“What the hell! Poke, he’s got—”
That was as far as Gilley got with his warning, because Hawke pulled the trigger and his shot caught Gilley in the Adam’s apple. Poke fired a third time, but again Hawke managed to roll away. Hawke’s second shot was as deadly as his first, and Poke went down as well.
Still wary of his two would-be assailants, Hawke got to his feet, gun in hand. His leg, which had been pinned under his horse, bothered him a bit as he limped over to have a closer look at the two men. It didn’t take much of an examination to see that both men were dead. There was a hole in Poke’s forehead, and Gilley’s eyes were open but opaque, staring off in two directions, even in death.
He was still puzzled as to who his attackers were and why they had opened fire on him. What did they mean when they said he had ridden in like the cavalry rescuing settlers? And what reward were they talking about? Hawke looked at the three horses. His and Poke’s were dead. The third horse, Gilley’s, had managed to stand up again, but was wobbling around on a shattered and bloody knee. Hawke sighed, then limped over and embraced the horse’s head. He looked into the creature’s big, liquid brown eyes and saw intense pain and confusion.
“I’m sorry, fella,” he said to the horse. “It wasn’t your fault that your rider was such a sorry-assed bastard. It breaks my heart to do this, but believe me, it’s better for you.”
Hawke shot the horse between the eyes, then shook his head as he realized that he was in the middle of nowhere without a mount.
“Damnit!” he shouted in anger. “Who the hell were you two? And why did you shoot at me?”
The dark sky and ominous clouds chose that moment to deliver on their threat. The rain came down in large, heavy drops. The lightning, sporadic until then, increased in frequency until it was almost one sustained lightning flash, a new bolt striking before the previous one left. The thunder boomed in a continuous roar, not unlike the artillery bombardments Hawke could remember from the war.
Pulling his saddle and saddlebags from his horse, he hurried through the rain toward the shelter of the small cabin. He was about to step inside when he thought of the two men lying in the dirt a hundred yards behind him and realized there might be another one waiting for him. Pulling his pistol, he kicked open the door then fell to the floor inside, rolling away from the door with his gun at the ready.
No one came toward him.
Hawke lay on the floor for a moment, making a slow, thorough sweep of the cabin. Convinced that the cabin was empty, he stood and returned his pistol to the holster.
That was when he heard the bump.
Drawing quickly, he spun toward the sound, gun in hand again, eyes narrowed and ready.
He heard another bump, accompanied this time by a squeaking sound.
Curious, and cautious, Hawke moved carefully toward the sound. It was coming from the back of an overturned table. Looking around the table, he was startled by what he saw.
A pair of wide-open, blue, frightened eyes stared back at him. The eyes belonged to a woman, obviously the source of the squeaking he’d heard. She was making the only sound she could, because there was a gag around her mouth. In addition to the gag, she was bound, head and foot, by ropes, and Hawke was surprised to see that she was wearing a nightgown.
After one more quick perusal to make certain nobody was using the girl as bait, he knelt beside her and removed her gag.
“There were two outside,” he said. “Are there any more?”
“Not that I have seen,” the woman answered. “Please, don’t let them come back.”
“They won’t be coming back.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I killed them,” Hawke said.
The woman nodded. “Good. I’m glad you killed them.”
“Who were those men, do you know?” Hawke asked.
“Other than the fact that they called each other Poke and Gilley, I have no idea.”
The woman spoke with a cultured accent that Hawke recognized as British.
“Are you all right? Did they do anything to you?”
“What sort of question is that? Of course they did something to me. They kidnapped me, then they tied me up and gagged me. You don’t think I came here of my own accord, do you?”
“No, I mean did they do anything…else?”
“I wasn’t raped, if that is what you mean.”
By now Hawke had pulled a knife from his belt and was cutting through the ropes that bound her ankles. After that, he cut the ropes from her wrists.
“Did my father send you?” the girl asked as she gingerly rubbed her wrists. “I was sure that he wouldn’t pay the ransom. It’s not the money, it’s the principle of the thing. And my father is nothing if he is not a man of principle.”
Finished with her wrists, she leaned forward and began massaging her rope-burned ankles.
“Your father didn’t send me,” Hawke said.
The girl looked up in surprise. “He didn’t?” Her resultant laughter was genuine, and totally unexpected. “No doubt he will be amused to learn that one solitary knight dressed, not in shining armor, but blue jeans and a red and green plaid shirt, succeeded where his army failed.”
“Army?”
“Figuratively speaking,” the woman said. “I’m sure that the moment he learned I was missing, he dispatched a veritable army of his employees in the field, looking for me.”
“Could I ask you a question?”
“You’ve just saved my life. That certainly should earn you the right to ask a question.”
“Why are wearing a nightgown?”
“I’m wearing a nightgown because I was asleep in my berth on the train when they took me.”
“The train? You were taken from a train?”
“I can’t believe that news of my capture wasn’t in all the papers.”
“It may well have been,” Hawke replied. “I’ve been on the trail for some time. I’m afraid I haven’t read many papers lately.”
“I’m sorry. I know that was very vain of me.”
“Do you have any other clothes with you?”
The girl shook her head. “This is it, I’m afraid.”
Sighing, Hawke opened his saddle bag, removed a waterproof pouch, and took a pair of jeans and a gray flannel shirt from it.
“These will be too big for you,” he said. “But it will be better than wearing a nightgown.”
“Thank you,” Pamela said. “Might I inquire as to your name, sir?”
“The name is Hawke. Mason Hawke.”
“I’m exceptionally pleased to meet you, Mr. Mason Hawke. My name is Pamela Dorchester.”
“It is good to meet you, Miss Dorchester.”
“The name Dorchester doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”
“I must say, Mr. Hawke, meeting you has certainly been ego-deflating.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t intend to be.”
“Nonsense, don’t be sorry. I’m sure it’s quite good for me…character building or some such thing.”
Pamela made a circular motion with her fingers. “Would you please present me with your backside, Mr. Hawke?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Turn around, please, so that I may have some privacy while I get dressed.” In the way of the British, she used the short i when she said the word privacy.
“Oh, yes, all right,” Hawke said, complying with her request. “Do you have any shoes?”
“No.”
“I’ll make you some.”
“You are going to make me some shoes?”
“Moccasins, anyway,” Hawke said.
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’ll look around until I find something,” Hawke said, and poked through the cabin until he found some saddlebags. “This will do,” he told her, still keeping his back turned.