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"I can help!" Clary climbed onto the seat beside him and put her hands on the reins just below
his. It took the combined efforts of both of them sawing hard on the reins to bring the panicked
horse to a trot, then to a walk, and finally to a trembling, snorting halt.
"Oh, Luke," Clary gasped, "for a minute there, I thought we weren't going to make it."
"Me, too." Looking at her, Luke started to laugh uproariously. At first Clary feared he might be
hysterical and she wasn't sure what she ought to do with him, but then she realized that he was
genuinely amused. "Miz Clary, I wish you could see yourself. Your face and hands are so black.
You look like a black lady."
"I do?" Clary looked down at herself. The sleeves and bodice of her gray cotton gown were
liberally dusted with black, as were her hands and wrists. She rubbed at the backs of her hands.
"Good grief, this stuff is like soot. It will take a lot of soap and hot water to get it off."
"What'll we do now?" Luke asked. "If you missed shootin' Mr. Bartram, he's goin' to come
after us, and he's goin' to be real angry."
"If I didn't miss him," Clary said, "he could be lying in the road bleeding. He's a terrible person,
but we can't let him bleed to death." "You mean you want to help him?" Luke gaped at her.
"I think we have to find out if he's hurt or not," Clary said. "If I shot him, then it's my
responsibility to see that he gets the care he needs." Luke considered this idea for a few minutes
while Clary tried to steady her breathing and stop the shaking of her hands.
"If Mr. Bartram does need sewin' up," Luke suggested, grinning, "maybe you could let me
practice on him. That would be a fine punishment for what he tried to do to us." "Luke, that's
awful!" She meant to be stern, but suddenly they were both convulsed with laughter. They leaned
against each other, whooping and howling, while tears ran down Clary's face and she wiped them
away with blackened fingers and then, for lack of a handkerchief, wiped her running nose on her
dirty sleeve. "I feel so much better now," she said when she could speak again. "I don't think I
have ever been so frightened in all my life." "Me neither," Luke agreed.
"It's not over yet." Bravely Clary straightened her shoulders. "Let's get this cart turned around
and drive back to survey the damage." They found Hezekiah Bartram lying sprawled on the road.
He did not move when Clary pulled he cart to a stop next to him. There was no sign I his horse.
Clary assumed it was finding its own way back to its home.
"Is he dead?" asked Luke, sending a fascinated look toward the immobile man.
"I can't tell from here. You stay in the cart." Clary began to climb down to the road.
"Be careful," Luke whispered as if he feared to waken Hezekiah Bartram.
"I will." Clary approached from the side. Cautiously, she prodded at an ankle with her foot.
Hezekiah Bartram did not move. Still using her loot, Clary pushed against his hip, and then
gently nudged him in the ribs. Finally she crouched down next to his head and put a hand against
his neck. "He's alive," she reported with considerable relief. "At least I won't have his death on
my conscience. I can feel the pulse in his neck, but he is out cold." Luke scrambled down to join
Clary in the middle of the road. He stood with hands on his hips, gazing down at the unconscious
man. "You're not gonna drive away and leave him here," Luke said slowly. "You'd never do that.
So we got to get him into the cart."
"I can help you lift him," Clary said. "He's not very big, so he can't be too heavy. We'll take him
back to Bohemia Village. Help me shift some of those sacks and boxes so we can fit him into the
back." Their preparations quickly made, Clary and Luke lifted Hezekiah Bartram and shoved him
into the cart. They were not gentle with him, but that didn't concern Clary. She was just relieved to
know that her shot had apparently gone wild, and the man's injuries were the result of the fall
from his horse. "Luke, I want you to sit in the back and hold the gun on him," Clary said, "just in
case he wakes up along the way."
"But you fired a shot from the gun and we got no ball or powder to reload it," Luke protested.
"We know that," she said, "but Hezekiah Bartram is unconscious, so he can't know that we
haven't reloaded it. Just pretend, Luke." "I know." Luke grinned at her. "I'll tell him that, if he
moves, I'll put a ball right in his chest."
"Maybe you ought to consider becoming an actor instead of a doctor," Clary retorted dryly.
Clary's second arrival in Bohemia Village in one day attracted considerable interest. Well aware
that her blackened face and hands would cause curious comment, she kept her eyes fixed on the
road and did not respond to the questions called out to her. Sam MacKenzie had finished his
business at the pump house and had started back toward the village. He met Jack Martin, who
was about to step onto the footbridge just as Sam stepped off it. The two men stood talking until
the racket of a cart racing down Bohemia Avenue and the sounds of loud voices caught their
attention. Clary saw Jack and Sam meet and shake hands. She drove the cart right up to them,
bringing it to a halt with a bit of a flourish. She definitely enjoyed seeing the incredulous look on
Jack's face, and she liked even more the note of anxiety in his voice. "My God, Clary, what has
happened to you?"
Clary jumped from the cart into his waiting arms. Not until she felt him enclose her in a tight
embrace did she believe the afternoon's ordeal was finished. "I'll ruin your clean shirt," she
murmured, pressing her powder-smeared face against his chest.
"That doesn't matter. Sweetheart, are you hurt?"
"No. No, I'm fine. Just a bit disheveled, that's all."
Jack shifted Clary in his arms. She looked up at Luke, who was standing in the cart. He still held
the pistol pointed downward toward the man lying at his feet. "Luke, give me the gun." Jack put
up his hand and Luke laid the pistol in it with an air that suggested he was glad to be rid of both
the weapon and the responsibility of standing guard. "I think he's startin' to wake up," Luke said.
"Who do you have in there?" Jack asked. "Dare I guess?"
While they were talking, Sam MacKenzie walked around to the back of the cart. Reaching forward
he dragged a groggy Hezekiah Bartram up by his shirtfront and stood him on his feet. "Hezekiah,
lad, I have a feeling that you are in serious trouble," Sam said to him.
Clary pushed herself out of Jack's embrace to start toward Sam and the man he was holding
"Mr. Bartram stopped us on the road," Clary informed the mostly masculine crowd gathering
around them. "He apparently believed that I was one of Madam Rose's girls and he wanted me to
go with him. He was quite clear about what he expected of me."
"Did he touch you?" Jack's hands clamped hard on Clary's upper arms, holding her still. "If he
laid one finger on you, I will personally--"
"He never got near the cart," Clary said. "Luke jumped up yelling to scare him, and I fired the
gun. Then Mr. Bartram's horse threw him. That's why he was unconscious. I'm afraid my bullet
missed him by a mile."
"That's exactly how it happened." Luke jumped down from the cart, grinning broadly. "Miz Clary
was magnificent!"
"You were no slouch yourself, Luke," Clary told him, grinning back at him. "You were the one who
stopped the horse when it bolted. I could never have handled it by myself."
"The horse bolted?" Jack's grip on Clary tightened.
"I told you," Clary said, "I am not hurt." She expected him to make some remark to the effect that
he was glad she and Luke had come through the experience unscathed. Instead, he began to
scold her.
"If you had remained on the farm, where I wanted you to be," he said, frowning at her, "this would
never have happened." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]