the tent. No coat. I peek out of the hole again. There it is, a folded buckskin near the pile of supplies. I point and move aside to show Andy.
“I’ll get it,” I say. “You stay here.”
“No, I’m coming, too. Might be another weapon in that pile.” She crooks her pinkie at me. “We’re rattlesnakes, remember?”
Giving her a grim smile, I hook my pinkie around hers. Then, silent as moths, we slip out of the tent.
Angus and Ian close in on Isaac. They don’t notice us.
While Andy rummages through the supply pile, I unfold Isaac’s coat and feel around the pockets.
Empty.
I pat the rough buckskin a second time, though I couldn’t have missed it, a gun as long as my forearm. My eyes rove the alcove, but I don’t see the black iron anywhere. I shake my head at Andy. The gun’s not here.
She drops a lantern and it jangles noisily. She hastily silences it. I creep to the opposite side of the supply pile and search the heap with her.
Isaac inches back. The sun outlines his silhouette with a golden halo. “You’s cannibals. Living off the flesh of other men, because inside, you’s souls are black as my skin and eating you’s own bodies away.”
“Now thet’s no way to talk, nay, blackie?” Angus’s voice turns soothing, putting ants on my skin. “We’re offering you yer life. Ye ain’t got noowhere else ta’ go, noowhere ta’ run. We’ll pat in a good word for ye, make sure th’ baillie don’t go so harsh, if you come easy.” He holds up two fingers of his left hand. “Scotsman’s word.”
Ian tucks his gun into his waistband and unhitches the rope from his belt. Angus keeps his gun drawn.
In my panic, I can’t distinguish one item in the supply pile from the next. Slow down. Cord, saddle, shirt, feed sacks, turkey feather. Turkey feather. I pull it out as gently as I can. It’s an arrow.
Jeremiah claimed he could shoot a dandelion from thirty feet. Where is his bow?
Andy squints at my arrow, then plows into the pile again.
“We don’t want no trouble,” says Angus. “We’re peaceable lads. Just want tae do right by the law. We’ll make sure your ride back is comfortable, and that ye get a fair jury, wouldne we, bruv?”
“Scotsman’s word,” Ian agrees, mimicking his brother’s hand motion.
“You God-fearing men?” asks Isaac.
“Raight, we are,” says Angus. “Church every Sundee.”
“Then stand before me and swear it before God, and I will let you put the rope over my hands,” says Isaac.
Ian slowly approaches his quarry until he stands in Isaac’s shadow. “Ah swear it,” he says.