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faces.
Wanda stood by his side, armed once again. He heard noises from the
edge of the clearing. Out into the open came a white haired man, supported on
one side by a young girl and on the other by a grizzled, middle-aged man. He
clutched a scoped rifle protectively, as if it were a favorite child. They
walked around bodies in the gathering dusk, avoiding water beginning to pool
around the still forms.
Michael sighed again. He was tired, his arm and head hurt, but the day
was not yet over. "Jason, we owe you," he said after the convict returned,
bringing what few of his men he had been able to find. "Everything is just
going to have to wait for now, though. You and your convicts just hold on
until we get back to Livingston, then we'll see about how we're going to
organize things. I suspect it won't be easy, but we sure can't do it here, not
in this weather. Can you manage that?"
"On one condition," Jason said. He smiled gently at Michael, then
turned and gestured towards the freed blacks and his men. "Don't call them
convicts. Not after all this." He pointed to the bodies laying in pools of
water.
"I see what you mean," Michael said.
McMasters arrived and introduced himself to Michael. He then asked him
to send someone back for George, Jr. and the women he had left waiting. He saw
no reason why they wouldn't still be safe, but he was worried anyway.
Characteristically, he didn't mention the devastating effect his sniper fire
had had on the tide of battle.
Michael sent two men to follow the senior George back to where the
others had been left then turned his attention to getting the disparate group
he now commanded moved away from the area. He knew that undiscovered bodies
must still be everywhere in the brush, and scavengers would begin appearing as
darkness fell. As evening came on, the rain tapered off to a slow drip, then
finally ceased completely, along with the wind. By nightfall, he had everyone
moved a mile or two away, transporting the wounded on makeshift litters. The
next morning, he intended to send Breedlove on one more sweep of the
battlefield then head for Livingston, and hopefully, a reconciliation of
erstwhile enemies. He still wasn't sure how he would work that out, but he was
confident that it could be accomplished.
His other thoughts were orientated in different directions. He had gone
over them again and again during his travels, changing and amending them as
more survivors came together and finally setting them firmly in his mind as he
sat with Wanda beside a smoky fire built from wet wood. He knew what would
have to be done so long as he remained in command, but some of the group
surely would not like his ideas.
GEORGE, JR. dropped to his knees in the mud and threw up both hands
just as soon as Burley burst upon the scene. Burley was scared and tired, and
not in the mood for surrender in any form. He clubbed the terrified young man
to the ground with the butt of his empty shotgun, then ordered the two women
to provide him with food. He kept the empty gun trained on them as he ate, and
began contemplating. He would take the young woman with him just as soon as he
satisfied his hunger, then look around for more displacement areas. Maybe he
could find others who thought as he did, or perhaps a few of his cohorts had
survived.
Just as he was finishing his meal, he noticed one of the women abruptly
look up and stare into the forest. A shot sounded. The bullet skimmed past his
head, causing him to duck. As he did, the young woman he had picked out to
take with him stuck out a leg and tripped him. He went down, losing the empty
gun he had used to threaten the group. He rolled and scurried off into the
underbrush. Bullets searched near him, but miraculously he wasn't hit.
Lacking a target, the shots soon ceased, and Burley congratulated
himself on once again escaping harm. He could come back; eventually someone
would get careless. But night was approaching. He needed shelter.
Stumbling through the deepening twilight, Burley suddenly came upon a
monstrous fallen tree. At the bole of the uprooted trunk, a natural cave had
formed. Perfect, he thought. He crawled inside.
_The great cat had been disturbed and agitated by the hurricane, though
it's carnivorous mind was unable to grasp the concept of such abrupt changes
in the weather. It only knew that it had taken it's unease into shelter and
began licking itself dry while it waited out the storm. It was very hungry._
Burley was bounced to the floor of the cave by one swipe of a huge paw.
He looked up in horror as needle sharp teeth closed on his up flung arm, and
screamed as fangs bit through bone and muscle as if they were wet paper. He
let out a horrible curse then screamed as the cat raked knife-like claws into
his belly. The cat batted his head with a forepaw, silencing his screams.
Burley bubbled and cried softly as he gradually lost consciousness. The cat
purred and fed contentedly, ignoring the dying moans of its prey.
AS MICHAEL GOT up and began making rounds to speak with survivors of
the various groups, a thought that had been trying to form finally jelled. He
broke off from talking with Preacher Johnson and hurried to find Sheila. How
could he have forgotten? If anything had happened to her --
He found Wanda with the teenage girls, assuring them that the fighting
was over and the remaining convicts were either rendered helpless or were
become allies.
"Wanda, have you seen Sheila?" A picture of the young woman with her
bright red hair in pigtails formed in his mind. _Surely not. Please, don't let
her be dead, not after what she's gone through._ The depth of his concern
startled him. So many dead, yet Sheila was suddenly foremost in his thoughts.
Why hadn't Wanda been concerned too?
The concern in Michael's voice touched Wanda's heart. "Oh, Mike, I'm so
sorry! I forgot to tell you."
"Oh, God, don't tell me she's dead." He clenched his fists as a
sickness gathered in his belly.
Wanda smiled and took his hand. "No, she's fine. Come with me." She led
him off toward a group of prone bodies, the wounded, while the hammering in
his chest slowed back to normal. Two of the figures raised up and moved over
to another person who was moaning feebly. The hammering came back. There was
no mistaking that red hair, even in the feeble light.
"Sheila!" He called.
Sheila looked up from where she was helping Peggy place a makeshift
bandage on a wounded woman. "Mike!" She ran to him and threw her arms around
him.
"Ouch!" Sheila's grasp included his wounded arm.
"Oh! You're hurt. I'm sorry." Something more than concern about his
wound tinged her voice.
"It's not bad. I'm glad to see you. Did -- " Michael started to ask how
much of the fighting she had been involved with then decided he didn't want to
know.
"Sit down here," Sheila said. "I'll fix your arm. Peggy has been
showing me how."
"It can wait. I just wanted to -- "
"No it can't! You sit down," Sheila said possessively.
Wanda touched his shoulder. "Go on, Mike. Let her take care of you.
I'll handle the camp for a little while."
Michael allowed himself to be convinced. His arm really was hurting and
he was glad of a chance for a break. He didn't notice Wanda's parting wink at
Sheila, nor the puzzled look on Sheila's face.
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*Chapter Thirteen* [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]