Ballard’s mind was so cluttered with thoughts of how to tell Clover she was free, and what the hell he would do with himself when she left, that at first he did not realize why the sight of something glinting in the bushes should alarm him. At that moment a breeze parted the thick canopy of leaves and moonlight briefly brightened the road, and all at once he saw the long barrel of a musket protruding from the thick growth. In seconds the wagon team would pull him and Clover directly into the line of fire.
He shouted a warning and hurled himself toward Clover, but he was an instant too late. Something slammed into him, throwing him backward. He gave a loud bellow of pain and frustration as he felt himself fall from the wagon. He could hear other shots being fired, a man’s voice screaming for them to stop, and Clover calling his name as she reached out to him. Then he hit the ground hard and lost consciousness.
Clover was only faintly aware that the shooting had stopped. She leaped off the wagon and knelt beside Ballard who lay sprawled on his back in the road. Blood covered his crisp white shirt all along his midriff. He appeared to be dead and her heart pounded in fear, but then he groaned.
“Gut shot,” muttered Big Jim as he stepped into her line of vision.
“Bastard,” she cried and lunged for him, but Thomas and Poonley were too quick for her. Emerging from the bushes, they grabbed her firmly as Big Jim secured her wrists with a thick rope. Even after they set her back on her feet, Thomas kept hold of the rope they had also wound around her waist.
“To be gut shot is to suffer a very long and agonizing death, correct?” murmured Thomas as he looked down at Ballard.
“That be right,” answered Big Jim. “I hear tell that most men who get gut shot end up screaming for someone to kill them.”
“I am sorry I will miss that,” Thomas said, “but I cannot linger here.” He kicked Ballard and smiled coldly when his adversary cried out in agony and opened pain-glazed eyes, staring at him. “I thoughtyou might like to know that I have reclaimed what is mine.”
“Clover was never yours,” Ballard denied, and Thomas kicked him again.
“Here now,” said Big Jim. “If you be wanting him to die slow-like, best you stop that. That could kill him right now.”
“Well, we cannot have that. You have lost, Ballard MacGregor. You will never see your wife again, and by the time I have taught her a lesson or two, you would never want to either. No doubt you will soon be wishing for a few wild animals to come and finish you off. I can think of few better ways to make you pay for taking what I wanted, for thwarting me and making me look weak before all of Langleyville. And for maiming me.” He touched his crooked nose.
“Maiming ye? What the devil are ye babbling about?”
Thomas bent closer to Ballard and pointed to his nose. “Look!” he screeched. “Look what you did to my face.”
“Ye are mad.”
“I should have known a barbarian like you would never understand. So lie there and rot. You might even stay alive long enough for someone to find you, but I doubt anyone will be able to understand your ramblings. Clover and I should have a comfortable ride back to Langleyville.”
“Thomas, you cannot leave him here like this!” Clover protested hysterically. “At least allow me to bandage him and leave him some water.”
It was the last thing Ballard wanted her to do. He was not really gut shot. The bullet that had knocked him from the wagon seat had grazed him, ripping apiece from his side. It was bloody but not a fatal wound. In the dim light all Thomas and his hirelings could see was the blood soaking his crisp white shirtfront. He had clasped his hands over his stomach just to make them believe the worst. If Clover tried to help him, his deception would be discovered. The only chance they had was to make Thomas believe he was being left to die in terrifying agony and, sadly, that meant he had to keep Clover believing it too.
“There is nothing ye can do for me, Clover.”
“I can try to make your last hours bearable.”
“Not with this kind of a wound, ye cannae.”
“How touching,” drawled Thomas. “You play the concerned wife well, Clover. Perhaps he will recall that tenderness as he screams his life away.”
“Ye willnae get away with this, Dillingsworth.”
Ballard found it easy to keep his voice low and hoarse. The fury pounding through his body gave it just the right tone. He fought to keep that rage under tight control. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he want to appear to be any more than a fatally wounded man, his only concern that his wife did not suffer.
“And just who is going to stop me? I believe you will be dead,” Thomas said.
“She has other family and friends. They will not let ye get away with it,” Ballard replied.
“Once I make her my whore, no one will want her back.”
“Dinnae ye ever believe that, Clover,” he said. “Dinnae let the bastard weaken ye by making ye believe it.”
Thomas kicked Ballard in the ribs and Clover screamed. With all her strength she pulled back on the rope Thomas held, partially succeeding inunbalancing him. Finally she flung herself backward as hard as she could, nearly tumbling both her and Thomas to the ground. He whirled and struck her, and there was a cry of rage from Ballard.
“Concerned about her treatment?” Thomas asked, giving Ballard a malicious smile. “So you should be. I am not taking her back to be my pampered mistress, not after what she has done. No, now she will be my whore. I have even promised Big Jim and his friends a quick turn with her before I take her out of this wretched backwater. And when I grow weary of her, I will toss her to the dockside scum.”
“Ye will pay for this, Thomas. Mark my words.”
