And then we had other problems and I lost the leisure to worry about any of ’em.
Scout had the build of a good cutting horse, and it turned out she had the wits of one, too. She seemed to know what we were after better than I did, and shouldered the bigger Pongo to a halt just steps from running over Miss Francina. And it was Miss Francina — hat blown off, hair draggled and lank, rain dripping off the tip of her long nose. The strangely bulky appearance was on account of she had a girl bundled up in her arms.
A girl she hoisted up to me, straight armed. Now, I knowed Miss Francina was strong as hell, but seeing that I wasn’t surprised that the person I pulled onto Scout’s saddle behind me wasn’t much more than twine and broomstraws wrapped up in a wet cotton nightshirt and Miss Francina’s Alias Murphy coat.
Miss Francina thrashed up into Pongo’s saddle and I tossed her the reins, then stole a glance back at Tomoatooah and Marshal Reeves.
They’d reined in and now sat their horses two abreast across Commercial Street, blocking the way. The Marshal had his Winchester rifle out and his head bent over it. Tomoatooah had put a shotgun to his shoulder.
The Marshal called something to the men swarming out of the cribhouse. I couldn’t make the words, but the tone echoed with command. The men coming up on him and Tomoatooah stopped. One reached for a hip holster but then danced back, sparks flying from the wet stones by his feet. A split second later the sound of the gunshot reached my little party. Pongo and Scout both took it with equanimity, but the girl against my back, who was probably Aashini Swati, made up for it by startling enough for all of us.
“Aashini,” I said over my shoulder to the shivering girl, “hold on tight. Your sister Priya sent us.”
Not exactly true. But close enough, and I needed to save on explanations. And from the way she clutched at me, she wanted to believe it.
“Karen honey,” Miss Francina said, “not to needle you, but we should be going.”
As we turned the horses, I called out to Miss Francina, “Why didn’t you use the gadget?”
She was wrestling the reins. Fortunately, Pongo knowed what he was doing. She yelled back, “I tried! It didn’t work, now, did it? And they must of twigged right off that something was up, because there were two men right outside the door. I knocked ’em down on the way out. But they seem to have got up again.”
We couldn’t run the horses on these wet cobbles — not and expect them and us to live. But Tomoatooah and the Marshal were buying us time. I let Scout have her head, trusting her to pick her own pace. She settled into a lope that was less pell-mell than I would of liked but inexpressibly safer.
I glanced back over my shoulder. I had a confused glimpse of somebody pulling some strange sort of helmet on — big goggles on it — and then crying out and pointing after Miss Francina on Pongo. “He can see in the dark!” I yelled. I got a sense that he was gesturing for the benefit of unseen watchers, and felt a great relief at Tomoatooah’s removal of those same.
The Winchester cracked again. I missed seeing it — I’d glanced back forward. But I felt a sudden, shocking tug as a bullet touched my collar. I gasped. Aashini huddled tighter under my oilcloth, making herself tiny against my back. I heard cursing behind me — the Marshal’s voice — and then the shotgun roared once. I hunched down as close to Scout’s neck as I could manage and urged her to pick up the pace, if she felt able.
When I glanced back again — under my armpit this time to keep from lifting my head — I saw something that chilled me. Peter Bantle was out in the street, standing under the gas lamp by his office door. I knowed him by his stature and his coat and because … because he had that glove on, and it snapped and sparked blue in the rain, but that didn’t seem to trouble him. He was making a beckoning gesture to the Marshal, and the Marshal reined toward him—
I should turn back. I should turn back and help Marshal Reeves. What kind of a pissant coward was I, riding off when that brave man needed me—
That brave man who had just shot at me?
My hands lifted the reins as if moving of their own volition. My seat bones shifted in the saddle. Willing, generous, Scout slowed and turned.
“Dammit, Karen!” Miss Francina yelled back at me. But I didn’t register it. Her words didn’t mean any more than the heavy plop of the rain. Nor did it mean anything to me that Aashini yelped and twisted, seeming to try to figure out if she could slide down out of the saddle without breaking a leg.
Marshal Reeves rocked back and forth in his saddle, first urging Dusty forward, then clutching at the reins. The mare was getting mad at him, too. She skittered and hopped and thought about a buck. Her manners held though, for now. He pushed her a step forward. I could see he’d dropped his rifle—
He was five steps from Bantle now, in among Bantle’s men. One — not the one with the bug-eyed helmet — stepped in to take his reins—
There was a bloodcurdling whoop, and in a flurry of hooves and streaming tail Adobe charged through the middle of the gang of men. I didn’t even see Tomoatooah on his back, stuck as he was like a bit of sticking plaster in her mane, but I saw the result. The gang of men scattered, shattered. Dusty reared, kicking out at the one who had been about to grab her rein. And Tomoatooah must of leaned out of the saddle and grabbed Peter Bantle by the coat collar, because suddenly he was flailing along beside the running dun — running! On these roads! — with his boot heels bouncing off the stones and his arms flailing this way and that.
Tomoatooah had grabbed him on the off side — with his right hand — facing the other way. So Bantle’s evil electric glove was on the side of his body away from Tomoatooah and Adobe, sending its sparks harmlessly into the air.
What am I doing? I thought suddenly — just as Tomoatooah let go of Bantle’s collar and Bantle fell heavily on the stones. What the hell am I doing here? The Marshal, sitting in his saddle with his head shaking back and forth as if dazed, seemed to be wondering a similar thing. I saw him reach for his Winchester and look down in surprise to find it not in its saddle holster.
“Marshal!” I yelled back at him. “Run!”
I didn’t stick around to see if he was listening but turned Scout back after Pongo and gave her a bounce to let her know I had returned to my senses and wanted to get gone.
What the hell were you waiting for? her ears said with a saucy flip.
I wished I had some kind of reasonable answer.
Chapter Eleven
It took us an hour and a half to get to where Merry Lee was supposed to be waiting if we needed our backup plan, because we rode in circles looking to befuddle any pursuit.
Tomoatooah and the Marshal caught up with us about a quarter hour after we all left the dockside, though. Tomoatooah had picked up the Winchester, but he didn’t give it back to the Marshal straight off. He must of leaned out of the saddle and snatched it up off the stones. There was a chip out of the hardwood stock, but it was otherwise serviceable. A deal of what they say about Indians is goose grease, but I’m here to tell you — there’s no goose grease in the stories of how Comanche ride.
And the Marshal couldn’t stop apologizing for having taken that shot at me. “I had no intention of it. But my hand just came around — I just managed to jerk the gun up before the trigger pulled. You must believe me — I could not be more sorry. I have no idea what possessed me. It was as if someone else had control of my hands.”
“I believe you,” I said at last. “I don’t think you miss unless you aim to. And—”