Crow Hollow by Michael Wallace Page A

him across the upper breast. Peter staggered but didn’t fall. He bent over with a cry, clutching at the wound as the rider turned his horse to renew the attack.
    James tried to fight his way toward his companion, but he was hard pressed by the swordsman still coming at him. His opponent was an older man, and beginning to tire, his initial advantage dissipating. Had it been the two of them, James was confident he could hold the man off indefinitely until exhaustion settled the fight in his favor.
    If only Peter would have the sense to throw himself from the road before the rider could get turned around to finish the business. The horse was having a hard time getting its footing on the snow and ice.
    But then came the second missing rider. He must have been lurking behind the coach, perhaps watching the road. He brought his sword down from the shoulder as he overtook Peter. It struck the Indian across the neck. Peter fell. When the rider rose in the saddle, blood drenched his blade.
    No!
    This brutal attack had taken no more than a few seconds, but by the time James turned back to face his attacker, the man was already climbing back into the saddle of his horse. Meanwhile, the other two remaining riders spotted James and yanked on the reins to come at him.
    James tried to shield himself with the edge of the coach. He didn’t stand a chance against three men on horse.
    A pistol fired. The man who’d struck down Peter slumped in the saddle with a cry. His horse reared, snorting, and the man fell hard to the frozen ground. His horse galloped down the road without him.
    What the devil?
    Then James spotted Prudence standing calmly, holding James’s pistols. Smoke leaked from the muzzle of the gun in her right hand. She dropped it and shifted over the second pistol.
    The two surviving enemies exchanged a glance. Without a word they turned after the fleeing, riderless horse and galloped away.

C HAPTER E LEVEN
    The instant the men turned to flee, Prudence’s hand and wrist began to tremble violently, and she thought she would be sick. She dropped the gun. It was unloaded; she’d not had time to load them both. She doubled over, her head light, and her knees buckling.
    James flinched when the second gun hit the ground, as if expecting it to go off, but he quickly came over to catch her arm and steady her. “Where are you injured?” Worry pinched his voice.
    The sharp tang of black powder filled the air, and a cloud of smoke hung around her head. She stepped away, into cleaner air. When she did, she felt a little stronger.
    “I’m unhurt. Pray, pardon me, I—”
    But James was already releasing her and pulling away. He whirled about, his sword outstretched, as if searching for remaining enemies. The tip was slick and red.
    There were none who could fight. Only men groaning in various states of death.
    They might have won, but at a terrible cost. Woory lay dead in a bloody puddle, shot through the shoulder and then stabbed to death. So much blood—it was hard to believe it came from one man.
    Peter lay curled on his side, gasping, clutching at his neck, which was streaming blood. A second deep wound cut across his chest. Prudence took the kerchief from one of the wounded enemies and pressed it to his neck. James sat behind Peter’s shoulders and lifted his head.
    Peter’s eyes moved slowly to James’s face. “I shall soon see my savior.”
    James gave a hard, visible swallow. “Thou art brave and strong, friend.”
    “Search for the inward light. Both of you. That is the way.”
    There was too much blood seeping through the kerchief and into Prudence’s hands. Again, she felt lightheaded. The blood, the violence—suddenly she was back in Winton, on that awful day when the Indians overran the town. A child screaming, the smell of fire.
    Not now. Please, not now.
    With effort, she fought down her panic.
    Peter’s eyes rolled back in his head. His breathing turned shallow and rapid. “Mother, please. I am here,” he