chapter 35

the House Doesn’t
Always Win

Pax’s bark grabbed the American’s attention. The British officer and the donkey were foundering in the quagmire, both well on their way to disappearing.

“Stop struggling! Lay on your back!” Nate shouted.

“I have no back to lay on!”

“Quit moving your jaw so much then!”

The American seized a coil of rope and rushed back with Jenny in tow, hitching a loop as he ran.

The muck was now above the British officer’s chin. William breathed deeply, spread his arms under the mud, and laid his head back. He immediately stopped sinking. So much for saving the donkey and the packs.

Eyes wide with fright, the donkey was now up to its withers, only a small portion of its neck and head showing. By the time Nate arrived, the writhing beast had disappeared entirely.

The American tossed the rope to William. “Thanks,” the Brit gasped. “Bloody stupid of me.”

“At least I didn’t have to say it.” Nate pulled the officer out far enough to allow him to slip the loop over his head and under his armpit. Taking a couple of quick turns with the rope on Jenny, he backed the mule away, slowly drawing the officer out of the cloying muck.

“We’ll miss those pistols,” Nate said with genuine remorse. The Brit’s prized dueling weapons given to him by the duke were deadly in the Englishman’s hands. “At least the rifle is stowed on the mule.”

“Pisswater, Bidwell.” William got up, oozing muck. “The real loss is the diary.”

“We’ve other concerns,” Nate countered. “Before you went for a swim, I had a look behind us through the glass. Those bastards are so close I can almost count ’em. And there’s more than I’d like.”

Looking at the mud-covered British officer dripping brown slop, Nate brightened, his face split by a wide grin.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I just had an idea. Stop cleaning off that muck, Gunn, and hand me your hat.”

Nate said to Jenny, “Now hold still, girl, for a few moments, while we pretty you up.”

“Don’t you think we’re close enough, Lieutenant?” José, one of the hired guides, cautioned.

“We’re six against two,” Rodriquez said grandly. “What are you worried about?”

José, a local-born mestizo, didn’t want to infuriate the Spanish officer, so he didn’t argue. But he thought, This man is an idiot. Those two up there haven’t given us any reason to think they’re stupid. This lieutenant’s haste could get us killed.

For the past week, in order to gain on their quarry, the four soldiers and two guides had been forced to ride almost twenty hours a day. Lack of rest and high-altitude effects were beginning to show on both men and horses.

“Tired men make mistakes,” the other guide, Paulo, stressed.

“If we’re tired, they’ll be worse,” Rodriquez countered. “They don’t know who we are, or how many of us are following. The harder we push, the more their fear will drain them. Believe me; I know men.”

Lieutenant Rodriquez was sick of this country. If he wanted a transfer back to Spain, he needed to impress Captain Marquez. If there was any chance he could capture the Englishman before they arrived at Marquez’s ambush in the forest, he was going to take it.

They arrived at the bog.

The lieutenant stood in his stirrups and peered ahead through the spyglass. “That’s interesting,” he said softly. “One is riding; he must be hurt. And there’s no sign of the other pack animal.

“Look,” he called to the guides. “They’ve already run out of food. They must have eaten the other horse.”

José and Paulo shared a skeptical look.

“Men, we have them now,” Lieutenant Rodriquez announced. “We’re mounted, we outnumber them, and one is injured. Once we push across this bog, we’ll attack. Remember,” Rodriquez warned, “under no circumstances is the one with the yellow hair to be harmed. Kill the other.”