Charley Pettibone ran through his options as he forded the river with the Law and Order League. None, really. He’d been a damn fool for joining this bunch, and a damn fool for sticking with them this long, and a greater fool for calling out Dathan’s name at the last meeting. Now there was blood to be shed. Dathan’s, if indeed he was bonehead enough not to have sensed the danger and melted off into the night when they had first ridden by, or more likely his own.
His own fault. But this was no time to kick himself for past deeds. He could drop his torch in the river, feign a loose cinch when they reached the bank, then disappear into the darkness when they rode on. Fat chance, now that Pratt had called him out. His horse, a chestnut gelding borrowed from Landsome, seemed a good mount. Perhaps he could bolt past them, make a dash to town. And then what? Spend his life fearing an ambush? Not damn likely, not for a man who had fought at Chickamauga. If there was to be a fight, then he’d fight. He took his revolver from its holster and held it under his coat.
The men regrouped on the bank as the last ones clambered up. Pratt turned his horse to face the rest. “Well, that was a goddam mess,” he said, speaking directly to Charley. “Don’t you tell us something if you don’t know it’s true. We lost a half hour of darkness down there, and if we don’t get moving we’ll have to ride home in daylight. And that’s how the law gets on you.”
“I thought we were going to be the law around here,” Charley answered. “Wasn’t that the plan?”
“Sometimes plans don’t go as fast as you’d like, smart boy,” Pratt said. “You just better hope Old Zip Coon is up where you said he’d be this time.”
“Sometimes people don’t sleep where they’re supposed to sleep,” Charley retorted. “I’m starting to see why you never joined the regular army.” Charley backed his horse up a little.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Arkansas?” Pratt said. All the other riders shifted in their saddles but did not speak.
“You ain’t got the head for it,” Charley said. “In the real war, you’d have been shot for insubordination or busted for incompetence in a month’s time.”
“That right? We’ll just see who gets shot for insubordination!” Pratt shouted. He went for his revolver, but Charley already had his out and cocked. He raised and fired, knocking Pratt off his horse, then threw down his torch, jammed his revolver in his belt, and spurred to a sudden gallop past them all. In five seconds he had disappeared into the darkness.
Charley flung off his hood as he raced through the flat ground alongside Michael Flynn’s farm and reached the spot where the road climbed out of the river valley. He figured the surprise had given him a minute's head start, at most, and riding without a torch another couple of minutes. The others would keep their torches and pick their way up the hill, but he knew the terrain well enough to ride it by moonlight. He could make the ridgetop, pass the Indian camp, and reach the plum thicket at the end of the long lane before the road turned toward town. There he could loose the horse and give it slap down the road, push his way into the thicket and wait. Charley guessed that no more than one or two of them cared enough for Green Pratt to risk their lives chasing him into the woods, and if they did, well, they’d all discover who was the best fighter of the bunch.
He longed to look behind to see what sort of pursuit he was getting, but couldn’t spare the time. He could hear hoofbeats, though, and urged on the gelding despite its labored breathing. There’d be plenty of time for it to rest once he turned it loose.
Charley pressed his cheek to the horse’s neck and hissed into its ear. “You can do it, honey,” he whispered. “This ain’t no hill. You’ve climbed worse.” The horse stumbled and then righted itself. “Hay barn up ahead, with sweet clover.” He gripped the cheekpieces of the bridle. “Sweet clover and a bucket of oats, and cool spring water, and I’ll brush you down myself, honey pie.”
At last, the roadbed leveled off, and Charley could hear the smooth sound of dirt beneath the horse’s hooves rather than the sharp clatter of horseshoes on rocks. All was darkness ahead.
Another hundred yards and he could ease up. He sensed he was passing the cluster of huts. Although he could not see them, he could feel their silence. Next the long lane of overhanging oaks and hickories, and then the thicket. He made up his mind not to shoot first unless pressed. They could take the horse and go in peace, and that would be a sign.
Unexpectedly his horse reared and snorted. Charley had to seize the saddle horn to keep from falling.
“What the hell—” he gritted.
Then there was an answering snort from another horse, not behind, but ahead. A match was struck, and in its glimmer Charley could see riders—fifteen, maybe twenty—lined across the road ahead of him. They closed around him, carbines and pistols drawn, and all in Federal uniforms except for the man holding the match.
Harley Willingham.
The sheriff leaned in and removed the pistol from his belt.
“Charley Pettibone, you’re under arrest,” he said.
Charley raised his hands. From the distance behind him came the flicker of torches as his pursuers topped the hill.
“Don’t you make no noise,” Willingham said. He blew out the match.