The men formed from the early morning mist as though they were elemental creatures.
They were on horseback, fanned out like skirmishers ahead of battle. They didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They merely waited. The only sounds the snort of a horse as it pawed at the hard-packed earth, the tinkle of the brook behind them and the whistles and warbles of the birds singing to the dawn.
The woman’s musket was already to her shoulder as she emerged from the farmhouse, for she knew this was no social visit. These men did not make social visits. When they showed themselves, it was far from social. A child’s face, her son, peered from behind the slightly gaping doorway. The woman immediately picked out their leader, who swept his hat from his head as if paying court.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘You are not welcome here,’ she said, wasting no time on niceties.
‘Nonetheless, here we are,’ he said, returning his hat to his head. ‘Where is he?’
‘Where is who?’
‘Come, madame, let us not play games, we are too far down the road for that. We want him and we shall have him. He is long overdue to face justice.’
‘There is no justice in this place.’
The man smiled, his features growing ever clearer as he leaned forward in the saddle. His manner was relaxed, conversational. He was handsome and he could feign charm but there was an ugliness about him that she knew well.
‘Not justice then. Perhaps the correct word is vengeance. Now, madame, we shall delay no further. Where is Jonas Flynt?’