sword.
The sword in his right hand, the remaining pistol in his left, James whirled as a second man came up behind him on horse. The rider lifted a musket.
James dropped to the ground and rolled against the back wheel. Hooves pranced around him. The man tried to aim down at him, but there was little room for the horse to maneuver between the coach and the tree roots that snatched at the edge of the road. His gun went off, but the ball slammed into the ground almost a foot clear of James’s head.
Unable to get a clean shot himself, James sprang back to his feet when the horse passed. He thrust with the sword. It pierced the man’s cloak at his lower back. The man reached around for the blade with a cry as James pulled it free.
Conserving his second pistol, James slashed again with the sword, but this time the blade got caught in the man’s cloak, then hooked under his belt. James jerked it free, cutting loose the man’s powder horn. It fell, hit the ground, and spilled a fat black line of powder across the snow as the cap dislodged.
Meanwhile, the rider had recovered from the stab to his back. He fumbled for a pistol of his own, turning stiffly in the saddle as he tried to take aim.
James fled around the back of the coach before the man could bring it to bear. He came around the opposite side to discover three of the remaining highwaymen in front. Two had dismounted and stood over the prone, groaning form of Robert Woory. They thrust their sword tips into his belly.
The remaining man spotted James. He dropped the reins of his horse and lifted his musket.
But once again James had a chance to aim his pistol and take a calm, measured shot. He was farther away, so he aimed at the chest this time. The pistol kicked in his hand. The man fell from the saddle.
James had already dropped his discharged weapon and was charging at the two men standing over Woory. They came up with sword tips dripping blood. Woory was no longer moving. The villains had murdered him in cold blood. James brought the sword around from his shoulder to swing at the nearer of the two men.
The man lifted his sword and deflected the blow, but James had delivered it with such fury that it forced him to take two stumbled steps backward. James pressed his advantage. But his thrusts and stabs were parried aside. The second man circled and came charging in from James’s left.
This man was all aggression and no skill. James turned the initial thrust and swung around with his blade as the man rumbled past. His sword caught the man at the neck, and he fell.
But now the first swordsman was after him again. He had much more skill, and it was all James could do to fight him off. The two men were soon circling each other, trading ineffectual blows.
James gave a frantic glance to his rear. He’d shot two men with his pistols and cut down a third. That left this man and two more riders. Where were they? That stab wound hadn’t done enough to disable the first, and James hadn’t seen the other man since his initial glance out of the coach. Both men should be coming around to ride him down.
“Friends!” a familiar voice cried from the other side of the carriage, the speaker concealed by the snorting team of horses.
It was Peter. He came around the front of the coach with his hands held out beseechingly. He took in the carnage and his face slackened with dismay.
Go back, you fool!
“There has been enough bloodshed,” he said. “All of you, put down your weapons. Let us speak plainly one to another.”
A rider came up behind Peter. It was the man James had stabbed in the back earlier. He held himself stiffly in the saddle but had otherwise recovered. His sword gleamed in the bright light of dawn, reflecting off snow. As he came up behind the Indian, he leaned out.
“Peter, look out!”
The Indian turned toward the rider, but he didn’t cry out or throw himself clear. Instead, he stood in place while the man swept forward with his sword. It slashed
The sword in his right hand, the remaining pistol in his left, James whirled as a second man came up behind him on horse. The rider lifted a musket.
James dropped to the ground and rolled against the back wheel. Hooves pranced around him. The man tried to aim down at him, but there was little room for the horse to maneuver between the coach and the tree roots that snatched at the edge of the road. His gun went off, but the ball slammed into the ground almost a foot clear of James’s head.
Unable to get a clean shot himself, James sprang back to his feet when the horse passed. He thrust with the sword. It pierced the man’s cloak at his lower back. The man reached around for the blade with a cry as James pulled it free.
Conserving his second pistol, James slashed again with the sword, but this time the blade got caught in the man’s cloak, then hooked under his belt. James jerked it free, cutting loose the man’s powder horn. It fell, hit the ground, and spilled a fat black line of powder across the snow as the cap dislodged.
Meanwhile, the rider had recovered from the stab to his back. He fumbled for a pistol of his own, turning stiffly in the saddle as he tried to take aim.
James fled around the back of the coach before the man could bring it to bear. He came around the opposite side to discover three of the remaining highwaymen in front. Two had dismounted and stood over the prone, groaning form of Robert Woory. They thrust their sword tips into his belly.
The remaining man spotted James. He dropped the reins of his horse and lifted his musket.
But once again James had a chance to aim his pistol and take a calm, measured shot. He was farther away, so he aimed at the chest this time. The pistol kicked in his hand. The man fell from the saddle.
James had already dropped his discharged weapon and was charging at the two men standing over Woory. They came up with sword tips dripping blood. Woory was no longer moving. The villains had murdered him in cold blood. James brought the sword around from his shoulder to swing at the nearer of the two men.
The man lifted his sword and deflected the blow, but James had delivered it with such fury that it forced him to take two stumbled steps backward. James pressed his advantage. But his thrusts and stabs were parried aside. The second man circled and came charging in from James’s left.
This man was all aggression and no skill. James turned the initial thrust and swung around with his blade as the man rumbled past. His sword caught the man at the neck, and he fell.
But now the first swordsman was after him again. He had much more skill, and it was all James could do to fight him off. The two men were soon circling each other, trading ineffectual blows.
James gave a frantic glance to his rear. He’d shot two men with his pistols and cut down a third. That left this man and two more riders. Where were they? That stab wound hadn’t done enough to disable the first, and James hadn’t seen the other man since his initial glance out of the coach. Both men should be coming around to ride him down.
“Friends!” a familiar voice cried from the other side of the carriage, the speaker concealed by the snorting team of horses.
It was Peter. He came around the front of the coach with his hands held out beseechingly. He took in the carnage and his face slackened with dismay.
Go back, you fool!
“There has been enough bloodshed,” he said. “All of you, put down your weapons. Let us speak plainly one to another.”
A rider came up behind Peter. It was the man James had stabbed in the back earlier. He held himself stiffly in the saddle but had otherwise recovered. His sword gleamed in the bright light of dawn, reflecting off snow. As he came up behind the Indian, he leaned out.
“Peter, look out!”
The Indian turned toward the rider, but he didn’t cry out or throw himself clear. Instead, he stood in place while the man swept forward with his sword. It slashed
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