Guns of Liberty (10 page)

“Because we’d be alone, away from the fire, and you’d jab me once too often with that pig sticker. Then I’d have to kill you.” Daniel’s voice turned icy as he spoke. “Both of you.”

He looked at Barnabas, who stared back into Daniel’s gray eyes and saw something he didn’t like. Beneath the creases of a rough and friendly smile lay something silent and deadly. A man comes upon a sleeping wolverine, he ought to have sense not to wake the beast.

“Put the knife away, Eben.”

“But Barnabas—”

“Eben!”

“Yeah.” The man to Daniel’s left sheathed the knife. Eben scratched at his beard and motioned for Loyal to bring him a tankard of ale.

“This be brother Henk’s,” Barnabas said, examining the shot pouch. His homely face was marked with curiosity. “What have you done to him?”

“Kept him from shooting me. I had paid a visit to the good Daughters of Phoebe. Henk fired on me from the woods. I don’t know why. Maybe he resents the way I’ve come to work here. Anyway, I made for him, but Gideon chased your brother off before I could catch up to him. What would you have done?”

Barnabas wiped a film of sweat from his scarred forehead. He pursed his lips and grumbled in disgust. This was all bad, and nothing to be done. “The same as you.”

Eben said nothing. He listened and drank from the tankard Loyal had left for him. He kept a wary eye on Daniel. He didn’t fully trust Kate’s hired man. The man was too much a stranger. But Eben had to respect the cool detachment with which the man had handled himself. When Daniel glanced in his direction Eben caught a glimpse of what his brother had seen, the hard and ruthless edge to the man that the wilderness had honed.

“Henk’s a mighty jealous lad.” Eben looked over his shoulder at Kate.

“I’ll find Henk and read him from the book,” Barnabas said, shoving clear of the bar. He looked up at Daniel, who stood a head taller than either Schraner brother. “He will not trouble you again.” Barnabas took the remains of the pouch and tucked it in his belt. He nodded a farewell to Daniel. “Come along, Eben, no telling what Henk’s up to or what devilment he’s planning. We better find him.”

The younger brother grumbled in reply. He had a deep thirst and stared forlornly at the tankard he’d just emptied. At last, grudgingly, he retrieved their long rifles from where they’d left them at the other end of the bar. Loyal cautioned him to be on the watch for Ottawas, though such Indian trouble was well in the past. Eben said he would, humoring the poor soul.

“Big doins in Springtown come the first of June,” Barnabas mentioned aloud as an aside to the Highlander. “We’ll light us a liberty tree like in Boston and hang King George from it, by heaven.” He hooked a thumb in his brown frock coat and winked. “Raise us a militia that night, I’ll warrant. And raise a cup of grog and maybe a lady’s skirt, too, upon my oath.” His eyebrows raised, and there was devilment in his expression where menace had reigned supreme.

He clapped Daniel on the shoulder. “Kate told us you were a man of many talents. We’ll need them if we are to have our freedom.”

Many talents?
If he only knew, thought Daniel. The Schraners had left but a few moments ago. Eben had even apologized for jabbing Daniel with the knife. And Barnabas had once more promised to control his half brother. The Schraners had proved themselves to be fair, honest men.

“Honest,” now that’s a word one could hardly apply to you,
Daniel silently told the reflection staring at him from the surface of the ale, the face of a pretender, a liar, one of Josiah Meeks’s murderous crew.

Daniel lashed out at the leather jack and slapped it the length of the bar in a shower of ale. It bounced onto the floor and clattered to a stop against the leg of a table over against the far wall.

The music stopped.

The singing stopped.

Kate and the soldier, the merchants, and travelers turned toward the man at the bar. No one spoke. Indeed, no one knew what to say at such an awkward moment.

His sudden violent outburst had caught them off guard.

Daniel turned, pointedly avoiding Kate’s surprised stare. He didn’t want to see anyone—and, embarrassed, he didn’t want to be seen. Daniel looked neither right nor left but beat a hasty retreat from the tavern, defeated by his own lack of control and his brooding guilt.

M
IDNIGHT.

Old Scratch coming, Beelzebub himself. I know him firsthand, close as a brother. His face is the color of fresh-spilled blood, like at hog-slaughtering time. That red. I never see his hands or any of the rest of his body. Just his face, and it keeps getting larger and larger until it fills everything and everywhere I look.

Loyal screamed.

The face seemed to melt; like a wax mask, it molded itself, became human, became the war-painted visage of an Ottawa warrior.

Get thee back. You’ll not take me. Where is my saber? Bring me a rifle. Someone bring me a rifle. For heaven’s sake, the savages are in the stockade. Turn them back. Oh sweet Jesus, the babies with their heads cracked open against the rocks. Murdering savages. Father, there’s too many of them. Run. Run. Keep away, you red devils. Let my father go. If you’ve come for steel, then here be you. Taste it. Father, the flames all around you. I’ll save you. I swear it. But there’s too many of them. I don’t want to die. Not like that, not burned and blind and screaming. No. Run, I have to live. Shut my ears to the screaming. Forgive me, Father. Forgive me. Ahhhhhhhhhh!

Saber in hand, Loyal crashed through his shuttered window and landed barefoot in the barnyard, where he slipped and fell to his knees in the mud. He managed to stand and then charged into the heart of a driving thunderstorm.

Forgive me, Father. I won’t run. Not this time. I’ll come to you. I’ll feed them a length of steel. Don’t die. Father. Don’t die.!

Lightning flashed bright and searing hot as if loosed from hell. Thunder shook the barn. Daniel sat upright in his bedroll in the hayloft, where he had moved to be more secure. The lower stalls were simply too vulnerable. A few days earlier Kate had offered him one of the upstairs rooms, but Daniel preferred the privacy of the barn and the freedom it provided to come and go should the need arise.

Then beneath the rumbling storm came Loyal’s hoarse cry. Daniel crawled across the loft and peered through the loading window, and by the storm’s lurid light he saw Kate’s brother slashing at the rain. The poor man shouted, but his words were rendered unintelligible by the angry downpour. Daniel didn’t need to hear; he knew the spell was on the man. The demons that lurked in Loyal’s mind had risen up and taken hold. There was nothing to do for it but try to keep the man from injuring himself.

Daniel pulled off his shirt—no sense in getting it soaked or torn—and pulled on his boots and headed for the ladder. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and he had no problem making his way down to the straw-littered floor. He hurried to the barn doors, unbolted them, and opened one just enough to slip through.

Cold rain struck his naked torso, and he gasped. Now, where the hell was Loyal? Daniel called the man by name as he walked toward the inn. Had the earth opened and swallowed the deluded soul and left Daniel to wander lonely in the rain? The chickens in their pens, the hogs huddled in their shed, and the cow beneath its shed roof stall across the barnyard … all the animals were smart enough to seek shelter.

“Appears I’m the only fool.” Daniel wiped the rain from his face. He cleared his vision enough to see Kate emerging from the side of the inn.

She held a brass and glass lantern before her, and the fire within cast a baleful red glow like the eye of a demon. She had heard her brother and had come to find him in the night.

Daniel called out to her. She hurried toward him. A few steps out into the downpour, and her shawl and dressing gown were plastered to the young woman’s lithe form.

She shouted something, lifted the hem of her dressing gown, and began to run toward him.

It took Daniel a few seconds to realize Kate was trying to warn him. Against what? he thought.

Then he heard the splash of a footstep behind him and turned on his heels as Loyal Bufkin swung his saber in a vicious arc.

Kate screamed.

Daniel slipped in the mud and went down, a mishap that saved his life. A yard of cold, curved steel cut the empty air and left a sickening whisper of death in its wake.

Loyal, his face contorted in a mask of rage, loosed an animal-like cry and stabbed at the fallen man.

Daniel rolled out of the path of the blade. The weapon sank several inches into the mud. Daniel kicked Loyal and knocked him aside. Loyal stumbled to his right, dragging his saber free. He slashed at the rain-choked wind and cursed aloud as if beset by savages. Then his gaze focused on Daniel and he attacked.

The Highlander ducked inside the blade’s path and tried to pin the smaller man’s arms. Loyal reeked of rum. He must have downed a keg by himself, Daniel thought. The liquor had loosed his demons.

Loyal’s madness had endowed him with remarkable strength. He broke Daniel’s hold and clipped him in the chin with the saber’s brass hilt.

Daniel tried to catch Loyal’s outstretched arm, but the deranged man worked free and delivered another blow to Daniel’s jaw. He staggered back against the split-rail fence. Blood seeped from his puffed lip. The rain washed the blood from his mouth and down his neck and belly. Daniel sensed rather than saw Loyal’s next move, and he darted to his left.

The sword blade cleaved the top rail and caught in the one below.

Daniel launched himself at the madman and drove him backward into the mud, knocking the wind out of him. Loyal’s eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth formed a silent “O,” and he curled on his side and gasped for breath, He groaned, his features contorted with pain, and he dug his feet into the mud.

Kate cautiously approached the men through the rain. She stifled an outcry as Daniel rose from the mud. He doubled over, with his hands on his knees, and sucked in a lungful of air, all the while keeping a watchful eye on Loyal Bufkin.

Kate knelt by her brother and, cradling his head in her lap, wiped the mud from his face. She wrinkled her nose, recognizing the smell of strong drink on his breath.

“He’ll be all right,” Daniel managed to say in a hoarse voice. “Appears he’s drunk his share of rum this night.”

“He knows better.” Kate shook her head in resignation. “It makes the spells so much worse.”

“Kate …” Loyal said in weak voice.

He blinked, wiped the rain from his eyes, and looked from his sister to Daniel. His brows furrowed as he struggled to understand how he happened to be lying on his back in the rain. Daniel retrieved the saber from the fence, just to be on the safe side. But he need not have worried, for the terrible hallucinations appeared to have left the poor soul. Loyal recognized them both now.

“What happened?” Loyal covered his face with his hands. “Oh, God. Not again. How long, oh Lord … how long?” He closed his eyes, unable to endure the look on Kate’s face. “I had such a thirst, Kate. I couldn’t hold it off—not a moment longer.” His head sank back against her breast, and he lost consciousness, his hand dropped into a mud puddle.

Daniel left the saber for Kate to bring and knelt by her side. Reaching down, he lifted Loyal in his arms and started toward the inn. Kate followed, carrying her brother’s saber, with which he had fought the treacherous creations of his tormented mind.

They left Loyal asleep in his bed. Kate fastened the shutters across his window and assured Daniel that her brother would no doubt sleep through the night. She had seen him like this often enough to read the nature of his spells.

Daniel returned to the tavern room, which was quiet now, lit only by a single lantern and the glowing coals mounded in the fireplace. He added a log to the hearth and stoked the coals with an iron poker until the ruby red embers split open and released their imprisoned flames to feed upon the fresh supply of timber. Kate entered the room; she carried a heavy gray cloak draped over her folded arms. It was patched in places and tattered around the edges but still thick and warm to the touch.

“You’ll catch your death,” she said.

“I’ve been trying to for years,” he replied, shivering.

She handed him the cloak. “Loyal was going to use this to wrap the scarecrow in the garden.” Kate stood back as he swung the cloak around his brawny frame, hiding the bronzelike torso she found most appealing now that the emergency was passed.

“It suits me,” Daniel said with a grin. “Perhaps I should spend my days in the cornfield to show my gratitude.”

“You aren’t made of straw,” the young woman teased.

Thunder rumbled in the distance like some far-off battle whose outcome no longer concerned them.

“No.” Daniel drew nearer. “And sure I’m flesh and blood, sweet lass.” Beads of water clung to his shaggy red mane and trickled down his back. He shook his head from side to side, showering his shoulders and the nearby wall with a fine mist.

“And unlike a man of straw, I do not fear fire. I reach out … and embrace it.” He caught her and pulled the woman into his arms and kissed her. She did not resist.

Her arms encircled his neck, and her lips threatened to draw the life from him. When the kiss had ended, they parted slowly, searching one another’s eyes for some sign of how far to let the heat of the moment carry them.

Had there not been a soldier asleep upstairs and Loyal in his bedroom just off the tavern, Daniel might well have spread his cloak upon the nearest tabletop and sweet Kate upon the cloak.

“Oh, dear.” She spun around and hurried back down the hall to the safety of her bedroom.

Daniel shrugged and glanced balefully at the tabletop. At least he was dry and had a warm fire. What more could a man ask for? He chuckled softly; the taste of her lingered on his lips.

An ember popped and crackled, drawing Daniel’s attention to the hearth, where the flames danced. The blaze was enough to trigger his memory. Flames dissolved, reformed anew, and he stood in his father’s bedroom, where Brian Farley McQueen lay still in his bed; Daniel held a letter, one he had been working on for the better part of an hour. Upon this paper he had put his reasons for leaving. Somewhere among those tortured thoughts he hoped he had put the truth. His father deserved that. Daniel placed the note on a table by his father’s bed and turned to go. He padded soundlessly across the room and reached the door. And there he paused, unable to cross the threshold. His father deserved more than the truth; he deserved to hear it, to be told by his son.