Fanny considered it for a moment before she pulled up her skirts to tear a flounce from her petticoat. He took full advantage of the glance of shapely ankle she provided. When she looked up to hand him the frilly binding, she caught him looking, and a peculiar expression crossed her face. He didn’t stop to consider its meaning.
Goodfellow galloped up. “The rotters got away. I daren’t leave you all to pursue,” he said, sliding off his horse. “It looks like you got another, though, Benson. Maybe we can get information out of this one. The one you shot may not be long for this world.”
“Not I. Miss Hancock shot this one and, if I’m not mistaken, is responsible for that nasty whack on the chin. I merely leveraged her work to subdue him the rest of the way.”
“Well done, Miss Hancock!” Goodfellow grinned at her. “Young Wil is seeing to the wounded. I best help him,” he went on.
“I’m sorry. I ought to be doing that. You make sure those horrid men don’t come back!” Fanny lifted her skirts and ran around the coach.
Goodfellow helped Eli drag the wounded man to the other side of the carriage, where they took stock.
Fanny and Wil hovered over Reilly, who lay unconscious on the ground. The boy held a pad, which looked suspiciously like cloth from a petticoat, tight against a seeping wound in Reilly’s side. His shirt had been torn off and used to bind another in one of his legs. Fanny secured the dressing on his side with another strip of ruffle from her clothing. She ordered Wil to keep pressure on the wound and rose. To Eli’s horror, she wiped her bloody hands on her dress.
She caught his look and smiled sadly. “It is ruined in any case. We did what we could for Reilly. Wil had the sense to bear down on the bleeding quickly. If we can get him to help, he should recover.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead, brushing hair back, and left a smear of blood. “We need to see to those men.”
She gestured toward the three bandits lying in the dirt. One had died from Goodfellow’s shot that went neatly through his forehead. Eli had shot the other in the belly with the blunderbuss. He still breathed but wouldn’t live long.
“There’s nothing you can do for that one. Leave him,” Goodfellow said. “Unless you keep laudanum at hand.”
Susan called from the box in front of the carriage, where she tended to the coachman, that she had some in her reticule in the coach.
The man Fanny had shot lay on his side, his arms tied behind his back, the wound in his shoulder seeping. Eli bent to look at it while Goodfellow went to round up Reilly’s horse. Eli wanted to throttle him for daring to touch Fanny, but basic humanity won out.
Fanny stooped down as well. She stopped the rogue’s bleeding readily enough using a piece of the man’s own shirt. “It’s dirty but will have to do,” she said.
The wounded man groaned and glared at her. “You din’t have to shoot me.”
“You didn’t have to attack us or attempt to grab me,” she retorted.
“Got paid to take you, din’t we? If they’d have handed you over, no one needed to get hurt.”
“Interesting. Perhaps if you tell us more, we’ll get a physician to see to that wound before we give you to the magistrate.” Eli shoved the man’s shoulder to emphasize the point.
A gunshot brought Eli to his feet. He shoved Fanny toward the coach, pulling Wil along, before searching the road.
Goodfellow returned a moment later, leading two horses. “Reilly’s had to be put down. The vermin wounded it. They left us these two in exchange,” he muttered. He glanced up at the carriage’s box. “How are you doing, Williams?”
Their coachman’s wounds were slight. “I’ll do. Concentrating on getting you lot and the folks inside, they were. You kept ’em busy, but Mr. Benson there made good use of the blunderbuss under the seat,” the loyal servant said while Susan cleaned the graze on the side of his head. A bit closer and it wouldn’t have been minor in the least. One hand, which had become tangled in the reins in the confusion, lay limp in his lap.
Goodfellow surveyed the situation. “We’ll leave those two here,” he said, indicating the dead and dying criminals. “Can you ride, Williams?”
“Easier than driving, I think, sir.” The coachman lifted his battered hand.
“We aren’t far from the Rooster’s Haven. Benson, can you drive the coach? We’ll lay Reilly on the floor. Unfortunately, we’ll have to put this piece of garbage”—Goodfellow prodded the man Fanny had shot, with the toe of his boot—“next to him.”
“Susan and I will ride inside with Williams and see to them,” Fanny said.
“Reload that pistol first,” Eli muttered, bringing a wry grin from Goodfellow.
“Young Wil, can you ride?” Goodfellow asked.
“Yes, sir,” the boy said eagerly. “At least some. A few times. In the city.”
Goodfellow laughed. “Perhaps best if you ride up next to Benson. Can you shoot?”
“Show me how, and I will,” Wil answered.
Fanny did not look pleased at the thought, but Eli saw the sense.
