It’s pitch-black outside the tent. I crouch by the flap, listening.
Three men. One near another tent—maybe an armory. One pacing the wagons. One just outside my tent, dozing upright, chin tucked to his chest. Rifle strapped to the bastard.
I wait.
Count ten breaths.
When the wind stirs again, I move.
Slipping out from under the flap into the moonless night, I keep to the tent’s shadow. My hand wraps the broken chair leg slick with blood. Not much of a weapon, but it’ll do up close.
I get behind him. One hand covers his mouth, the other jams the wood hard against his throat. He struggles, but sloppy—half sleep, half stupid. I hold till his weight slumps into mine, front of his shirt painted dark. Then I ease him down gentle.
Now I’ve got his rifle.
I drag him out of view behind the tent, cover him with the edge of a tarp. His canteen’s full, his belt’s got a knife and three cartridges, his satchel has some coin and the box of matches the bastards stole off me. I take all of it.
The man pacing the wagons is next. He walks a loop—confident. No idea someone’s missing. I wait for him to pass the tents again. When his shadow slips out of sight, I duck behind the wagon, rifle ready.
A lantern hangs from a hook near the rear, with two small tins of lamp oil resting beside it on a crate. I tip one over the wagon’s sideboards, the other across the firepit’s half-dead logs.
My lamb’s match flares soft between my fingers. I touch it to the wagon and walk away without a backward glance.
A beat.
Flame finds oil, loosing a hungrywhoompf. Fire races up the soaked wood, leaping tent to tent like the whole camp had been built to burn.
“What the hell?” someone shouts. A gun cracks wild into the night.
“Fire! Get the barrels!”
Too late. The crates pop as the heat reaches whatever they had stashed. Black powder? Ammunition? Don’t matter now. Flames bloom like hellfire, lighting up the pines.
I’m gone, headed for the horses.
Four of them, still tied. They shuffle, nervous at the scent of smoke, the flash of fire. I choose the black one—stocky, already saddled—and let the others loose.
She huffs once as I mount.
Someone’s yelling names, kicking tents, cursing in half-sleep.
I’m already galloping, the black mare’s hooves digging deep into the night while the world burns down behind us.
Chapter 40
ALICE
Weeks pass, and autumn comes in full. The mornings are cold now. Breath fogs in the washroom, and the water bites when I rinse the linens. Smoke from the chimney settles low across the yard, caught in the damp. I work till my hands go numb, then warm them over the stove and start again. Busy hands keep the mind from breaking.
In the early morning, I stand in the kitchen before a cutting board, dicing carrots. The water bubbling and the cadence of the knife hitting the block—Mrs. Baxter’s humming as she moves about the kitchen with practiced ease—is soothing in its own way.
Then heavy footsteps announce the dolt’s arrival.
“Fred needs a hand unloading the carriage.”
Mrs. Baxter squeezes her eyes shut over the sink, her back to him, shaking her head ever so slightly.
“I’ll be right over to help, sir,” I say.
