Rapture's Tempest (39 page)

“Lieutenant!” He hailed.

Carson reined in, and then picked his way through the underbrush to his commanding officer’s side.

“What happened?”

“They were following us, sir.”

“Who, for God’s sake? I thought we’d killed them all…”

“Evidently we didn’t, sir.”

“How many?”

“Just two. I shot them both.”

“Good work, Lieutenant. But we’d better ride anyway, just in case there are more coming behind them.”

“Right, sir.”

They headed back to the cave where the men had assembled, ready to travel, and then mounted up and headed south.

Jim and Mark had been riding at top speed since they’d left the station. The pelting, chilling rain had soaked them to the skin, but they paid little attention. The downpour was rapidly washing out the Rebs’ trail, and they knew they couldn’t stop. Any delays in following would probably result in their losing them completely. The hours passed in slow, wet determination as they relentlessly pursued the guerrillas. It was at the first light of day that Mark paused on the bank of an overflowing creek.

“What do you think?” he asked, surveying the muddy trail.

Jim urged his horse up next to Mark’s. “I don’t know. As bad as the weather is, I doubt that we’ve gained on them. But then, they can’t run forever…”

Mark looked around, the silence of the woods grating on his nerves. “I keep thinking that we’re missing something…”

“I don’t think we have. The trail’s not all that fresh. Do you want to rest? We just passed that old abandoned farm house not far back; we can always go there and dry off for a while.”

“No. We can’t afford to stop…not while it’s still raining this hard,” Mark replied, his weariness overcome by his desire to retrieve the gold. “Can you make it? You look like your shoulder’s bothering you.”

“It’s sore, that’s all. I guess from the explosion.” Jim rubbed his aching shoulder. “I’m all right.”

“Let’s go, then.” Worrying that the rain would totally obliterate the tracks, Mark decided to ride on. It was that fateful choice that took them up that last rise and into the sights of Matt Carson’s waiting rifle.

They had no idea they were that close to the Rebels, and they were caught totally by surprise when Matt fired. The sound of the gunshots spooked their mounts, and, as the bullets found their targets, the horses reared. Twisting violently in fright, they plunged off into the underbrush, leaving Jim and Mark sprawled, unconscious, in the mud.

Delight was chilled to the bone. Despite the fact that Marshall had given her both the slicker and his hat, she was drenched. Rivulets of icy water ran down her back, and her teeth chattered uncontrollably as she followed them along the narrow trail through the still, leafless trees.

They were surrounded by a silence that was broken only by the constant pounding of the rain. In the long hours that they’d been riding, there had been no sign of man or beast. The cloud-enshrouded sun continued its struggle to brighten the Missouri countryside, but the landscape was as desolate as the mood she was in. Spring had not yet renewed the face of the earth. Everything looked dead…the trees, the bushes, the ground, covered as it was by the fallen leaves…and she shivered, hoping that this feeling of death that gripped her wasn’t an omen.

“Marsh!” George’s tone was soft and urgent as he waved for his son to come up beside him. “Look!”

Ahead, standing nervously in a small protected copse of trees, was a horse.

“I’ll get him.” Marshall rode on slowly, taking care not to frighten the already jittery beast. Dismounting, he approached on foot, talking softly to soothe it. With relative ease, he grabbed the reins and rubbed the horse’s wet neck with strong, reassuring strokes. “Come on,” he called, and George and Delight rode forward as he tied the horse to a strong tree limb.

“Well?”

“He’s pretty banged up…looks like he was running out of
control through all the brush. There’s…” Marshall stopped as he spotted the bloodstain on the pommel.

“What is it?” Delight asked quickly.

“Blood,” he said. “Do you recognize this as one of the mounts Jim and Mark were riding?”

“I can’t say. It’s possible, but things were so confused last night…”

“It’s not a Union saddle,” George remarked hopefully.

“They used the ones in the stable at the landing,” Delight supplied.

“But it is a Union gun,” Marshall said, pulling the rifle from its scabbard.

They fell silent again as he loosened the reins and walked back to his own horse. “We’ll take him with us, just in case.”

“Just in case of what?” Delight asked innocently.

“In case we find out that he did belong to Mark or Jim.”

They pressed on, constantly on watch now.

Jim opened his eyes slowly. Overhead, the scrawny, naked branches of the trees met in a ghoulish arbor that offered him no protection from the still driving rain. His first instinct was to try to get to safety…but he didn’t move. Fear gripped him. Were they still close, watching him? He had no idea how long he’d been out, so it was impossible for him to know.

Jim waited long, chilling minutes until he was certain that he’d heard no sounds nearby, before finally deciding to make a move. Rolling slowly to his side, he was suddenly assaulted by a searing pain shooting up his left leg. He couldn’t stop the groan that escaped him as he clutched at his thigh and his own blood, hot and sticky, stained his hands.

Wrestling himself into a sitting position, he examined his leg. The blood was flowing freely from the wound, and he was disturbed to find that the bullet had not passed completely through. Cursing under his breath, he used his belt as a makeshift tourniquet and tied it around his upper leg in hopes of
controlling the bleeding. When it slowed, Jim stripped off his coat and shirt and used his shirt as a bandage. Applying it to the wound, he tightened it in place with his belt.

With the bleeding under control, Jim pulled his coat back on and looked around for Mark. He spotted him lying in the underbrush and crawled painfully through the mud to his friend’s side.

“Mark…” Jim rolled him over and shook him, his voice a hoarse croak as he saw all the blood on his face. “Mark, for God’s sake…”

“Jim?” Mark groaned as his hand went to his head as he came to. He sat up and immediately regretted his action as the world spun crazily before his eyes. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he rested his forearms on them while cradling his head. “What happened?”

“I think we were closer than we thought.” Jim knew it was the only explanation. And, as he felt his strength fading, he leaned back shakily against a nearby tree trunk.

“Damn…” It was hard for Mark to think coherently, but he forced himself to try. “Are you all right?”

“No…I think I’ve lost too much blood. My leg…” Jim tried to talk, but a light-headed weakness assailed him.

With all the strength he could muster, Mark went to Jim’s aid, cursing all the while the desperate situation they found themselves in.

“We have to get to some shelter…” Mark was thinking out loud as he remembered the farm house; but how could he get Jim there? The wound looked nasty even to his untrained eye, and he knew there was no way Jim could walk on. Standing up, he cursed his own dizziness and leaned against the tree for a moment until the world had righted itself. Then, he bent to help Jim up.

“We’ll head for that old farm house,” Mark told him, slipping an arm about his waist to support him.

“That’s pretty far, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll make it.” Mark tried to sound confident,
but he knew his own strength was fading. “Don’t put any pressure on your leg. It looks pretty bad. I don’t want you using it,” he told him as they started off.

Jim was silent and deathly pale as he leaned heavily against Mark. And Mark tried to take it as easy as possible, but he was staggering under Jim’s weight and struggling to keep his own balance. With faltering steps, Mark headed back in the direction they’d come, hoping that he could hold out until they reached the farm house.

Marshall reined in as they came upon the farm house situated in the small clearing. “What do you think?”

“It looks empty, but be careful,” George warned. “If there’s been any guerrilla activities around here, folks might be inclined to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“I will.” He glanced quickly at Delight, who sat stoically on her horse. He’d been amazed at her tolerance during the last long, wet hours, for not once had she uttered a complaint. “Wait here.”

Too chilled to speak, Delight could only nod. The ride had been long and miserable, but she had every intention of stiffing it out. She would do what ever they told her to do, and she would do it without argument.

Marshall rode away from them and slowly skirted the overgrown yard of the deserted cabin. When he found no sign of anyone nearby, he approached the front of the house. As he neared the old structure, he could see that it had been deserted for some time. Dismounting, he tied his horse and climbed the steps to the dilapidated front porch.

When the front door stuck, Marshall put his shoulder to it
and shoved it open. One look inside convinced him that no one had lived here for years. The windows were broken, the roof was leaking, and, except for a single bed, the other few pieces of furniture that had been left behind were useless. Turning back to where Delight and George waited for his signal, he waved for them to come forward.

“Deserted?” George asked as he reined in at the hitching rail.

Marshall nodded. “It has been for quite a while. Do you want to rest?”

“Delight?” George looked expectantly at her.

“No. The longer we delay, the longer it’s going to take us to find them,” she managed, her chin tilted with determination.

Marshall’s respect for her grew, but he wondered if she might not be pushing herself too hard. “All right. If you’re sure you can make it.”

“I’m sure,” she told him, gritting her teeth against the biting cold of the wind and rain. “Let’s go.”

When Marshall mounted, they headed out slowly again, trying to follow the washed-out trail. They hadn’t ridden far when George spotted someone in the woods.

“Marsh—” His tone was soft as he pulled back on his reins, halting their progress. “I thought I saw something.”

“Where?” Marshall asked anxiously as his father pointed toward the figure in a distance. Fear clutched at Marshall as he recognized Mark and realized that he was carrying someone. Putting his heels to his mount, he quickly covered the distance between them, with George and Delight racing along behind.

“Mark!” he shouted. Jumping from his horse, he ran to Mark’s aid.

“Marshall?” Mark, who’d been struggling just to keep moving, was shocked out of his lethargy when he saw him. “Jim’s leg…”

“Delight, get back to the house and fix up a place for them…use my bedroll,” Marshall ordered, and she rushed to follow his directions as he lifted his unconscious brother in
his arms. Careful of Jim’s injured leg, he carried him toward the farm house.

“It was the guerrillas,” Mark tried to explain, as George helped him to get on Marshall’s horse.

“Don’t try to talk now. Let’s get you back to the cabin where it’s dry so we can take a look at your head.”

Delight reached the house first and quickly spread the blanket on the one filthy bed. By the time Marshall kicked the door fully open and came in carrying Jim, Delight had already begun gathering up odd pieces of wood for a fire. Piling the wood on the hearth, she waited nervously as he laid Jim down on the hastily made bed. Kneeling beside him, she took his hand.

“Jim—” She breathed his name in desperation, as she realized for the first time how pale he was. His coloring was almost gray, and Delight looked up at Marshall, her eyes wide with worry.

“It’s his leg.”

It was then that Delight saw the bloody makeshift bandage tied around his thigh. “He was shot? Oh, God…”

“Get him out of those wet clothes while I get a fire going. Have you ever tended a bullet wound before?” Marshall asked as he started a small blaze.

“No, but teach me,” she said firmly.

“All right. The first thing we have to do is find out if the bullet’s still in there or not.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“For right now, make him as comfortable as you can, while I’ll bring in some water.”

Marshall started back outside as Mark and George were coming through the door. “Mark…how’s your head?”

“I’ll make it. Don’t worry about me. Take care of Jim,” Mark told him as George helped him over to the hearth.

As Delight began to strip Jim’s wet, clinging clothes from him, he groaned and slowly regained consciousness.

“Jim!” She stopped what she was doing and grasped his hand. “Thank heaven!”

George rushed to the bed, “Jimmy…” His voice was hoarse with emotion.

Jim frowned as he looked up at them. “Delight…Father…where am I?” With his free hand, he covered his eyes, trying to remember all that had happened.

“You’re in an old, abandoned farm house right now,” His father told him. “Mark carried you…”

“Mark!” Jim looked up at them quickly, his eyes clouded with concern. “How’s Mark?”

“I’m all right, Jim.” Mark’s voice came to him and he visibly relaxed.

“Your head?”

“The bullet just grazed me…”

“Good…Good…” The effort to talk cost him much, and all his strength seemed to drain out of him. His eyes closed in exhaustion, and Delight, thinking the worst, looked up at George, her expression one of panic.

“He’ll be all right, once we get that leg taken care of,” George reassured her, and she managed a weak smile.

“I’d better get another blanket to keep him warm.” She started to rise, but Jim’s hold on her hand stopped her.

“Don’t go,” he muttered, and she quickly gave up the idea.

“I’ll get it,” George offered.

“Thanks.” She gave him an appreciative look.

“How’s he doing?” Marshall asked solemnly as he came back in with a bucket of water.

“He’s conscious, but weak.”

“Marsh?” Jim looked up to see his brother. Smiling faintly, he managed to quip, “What is this, a family reunion?”