Rebel Fire by Andrew Lane

reeds. He was soaking wet, and there were gashes across his face from where the reeds had cut his skin.
    He held a rifle in his hands. He raised it as Crowe raced ahead, took careful aim along the long barrel, and fired.
    At the same moment the fire blossomed out of the barrel, Crowe threw his arms up to his face and fell backwards, out of the saddle. He hit the road, right shoulder first, and rolled over and over in the dirt until he lay still, like a dusty log. His horse rode on, but without Crowe urging it on it slowed to a canter, then to a trot, then to a halt. It stood there, apparently watching the carriage as it receded into the distance and wondering what all the rush had been about.
    Virginia screamed, “Father!” as she pulled her horse to a skidding halt and threw herself out of the saddle. She pelted along the road towards him, regardless of the man with the rifle who was watching her approach.
    And raising his rifle.
    All this had happened within the space of a scattered handful of seconds. Sherlock dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. The horse surged forward.
    â€œDown!” he shouted.
    Virginia glanced back over her shoulder, saw him bearing down on her, and dived. As she rolled over, Sherlock pulled up on the reins. His horse jumped over her, seeming to sail through the air regardless of gravity.
    The horse’s front hoofs hit the ground hard, and it stumbled, just as the gunman fired again. Sherlock didn’t even hear the shot. He was flung from the saddle and over the horse’s head. His mind was filled with the enormity of the ground as it rose up towards him. Time seemed to stretch out, and he found that he was wondering whether he would crack his skull or break both legs first. Something made him curl into a ball, tucking his head onto his chest and wrapping his arms around it while bringing his knees up to his stomach. He hit the ground and rolled, feeling stones bite into his flesh beneath his ribs, back, and legs. The world flashed around him, over and over; dark, light, dark. He lost track of where he was.
    After an eternity he came to a stop. Raising his head cautiously, he tried to work out where he had ended up. Everything was blurred, and he felt like part of him was still rolling over and over even though the feel of the stones beneath his hands and knees told him that he was stationary. His stomach clenched, and he had to stop himself throwing up. He could feel the rough burn of scratches across his whole body.
    In the distance, the carriage in which Matty was being held prisoner was vanishing into a cloud of dust.
    A shadow fell across Sherlock. He looked up. The man with the rifle was standing over him. He wasn’t sure, but it looked like it might have been the man who’d been knocked out by the lunatic, John Wilkes Booth. The other men had called him Gilfillan. His head was bandaged, and his eyes were full of vicious hatred.
    â€œWhat is it with you kids?” he asked, raising the rifle. “I swear we’ve had more trouble from you in the past day than from the whole Union Army since the end of the war!”
    â€œGive my friend back,” Sherlock snarled, climbing to his feet.
    â€œTough talk from someone who ain’t goin’ to be alive in a minute’s time,” the man said, smiling grimly. “We took the kid to stop you an’ that guy in the white hat from comin’ after us, but ah guess that didn’t work out the way we expected. So I’ll just kill you all now, and cable ahead to tell Ives to kill him, ’cause we don’t need him anymore.” He took his finger off the trigger and showed the back of the hand to Sherlock. There was blood on it, and what looked like a set of teeth marks in the soft flesh between the base of the thumb and the first finger. “That girl bit me!” he protested disbelievingly.
    â€œYeh,” Sherlock said, “I imagine you hear that a lot,” and he whipped