Scalpdancers (32 page)

Abdul noticed them and ordered Rossi to intercept the missionary and his companion. “Return to your own work,” Rossi snapped officiously. He had taken the English officer's red coat to wear and the change in attire had restored a bare semblance of his frayed dignity.

“For the love of God, cut him down,” Emerson pleaded. He was horrified at the use Vlad had found for the mission cross.

Temp tried to step around Rossi, but the former
capitano
of Macao pulled a flintlock pistol from his belt. “I don't know what you are doing among such men as these, Capitano Rossi. But this is wrong. And you know it.”

“I cannot believe you would approve such a thing,” Emerson said.

“It makes no difference what I approve. I sail with Demetrius Vlad.” Rossi scowled, brandishing the gun in his hand. The weapon looked abnormally large in Rossi's slender hand. “I bear you no malice. But do no try me. The man I was is gone forever.”

“You were never a man.” Temp lunged for Rossi's gun, catching the smaller man off guard. But Jorge Rossi proved tenacious, and held on to the pistol as Temp Rawlins dragged him to the ground.

Abdul stared at the two men in disbelief. Firelight gleamed on his ebony scowl. “Fools,” he muttered. “Kill the old one,” the Moroccan ordered his companion, Oberon, a Spaniard whose skill with a rifle was legendary among Vlad's crew. Yet no gunshot followed Abdul's command even though the Spaniard had an easy target.

“Kill him or I'll lay open your back with the cat, by my oath,” Abdul cursed.

Oberon made a choking sound for a reply. Abdul glanced up and found himself looking into the face of a dead man. He rolled over on his backside as the rifle slipped from Oberon's dusky fingers. He wore a look of utter surprise for the end of his life. Too late now. The Spaniard twisted and collapsed face forward into the fire, landing in a shower of sparks, an arrow buried between his shoulder blades.

The Moroccan scrambled to his feet and drew his pistols and turned to face his unseen attacker. Lone Walker charged out of the night, materializing in the pool of firelight surrounding the wagon and its prisoners. He rode low, leaning over his horse's neck, and he loosed a wild high-pitched cry that raised the black man's hackles.

Abdul heard the twang of the elkhorn bow and saw the arrow that corkscrewed in the air for a few seconds, no more. He tried to dodge the missile and almost succeeded, but the shaft ripped through his side and glanced off a rib. He yelped and staggered forward clutching his wound as the gray mare filled his vision. Abdul hesitated, uncertain which way to leap. A great gray mass of horseflesh smashed into him.

The Moroccan screamed and fell beneath the mare's flashing hooves and bared teeth.

A few yards away Rossi fought free of Temp Rawlins. He bit the older man's wrist and when Temp loosed his hold, Rossi retrieved his pistol. Behind him Emerson picked up a stone the size of a whiskey jug and, holding it high overhead, dropped it on Rossi's skull. Rossi collapsed on his side. Temp rolled out from under him.

“May God forgive me,” Emerson said.

“Don't worry, he will.” Temp stripped the former
capitano
of his weapons. Lead shot began to fan the air around them, and the two men scampered toward the prison wagon.

Lone Walker whirled his horse about and rode straight for the man on the cross.

Morgan, for all his hallucinations, still couldn't believe his eyes.

The Blackfoot yanked an iron-bladed tomahawk from his belt and hacked at the ropes binding Morgan to the cross. In a matter of seconds Morgan dropped to the ground, his arms dangling limply at his side. Lone Walker leapt from his horse to the wagon and began to free the soldiers.

By the fire Abdul lifted his broken, battered body from the ground. His fingers closed around the razor-sharp scimitar sheathed at his side. He saw Morgan lying against the wagon, flopping like a wounded bird as he tried to work some feeling back into his arms.

The Blackfoot did not notice the black man, and the English soldiers quickly dived over the far side of the wagon as bullets began to concentrate on their position. Emerson and Temp ducked down behind the riverbank and worked their way over to where Captain William Black waited with his men. Black was shouting to the marines garrisoned in the stockade, letting them know he was momentarily safe. He was grateful to see that the reverend and Temp had brought along Rossi's brace of pistols and an ammunition pouch.

Morgan, still on the opposite side of the wagon, struggled to stand. His arms had begun to hurt as blood found its way to his fingertips. Concentrating on his limbs, Morgan failed to notice the hulking figure standing over him until it was too late.

The scimitar sliced through the air. Morgan ducked low and inside, and the razor-sharp curved blade clanged on the wheel rim behind Penmerry. Blood seeped from the Moroccan's chest and side, but he wasn't dead yet and he had his orders: Morgan must die. He drove in for a killing thrust, missed, and momentarily left himself open as his scimitar caught in the wheel spokes, hung there, missing Morgan's throat by inches.

Lone Walker rose up past the wagon siding and sank the iron blade of his tomahawk deep into the base of Abdul's neck. The black man loosed a startled scream, clawed at the hand ax, and staggered backward into the fusillade loosed by a dozen pirates who rushed to quell the prisoners' try for freedom.

Wood popped and splintered as lead rained into the prison wagon and gouged pockets of earth at the feet of the newly freed Englishmen.

Abdul shuddered as the slugs ripped into him and he sank to his knees, cursing his own men, who in their panic had finished him. He dropped forward, his cheek to the ground. Pink froth formed on his lips as his eyes dulled and his fighting heart beat its last.

Morgan dodged past the black man's corpse as the oncoming raiders hurried to reload their muskets or brought their pistols to bear on him. He reached the musket Oberon had dropped. Willing his arms to work, he managed to gather up the musket and the Moroccan's pistols. He tore loose a powder horn and shot pouch from Abdul's corpse. He glanced up as a dozen men lowered their muskets at him. Flame spat from the barrels as the pirates fired in ragged succession.

Morgan propped Abdul's body upright and ducked behind the fallen man, allowing the man to take the brunt of the assault. Musket balls thwacked into the dead man's torso.

Morgan struggled to his feet and took off running. Lone Walker stood on the wagon, methodically firing his arrows at the raiders. Another twenty heavily armed men hurried down the path from the inn to join the fray.

Demetrius Vlad stood on the porch and admonished his raiders to recapture the Englishmen whatever the cost. He worriedly checked the stockade walls, hoping the leaderless marines might be reluctant to enter the fight.

Julia stood at his side. She had no choice. A twisted length of rope encircled her wrists and prevented her escape. The Russian exile kept the other end of the rope firmly in his grasp.

“You are finished,” Julia told him. “All your plans crashing down like the walls of Jericho.” Julia's heart raced as she saw the Blackfoot free Morgan. The gunfire erupting near the riverbank gave her hope that the prisoners were making good their escape.

Thunder reverberated along the valley, following the river; a jagged bolt of lightning livid as the scar on Vlad's face transfixed the clouds black as cauldrons. As if in answer to the oncoming storm, a burst of rifle fire lit the shadows beneath the walls of the stockade.

A double line of British marines advanced toward the pirates, firing a volley as Morgan dived beneath their guns for the safety of the wagon. Lone Walker, his quiver empty, fell down alongside Morgan.

“You pick the damnedest times to show up,” Morgan said, working the stiffness from his shoulders and finger joints.

Temp Rawlins opened fire with his pistol. A man screamed and Temp grunted in satisfaction. Morgan continued to work the circulation into his arms. He had to be ready for Demetrius Vlad. Emile Emerson kept a worried watch on the hillside. He prayed silently for forgiveness and for his daughter's safety.

“That's got them on the run, lads,” Black shouted. He dashed past the wagon and with his men hurried to join the marines as they lowered bayonets and charged.

Vlad's men turned and fled, unable to stand before a disciplined force. Brigands pitched forward clutching at their shattered limbs or crumpled to the ground mortally wounded. The raiders closest to the wagon broke ranks and ran up' the hill path toward their companions.

High on the stockade walls old Boudins Reasoner had been waiting for just such a moment. The English corporal had left him in charge of the fort's only cannon, a nine-pounder the marines had rolled into a parapet and loaded with grapeshot to sweep the hill path.

Men died on that hillside in the settling dusk. Men cast aside their cutlasses and pistols and raised their empty hands aloft. Men darted away toward the false safety of the forest, chancing a cruel wilderness that would swallow them up and seal their fates in mystery.

From his vantage point on the porch of the Sea Spray Inn Demetrius Vlad witnessed his best-laid plans unravel, and his thoughts were as turbulent as the oncoming storm. What went wrong and who was the Indian? He shook his head. No man could understand the cruel vagaries of fate. If he knew anything of life, he knew that. But the drama had yet to run its course. One act remained before the curtain lowered.

“Well,” he said and, glancing over his shoulder, motioned for Faith McCorkle to come out from the tavern. “You go ahead, my dear, and tell Morgan Penmerry I'm waiting for him. Tell him he must come alone or I shall loll the girl.”

Faith stifled a gasp. She lifted her woolen skirt to free her ankles as she hurried toward the river. Julia watched the woman go, her heart sinking. She felt very much alone.

18

It had ended as quickly as it had begun. The British marines were once again in control of Astoria, but Captain William Black knew only too well it had been a combined effort that won the day. His men stood in formation at the river's edge where the last of Vlad's crew had come ashore to surrender. Tim Britchetto had arrived with a half-dozen trappers who were put to work gathering the pelts and supplies littering the riverbank. The storm continued to threaten. Clouds crashed; lightning cracked and split the night sky. Wind gusts carried the scent of pines and the sea, yet even the mist had ceased to settle on the hungry earth.

Morgan loaded and primed a brace of pistols and tucked the weapons in his belt. Temp Rawlins waited off to one side.

“I don't see why you must do this.” Temp grumbled, trying to think of a good argument.

“Ask him,” Morgan said, indicating Lone Walker, who waited by the gray mare. “He knows.”

“Damn fool business,” Temp said. He held out a small bottle of sipping brandy he'd found in Rossi's coat.

The Portuguese man still lived, much to Emerson's relief, although the former
capitano
would have a terrible headache for a while. He'd been taken away in irons along with the other survivors of Vlad's command.

Morgan gratefully took the bottle and gulped its contents, allowing the warmth of the brandy to infuse his limbs with life. He handed the empty bottle back to Temp, who was less than pleased that Morgan had drunk it all.

Morgan clapped his friend on the shoulder. He noticed Emerson standing near the fallen cross by the wagon and considered offering the missionary some encouragement. But maybe those words had to come from a greater power than Morgan Penmerry. He walked away from the missionary and past the marines, who watched him with curiosity and admiration as he started up the path. He saw Reap and Faith McCorkle, their features etched with concern. Reap's arm was bandaged, but he would recover. He passed them without speaking. Black waved for him to hold a moment, and Morgan paused as the captain approached.

“What do you intend to do?” Black said.

“What I have to,” Morgan replied.

“By heaven, this is a bloody awful impasse,” the captain said. “I'd storm the place and hound this Demetrius Vlad all the way to the hangman's noose. But I dare not risk the girl. Not unless I have to.”

The implication was clear. Black would indeed order his men to capture or kill the Russian if Morgan failed. “She's a lovely girl,” the English officer observed dryly. “You fancy her quite a lot.”

“Yes.”

“And she fancies you?”

“Yes.”

“I say, more is the pity for me.” Black held out his hand. “Good luck then.”

Morgan shook hands and continued on his way. But he'd only taken a few steps when he heard the sound of an approaching horse and without turning knew it had to be Lone Walker.

“I go with you?” the warrior asked.

“Stay here. This is between Vlad and me.” Morgan stopped and turned to look at the Blackfoot. “Somehow, you knew all of this would happen. That's why you tried to warn me.”

“I do not know all,” Lone Walker told him. He tried to find the right words, to make the white man understand.

Morgan thought of the cross and the images he had seen while bound to that cruel tree. “I too have walked in a dream.”

Morgan resumed his climb, past wind-whipped torches and quaking trees, past barrels and pelts that had been cast aside. In the bone-white glare of a lightning flash he saw dead men lying on the earth, their sightless eyes open to the approaching storm. They had come for plunder but found another end.

Morgan drew the pistols from his belt as he approached the Sea Spray Inn. True to his word, Demetrius Vlad waited on the porch, a pistol in either hand, with Julia at his side. The couple were outlined by the leaping flames that had begun to lap at the outer walls of the tavern. Vlad had set the place afire in one final angry act of vengeance toward the settlement.