drinking one of my hot toddies.”
The old man chuckled. “Harriet’s hot toddies will either kill ya or cure ya.”
“Oh . . .” Hope smiled, preferring the latter. “I’d like that. Without spirits, of course.”
The old woman nodded enthusiastically. “’Course!”
The four looked up as the sound of fast-approaching horses caught their attention. Two men, leaning low over the necks of their animals, galloped full speed around the bend.
The old woman grasped her husband’s arm. “Luther!”
About the same time Harriet yelled at her husband, a bullet whizzed past Dan’s head. Bolting upright, Hope tried to see what the commotion was all about, but Dan pinned her back down with a hand.
Luther whipped his team of horses to a full run. A second bullet whistled overhead as Dan bent over Hope and pulled out his revolver.
“What’s going on?” Hope shouted above the clacking wheels. The old buckboard threatened to break apart as it churned headlong down the road, hitting potholes and deep ruts.
“Stay down!” Dan shouted.
“Hang on!” Luther cracked the whip and the team strained, running harder. The horses barreled down the road, trying to outrun the two men on horseback who were now pursuing them with devilish fervor. “Hold on! We’re headin’ for th’ barn!”
“What’s he mean?” Hope grunted, clinging to the side of the wagon. “Heading for the barn—what’s going on?”
The pig squealed in protest, rolling wildly about the wagon bed on its fat sides. Hope moved her foot to keep it from being squashed, scooting more to the left.
The old man cackled with glee as he swung the whip over the team’s backsides. “Hold on, kiddies!”
Pulling himself upright, Dan leaned close to Harriet’s ear. “Who are those people?”
“It’s just Lyndon,” the old woman shouted. “Nothin’ to concern your head about!”
Hope struggled to sit up, but Dan kept pushing her down. “Who are they? Robbers?” That’s all she needed—to be taken hostage a second time. John Jacobs would never buy that story!
“It’s Lyndon,” Dan told Hope.
“Oh.” She lay back, trying to hang on. It’s Lyndon. . . . She frowned. Who is Lyndon?
The wagon wheeled around a corner and up a narrow lane. Hope’s teeth chattered as the wagon bed bounced over the uneven terrain. Low-hanging branches slapped the wagon, keeping Hope off-balance. The riders were closing in, close enough for Hope to get a good look at Lyndon—whichever one he might be.
“Run for th’ house,” Luther yelled as they shot through the open barn doorway. Sawing on the reins, he stopped the team. Harriet sprang from the wagon seat, motioning to Hope. “Come on!”
Dan lifted Hope from the wagon, and they dashed toward a building that Hope thought faintly resembled a cabin. The boards were nailed haphazardly together, and the roof was fashioned from various pieces of colored tin. Red, blue, yellow—there seemed to be no pattern.
Chickens flapped and darted for cover as Hope’s feet hit the porch. Luther followed close on her heels. She could hear him cackling as he shot looks over his shoulder at the pursuers. Hope flew through the front door ahead of Dan and Harriet. Luther waited until the pig cleared the doorframe, then slammed the door shut. Leaning against the thick wood, he swiped his brow. “That was close.”
Oinking, the pig calmly meandered to a corner and collapsed, obviously fatigued after her spirited trip across the yard.
A bullet chunked into the side of the cabin, sending splinters of wood flying. Luther grabbed a rifle and ducked behind the front window.
“That crazy Lyndon,” he muttered. “The old fool’s gonna git hisself shot.”
Hope and Dan stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking at each other as Harriet hustled into the bedroom and came back toting a double-barreled shotgun. Kneeling on the opposite side of the window, she hefted the weapon to her shoulder.
A volley of bullets drilled
The old man chuckled. “Harriet’s hot toddies will either kill ya or cure ya.”
“Oh . . .” Hope smiled, preferring the latter. “I’d like that. Without spirits, of course.”
The old woman nodded enthusiastically. “’Course!”
The four looked up as the sound of fast-approaching horses caught their attention. Two men, leaning low over the necks of their animals, galloped full speed around the bend.
The old woman grasped her husband’s arm. “Luther!”
About the same time Harriet yelled at her husband, a bullet whizzed past Dan’s head. Bolting upright, Hope tried to see what the commotion was all about, but Dan pinned her back down with a hand.
Luther whipped his team of horses to a full run. A second bullet whistled overhead as Dan bent over Hope and pulled out his revolver.
“What’s going on?” Hope shouted above the clacking wheels. The old buckboard threatened to break apart as it churned headlong down the road, hitting potholes and deep ruts.
“Stay down!” Dan shouted.
“Hang on!” Luther cracked the whip and the team strained, running harder. The horses barreled down the road, trying to outrun the two men on horseback who were now pursuing them with devilish fervor. “Hold on! We’re headin’ for th’ barn!”
“What’s he mean?” Hope grunted, clinging to the side of the wagon. “Heading for the barn—what’s going on?”
The pig squealed in protest, rolling wildly about the wagon bed on its fat sides. Hope moved her foot to keep it from being squashed, scooting more to the left.
The old man cackled with glee as he swung the whip over the team’s backsides. “Hold on, kiddies!”
Pulling himself upright, Dan leaned close to Harriet’s ear. “Who are those people?”
“It’s just Lyndon,” the old woman shouted. “Nothin’ to concern your head about!”
Hope struggled to sit up, but Dan kept pushing her down. “Who are they? Robbers?” That’s all she needed—to be taken hostage a second time. John Jacobs would never buy that story!
“It’s Lyndon,” Dan told Hope.
“Oh.” She lay back, trying to hang on. It’s Lyndon. . . . She frowned. Who is Lyndon?
The wagon wheeled around a corner and up a narrow lane. Hope’s teeth chattered as the wagon bed bounced over the uneven terrain. Low-hanging branches slapped the wagon, keeping Hope off-balance. The riders were closing in, close enough for Hope to get a good look at Lyndon—whichever one he might be.
“Run for th’ house,” Luther yelled as they shot through the open barn doorway. Sawing on the reins, he stopped the team. Harriet sprang from the wagon seat, motioning to Hope. “Come on!”
Dan lifted Hope from the wagon, and they dashed toward a building that Hope thought faintly resembled a cabin. The boards were nailed haphazardly together, and the roof was fashioned from various pieces of colored tin. Red, blue, yellow—there seemed to be no pattern.
Chickens flapped and darted for cover as Hope’s feet hit the porch. Luther followed close on her heels. She could hear him cackling as he shot looks over his shoulder at the pursuers. Hope flew through the front door ahead of Dan and Harriet. Luther waited until the pig cleared the doorframe, then slammed the door shut. Leaning against the thick wood, he swiped his brow. “That was close.”
Oinking, the pig calmly meandered to a corner and collapsed, obviously fatigued after her spirited trip across the yard.
A bullet chunked into the side of the cabin, sending splinters of wood flying. Luther grabbed a rifle and ducked behind the front window.
“That crazy Lyndon,” he muttered. “The old fool’s gonna git hisself shot.”
Hope and Dan stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking at each other as Harriet hustled into the bedroom and came back toting a double-barreled shotgun. Kneeling on the opposite side of the window, she hefted the weapon to her shoulder.
A volley of bullets drilled
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