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[Continuing chapter two]
Patton watched the shadows lengthen across the glade and prayed to God to make his thighs and ass stop hurting. I wonder if I’ll ever walk again, he thought, glaring at Nelson—who seemed to have borne the long day’s ride with no trouble whatever. Even the horses seemed to have managed the day better than Patton had. He shifted slightly, trying to change the distribution of his weight to ease his discomfort, not that this had worked any of the previous times he’d tried it. The worst of it was, he couldn’t say anything; he was certain he’d be risking invalidation from Walker’s expedition should he let on to Nelson that he was suffering after just one day of riding.
At last Nelson waved a halt and slid easily from the saddle.
“This is far enough for today,” he said. “Have to do better tomorrow, though.” Damn, thought Patton, but said nothing. It cost him considerably to avoid vocalizing his pain when he dismounted.
He looked around. “Isn’t this on the exposed side?”
“I’m more concerned with seeing anybody comin’ than I am with hidin’,” Nelson said. He withdrew a rifle from a long saddle holster; Patton had never seen anything like it before. “Here,” Nelson said. “Colonel said you was to have one of these, being as you did so much to help out in New Orleans.”
This must be one of those needle-guns Stewart was going on about, Patton decided, taking the rifle in his hands. It was considerably less heavy than the Enfields he’d handled at school. “I have no idea how to work this,” he said. He eyed the mechanism warily. What was that thing that looked for all the world like a door-bolt?
“That’s too bad. I was counting on you to show me.” Nelson patted a second holster on the other side of his horse. “Well, for tonight we’ll just use one of the revolver rifles when we sit up.” He drove a peg into the ground and looped his horse’s reins through the loop at the top. “Tie up that scrawny bag of guts and let’s settle ourselves for the night.”
“Are you sure this is a safe place to stop? It doesn’t feel safe to me.”
“Shut up, boy. You’re not in charge here. Once we’re set we’ll see anyone coming from a mile away.”
“We going to have a fire?”
“And light ourselves up? Don’t be any stupider than you have to be. You think this place is cold?”
“I don’t think they know the meaning of the word cold down here,” Patton grumbled. “I just like a fire, is all.”
“Going to be hot enough where you two are going,” said a new voice. Patton froze.
Nelson did not.
As he spun around, an explosion pounded Patton’s ears; he saw a brief flash, and in the light of it Nelson was lit up as he continued spinning, then collapsed to the grass.
“Don’t,” the voice said as Patton made to help Nelson. “You can’t do anything for him, and I want your hands where I can see ‘em.”
“Why the hell did you do that?” Patton sounded whiny, like a little boy, and he didn’t care. Then he thought. He’s Irish. “You’ve been following me? Do I—?”
“No, you don’t know me. My name’s McConnell. Buidhe McConnell.” The name sounded something like Boy, which struck Patton as odd. “I have made an unfortunate acquaintance with your friend Captain Stewart. Now a bunch of my friends are dead and I owe him. Where is he?”
“He sure as hell isn’t here. I have no idea where he is now; he said he was going North on the river.”
“Ah, that’s too bad then. The river’s not safe for me just now.” McConnell frowned, thinking. In the gathering darkness his face looked like the Devil’s.
“I suppose you’ll have to do, then. All the same in the end, I suppose.” Patton heard McConnell cock his revolver.
“Wait,” Patton said. “Don’t do this. What do you want?”
“Shut up, boy,” Nelson said from where he lay curled up. His voice was half-whisper, half-groan.
“What, you not dead yet?” McConnell asked. He laughed, and shot Nelson in the head, making Patton jump worse than the horses had. Cocking his revolver again, McConnell looked up at Patton. “I’m going to gut-shoot you like I did your friend,” he said. “Then I’m going to leave you here. You’ll be hours dying, boyo. Now do you think it was worth it, messing with the Garda?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was remarkable, Patton decided, how calm he suddenly was. His heart was pounding, he could feel it, but somehow everything else seemed to have slowed down again. I’ve failed, he realized. God wants me to know the full depth of my failure so that I can repent and make my peace before I die. He began to pray—silently, he thought, until he realized that he was speaking the words “Sweet Jesus” aloud.
A hammer cocked, clicking like an infernal mechanical cricket. Patton had just enough time to think, McConnell’s gun is already cocked, and then McConnell was spinning around precisely as Nelson had, and there was another loud crack, another flaming tongue stabbing out from the darkness, and McConnell was falling, still spinning, while something whizzed past Patton’s head. For a heartbeat there was silence.
“You should be more careful of the company you keep, Patton,” said Patrick Ronayne Cleburne from the darkness.
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