1635: A Parcel of Rogues - eARC (39 page)

Chapter 43

Colonel Alex Mackay, late of the armed forces of the United States of Europe, felt like he was about to grin the top of his head clean off.
Months
in the Tolbooth, not without comfort but hardly a glimpse of the outdoors. And now, clear ground, quarry running, a horse with miles of wind left in him, and a good sword in his hand. This was
living
. Oh, sure, he’d gone for a soldier to make his fortune—his father’s indiscretion precluded any real inheritance and he liked his half-siblings too well to resent it. He’d stayed a soldier for moments like this. Two of the filthy bastards had shown their heels when Julie opened fire. Ten horses to drop, and two rifles between the lot of them. It would have been a surprise if they’d not had a couple of them running. Especially since for all their soldierly garb, the fuckers were naught but brigands. He’d fought against and alongside Irishmen, and underestimating them was a fool’s bargain, but every nation had its trash.

Andrew had come off a pace or two behind, and rode a stone heavier than his former commander, so in the first seconds of their pursuit he was trailing by a couple of lengths. The nearer scoundrel—fifty yards, and watching Alex closing to head him off—suddenly jerked upright in the saddle, his face a perfect picture of shock. The sudden puff of the front of the man’s buffcoat, the mist of red between the buttons, and the shocking burst of blood from the man’s mouth told the tale.

That’s my girl,
he thought, and urged his mount slightly left. A fast ride across the head of the other man’s mount would make the beast shy up short, and a gesture with his sword told Andrew to take the man. Commissioned his old sergeant might be, but he still outranked him.

The second brigand was veering away. What hope of escape the man had, Alex had no idea. Downriver to Leith? Who cared. Another who rode heavy. Oh, he’d had his share of japes when a young man for his small size, but small meant quick, and him that was quick was not among the dead.

He calculated as he urged his mount to more effort. The other fellow would have the fresher horse; he could hardly have been so foolish as to set out for the long ride to Glasgow without remounting. Alex, however, had a horse that had had longer to warm. A brisk three mile canter, half an hour to get his wind back. The other fellow’s horse had had a three hundred yards at the walk and was now at a flat gallop. And Alex had been leading scout cavalry for ten years while this fool had been bullying peasants and thieving cattle. He let the fellow fade into the corner of his eye and hunched down for the gallop. There was a stride or two more to be had out of the beast, if he was any judge, and a gentle curve to bring him—
there.

Behind and to the left of his quarry. Not a
chance
the fellow could shoot, had he a pistol and the will to risk a ludicrously chancy shot. The fellow was looking frantically over his shoulder. No doubt hoping a fresher mount would see him clear over the long distance. Which it would; Alex knew he had moments only to shoot the man, and, taking the reins in with the hilt of his sword, reached for his pistol—

He winced. It’d been so long since he’d had to do this, he’d forgot that he carried his gear differently now. And not thought to put it right before taking off. His pistol was holstered to draw right-handed. Another flash of calculation. No, he’d not. On a better-trained horse, one he knew better, he might attempt some clever move. Reins back to his left hand, a whack with the flat for stride or two more, a lunge over the neck of his mount, uncoiling easily and smoothly as he reached the point forward—

Just. The tip of his blade punctured the leading horse’s arse, and a savage grip of the knees recovered his seat. His mount needed no urging to swerve away as the Irishman’s steed screamed and lost its stride. He winced as he heard the wreck of a bad, bad fall. He brought his horse to an easy halt, let him find his own pace, and cantered round in an easy circle to where the Irishman had been thrown clear, flat on his back. The poor horse was in a horrible jumble of legs, its neck clearly broke. It was still twitching, but there’d be no need for a bullet to end its misery.

He surely had one for the Irishman though, and was reaching across to take out his pistol until he realized.

“Finnegan,” he said, reining his horse in. There was still breath in the man’s body. Was it too much to hope he’d broke his back? The man’s left arm was definitely broke.
Unless,
he thought as a fey mood took him,
Irishmen
naturally
have two elbows.
No bleeding, but there often wasn’t, for the first moments after a fall. The right was tucked under, doubtless broke too.

Finnegan’s eyes opened. His wits didn’t seem to be about him. That wouldn’t do, not hardly at all. Mackay re-holstered his pistol. His sabre, that he’d carried all through the Germanies, had been a going-away gift from his father. It was only fitting that he use it to do execution on the man who’d killed him. And he
certainly
needed to know why, and at whose hand, he was to die.

“You should know, Finnegan,” Alex said, when it looked like there was maybe someone at home behind the Irishman’s eyes, “that you killed my father. Something of a mercy, if I’m to put my hand on my heart, and he’s a fine lot o’ grandchildren for his posterity. And, oh, he died a hero. Smothered your grenado with his ain flesh. For that I might drag you back to hang.”

He took a deep breath. Flourished his sabre briefly. Andrew was cantering over, his blade red in the late afternoon sun. “But it’s the last of those grandchildren, Finnegan. My wee Alexi. She’s hurt. No’ serious, she’ll mend. But she might have been killed. And that, may the Lord forgive my wrath, means I cannae leave you breathing.”

Finnegan hissed. Probably still winded from his fall. Or dying, from a broken back. Alex hardly cared. And, with a feeling of heavy, leaden inevitability, he let fall his sword point and followed down smoothly, arm and shoulder behind the thrust, and from all the height of his saddle drove eight inches of steel through Finnegan’s throat and into the good earth below.

There was a
crack
and Alex felt a thump, hard in the right side of his gut. He sat up in his saddle, oddly dizzy, and saw for the first time that Finnegan had had a pistol after all.

* * *

Once Darryl reached the two men surrendering, he said something to them. A moment later both had their heads clasped over their heads and were moving toward her. Slowly. Darryl stayed far enough to the side to give Julie a clear line of fire if she needed it.

But it was now obvious that she wouldn’t. The pair of prisoners had as much fight left in them as funnel cakes. She rose to her feet, picking up a magazine and the box of shells and began reloading, with quick and practiced motions.

Somewhere in the distance, a pistol shot. Alex or Andrew finishing one of the runners.

Stephen Hamilton began moving through the bodies, checking to see if any of the men Julie had shot were still alive.

One was, apparently—and Hamilton didn’t seem to share any of Darryl’s notions of the laws of war. A quick, economical cut with his billhook spilled what was left of the man’s life out on the ground.

She heard a shot and looked around. Darryl, his face twisted with upset, was shooting a wounded horse. The last of them. She’d not even noticed the cries of the wounded animals.

Julie remembered tales of those first few hours after the Ring of Fire. She’d been at home that day, not doing much of anything, had really only been vaguely aware of the flash outside, the phone going dead in her hand, and the power cut. She’d been calmly waiting it out, helping her mom organize the freezer stuff that was going to spoil, when she’d learned the world had changed for good.

Mike Stearns hadn’t been quite so passive those first few hours. He and a bunch of his miner buddies—one Darryl McCarthy included—had gone out and dispensed some frontier justice. And then not too long afterward, there’d been the battle against Tilly’s men outside Badenburg. Julie had been one of the shooters who tore those tercios into hash.

Julie didn’t recall anything about Darryl’s opinions on the matter from back then. She’d been—quietly, there were too many people saying women couldn’t fight to say it out loud—upset at all the killing she’ done. Had resolved to, yeah, stick to the rules if she could. Had even got a bit squeamish about hunting, after. Not enough to refuse to do it ever again. Just enough that she’d decided to think about the cost more than she’d been doing.

But that had been war. There were
rules
for that and she’d taken a sort of emotional shelter behind them. Most of the guys they’d taken prisoner at Jena and after that first raid, they were guys who’d enlisted to fight, and got given crappy orders. This? This had been different. Might’ve been a legal dodge, but these guys swore themselves in as constables.
Cops
. They went around murdering old men—and would have murdered infants if an old man hadn’t used his body as a shield.

So…she’d come very close to crossing a line she’d never crossed before. And was now of two minds about it. On the one hand…she was deliberately not looking at the two prisoners anymore, since she wasn’t sure she could keep herself from shooting the bastards. That was how much she wanted to kill them.

On the other hand…

Oh, hell, maybe Darryl was right.
The voice of dispassion and civilized reason.
She laughed again, and this time there was some actual humor in it.

That laugh drew the eyes of the prisoners. She glanced at them and saw that—impossibly—their faces had gotten still more pale.

That caused her to laugh again. Maybe they
could
be turned into ghosts.

Stephen came up. “Company,” he said, from where he’d stayed out of the way.

“Where?”

Darryl had come over as well. “Four, on horse, from Balgreen,” he said, nodding in that direction.

Julie peered. She had the best eyes of the three of them—Stephen probably needed some kind of prescription, but spectacles were a big deal, down-time—and could recognize faces at a considerable distance. “That’s Campbell, in the lead.”

They weren’t in any kind of hurry, from the looks of it. If Campbell knew he was riding toward her, of all people, he’d know not to make any threatening moves. And he’d known she was coming here. Had made sure she’d known Finnegan’s bolthole was out here. What’d made him follow her?

She looked away to her left. Alex and Andrew were closer, but not moving at any kind of quick pace. Maybe one of them was hurt? Probably just needed to rest the horses some, they’d gone for a hell of a gallop.

“He’s basically a cop now,” Darryl said. “I asked Thomas about that commission of justiciary he mentioned. It’s like bein’ deputized.”

“Huh,” Julie said. This was going to be interesting. They’d just killed eight guys, one of them—the one whose throat Stephen had slit—arguably in cold blood. And Alex was technically on the lam. She dropped a round in the chamber and closed the bolt. There was a single shot left in the magazine she’d just taken out, so she put it back in. She unbuttoned her jacket to make sure she could get at her pistol.

“Stephen, watch the prisoners,” she said. “Darryl, keep your eyes on Alex and Andrew, tell me where they’re at.” She wasn’t going to take her eyes of Campbell and his men.

“Will do,” he replied. “There still about five hundred yards off. They’ll be here pretty soon, though.”

As Campbell got closer, she figured it was the earl and three bodyguards. The earl himself was what you’d get if you took a little round dweeby guy and made him live an outdoorsman’s life, obviously tough and strong, probably able to handle himself, but still little, round and dweeby. So he brought along three great big Scotsmen to stop anyone getting ideas based on the little and dweeby parts. She and Alex had something similar going on. People were polite to her because of the husband with the sword, and polite to him because of the wife with the rifle.

Out the tail of her eye she could see that Thomas and his kid—still couldn’t remember his name—had come out of the bushes with the horses, but weren’t coming closer. Two guys with five horses to handle, they probably didn’t want to get close to anything that’d spook the animals. Not so soon after the injured horses had stopped screaming.

“Ye’ve had your own joy of the day, I take it, my lady?” Campbell said, when he was close enough to talk. Not, apparently, bothered by the corpses. Little and dweeby were really quite deceiving. According to Alex’s dad this guy could put twenty thousand angry highlanders on a battlefield just by asking, so it made sense he’d not be troubled by the aftermath of a fight.

“Been a good day’s hunting,” she agreed. There was probably some subtle political stuff she’d miss, here. She couldn’t find it in herself to care. It’d be a lot of trouble if she killed the guy, but she had enough rounds in her rifle that at this range, she’d have them dead before they knew it. Big guys on horses from the fringes of civilization. Croats, Scotsmen, didn’t make a lot of difference. She had experience of the breed. And this time she’d handed off the thirty-aught-six and was using her own rifle.

“It so happens that I have a warrant for the arrest of this Finnegan.” Campbell said. “I swore it out as soon as I learned what he’d done, and came hot-foot. I had hopes you would at least run him to earth.”

“Bit late,” Julie said. “Neither of the ones still alive is Finnegan. I don’t know who they are, actually.”

Campbell gave them a quick, dismissive glance. “So I see. He might have had some gowned fool let him live after the assault on your father-in-law’s house. Under color of law, and so forth. But it seems in his flight he committed further outrages with no such figleaf to clothe his naked brigandry.”

That
sounded…interesting. She raised an eyebrow.

“He drove a small herd out of his way on the Cowgate,” Campbell said. “The law is clear in the matter. Furious driving of cattle is a serious offense. That six are dead already makes it a culpable homicide. Five more seem sure to perish of their hurts. It may be that one of them perished from the grenado he hurled to start the cows running.”