“NO!”
Jake grabbed Samuelson’s arm and tried to drag him inside.
“Save yourself, Jake,” Samuelson rasped. “Leave … me.”
Jake heard the clomping footsteps. He turned.
A Confederate officer loomed over him. A barrel-chested man with a pockmarked face and long, stringy black hair.
“We don’t kill the small fish,” he said. “Just the full-grown ones. So back off.”
He dug the butt of his musket into Jake’s chest and pushed him aside.
Then he took aim at Samuelson.
“Don’t shoot him!” Jake leaped at the man.
He stepped back, grinning. “Brave little fella. Okay, have it your way. You kneel down, nice and easy, and give me all your big brother’s weaponry. Then I want you to yell your little head off. Just in case your friends haven’t heard us yet. Lure the big fish to us.”
Jake glanced uneasily at Samuelson. “What’ll you do to him?”
“JUST DO IT!”
Samuelson nodded. Gestured toward his musket.
Jake knelt beside him.
Grab it.
Shoot them.
Put them out of their misery.
“Do … exactly what they want,” Samuelson said, his voice barely a whisper.
Jake slowly removed Samuelson’s musket and dagger. They were both much heavier than he expected.
The Rebel officer was aiming at Jake now.
Jake stood. He approached the man, holding out the weapons.
SMMMACK!
The door.
Jake looked over his shoulder.
A face.
Red hair.
Overmyer.
In the kitchen doorway. Staring at Jake. At the weapons. At Samuelson.
“What the — ?”
A shot interrupted his sentence.
Overmyer dived back into the house. The kitchen window exploded in a hailstorm of glass.
“FI-I-I-I-IRE!” shouted the Rebel leader.
CRRRACK!
CRRRACK! CRRRACK! CRRRACK!
No time to think.
Jake pulled Samuelson into the house. Shoved him into the kitchen.
Overmyer was slumped over a basin, eyes closed.
Shouts. Behind them, inside and outside the house.
Platt. Schroeder. Morris. Williams. Johnson.
KA-BOOOOM!
The house next door. Jake could see it out the side window. Collapsing inward.
“They have cannons!” shouted Schroeder.
Cannons?
Jake leaped toward Overmyer.
He was breathing. But unconscious.
Jake grabbed his musket. Felt its weight.
Its power.
The feeling.
Jake’s body was coiled. His teeth clenched.
Do it, Jake.
Just do it.
He ran to the back window. Fell to his knees. Took aim.
Fired.
Click.
Nothing.
CRRRRACK!
The window above him shattered.
“Get down, you fool!”
It was Schroeder.
He pulled Jake to the floor.
“AAAAAAGGHHHHH!”
Platt was running through the house now. Toward the back door, musket drawn. His face was crimson, his eyes the size of baseballs.
Deranged.
“NO-O-O!” Schroeder yelled.
“THEY KILLED JOHNNNNSONNNNNN …” Platt yelled.
He sprinted into the backyard, firing into the trees.
At least three Rebels fell. Two more rushed Platt from either side, aiming their muskets at him.
Platt ducked. The shots crossed over his body. The two men lurched into the air, then fell to the ground, each the other man’s victim.
Jake cringed.
With a deafening BOOM, a nearby tree burst into flames.
“RETREAT!” shouted Schroeder. “We’re outnumbered!”
Morris headed for the front door.
Schroeder lifted Overmyer.
Jake linked his arm around Samuelson’s shoulders. But Samuelson was limp.
“That’s … him!” Overmyer was pointing to Jake. His motions were feeble but his eyes sharp and accusing. “I saw him helping the Rebels. That’s the spy!”
They’re playing right into his hand.