Chapter Six

They sped around the outskirts of Williamsport in a blur. Forty miles later, midway to Harrisburg, shots whistled by their heads, so fast, Marx felt their speed.

“Shit!” Gray brayed over his shoulder. “Darkmore drove his men all night, didn't stop to water the fucking mounts.” Pointing to an outcrop of rock ahead, Gray hollered. “Take cover, we can't outrun them now.”

“How many?”

“Maybe a dozen. Can you make it to the rock?”

Marx wheezed through a nod and kicked his horse into a run. Another volley of shots rang out, missing their fleeing mounts by inches. Gray jumped from the saddle with the horse on a dead run, caught the reins and brought the stallion to a halt. Waving Marx onward, he ran to a nearby boulder, his rifle aimed at the vacant air while waiting for Darkmore and his men to gallop in.

After securing the horses, Marx knelt beside him with pistol in hand. “I need a rifle, can't do much with this pea shooter.”

“Don't falter on me now. You trained Cadets for the war, did you not?”

Marx looked at him askance for a moment and then remembered he'd read his file. “I did, but I wasn't suffering from malaria then.”

“You've seen the worst of the pneumonia and the malaria is under control for the time being. If not, I wouldn't have . . . .”

Their eyes locked. “Finish the sentence, or is that another way of saying you regret what happened?”

Gray didn't have time to answer but concentrated on picking off Darkmore's flag man. The Major hollered out a curse and brought his column under control by attempting to lead them into a crop of thick saplings and brush.

Marx steadied his hand and toppled a retreating soldier, then took a moment to savor the small victory. The man clutched his gut and crab-crawled through the dirt toward his panicked comrades.

Even from this distance, Marx saw the rage in Darkmore's eyes. The man's shrill voice rose above the chaos like a sharp blade. “On the count of three! One . . . two . . . three, fire!”

A barrage of bullets whined through the air, and then silence. Marx fixed his sight on the shiny brass buttons of a blue coat's jacket, fired and smiled when he dropped to his knees clutching his chest. “I reckon this little shooter is doing just fine.” A sickening dread washed over him, and he knew before he looked at Gray he'd been hit. Still on his knees, but leaning into the boulder, a muffled groan escaped his lips and blood gushed from a wound in his chest. Marx eased him to the ground, took the rifle from his hand, and in a craze of fury let the bullets fly through the mass of uniforms.

Three dropped from their ranks and again he heard the Major bark out orders. “Get down you stupid jackasses! Take cover for Christ sake!”

Marx took the precious moment to check on Gray. Pulling the man's bandana from his neck, he stuffed it into the wound amid his agonized moan. “Get the horses,” he rasped. “Darkmore will order them to rush us soon.”

“I know that, I've done some fighting you know.” Marx low-crawled to the mounts and returned with them in tow seconds later. “Can you get up?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Don't think so. Things got quiet out there all of a sudden. Here,” Marx reached down and hoisted him to his feet. Gray gritted his teeth and half-crawled-half-lifted his body into the saddle.

As much as he hated to do it, Marx knew they had only one chance of escaping Darkmore and his men. He took down the first three army mounts in the space of a heartbeat, and two more before the soldiers led the rest to safety.

Then Marx clutched the stallion's reins in his hands, mounted his horse and the minute he saw Gray clutch the saddle horn, sped off like the Devil's wife was chasing them across the prairie.

Several miles later, Marx pulled up near a bend in the road a narrow trail that led to the woods on their right. Christ, which route to take? The forest would be safer, but the open prairie faster. If he didn't get Gray to a doctor soon, he'd bleed to death. Marx had seen enough chest wounds to know he was in bad shape. If the bullet hadn't passed clear through, he'd have to dig it out. The thought made his stomach lurch. If the slug had cleared, he'd need stitches and something to stop infection from setting in. God, forty miles to Harrisburg, forty long, fucking miles with the survivors from Darkmore's column hunting them down like blue tick hounds.

“The woods,” Gray ground out, his pain-filled voice stabbing Marx like an axe pick. “Look for the smoke.”

“Smoke? Are you delirious already? What fucking smoke?”

“Ol' Jake Cut Nose. Find him.”

Marx narrowed his eyes and looked off toward the forest. “Ol' Jake Cut Nose? Now who the hell is that?” And how the fuck did Gray know about everything from Kingdom Come and back? Ol' Jake Cut Nose he could deal with, but who the hell was Gray?

He was about to turn and ask when he noticed him barely clinging to the saddle. “Shit, I should just leave you here for Darkmore. Let him sweat the lies out of you.”

The words came out between short gusts of air. “I'm Grayson Drake, not lying.”

Marx dug his heel into his mount's side and headed for the woods. “Yeah, I know you're Grayson Drake, but just who or what the hell is Grayson Drake?”

* * *

It didn't take long for Marx to pick up the sweet, pungent odor of smoke drifting through the woods. Hell, whoever Ol' Jake Cut Nose was he must burn peyote by the bushel.

The camp fire flared in the middle of a small clearing. Behind it stood a lean-to, the slanted mud and straw roof sagging like his Aunt Rosie's tits. To his right, a teepee reached for the sky with gray smoke from the center drifting above the treetops. Marx heard the click of a rifle across the flames and brought the mounts to a halt.

There could be no mistake he'd found Jake Cut Nose. The red man's left nostril had been carved from his face and if the ragged scars were any indication, most likely with a dull knife.

Marx nodded toward Gray. “You know him?”

With one eye still on Marx, Jake Cut Nose took his time staring at the man slumped over the saddle. An interminable amount of time passed before Jake lowered the rifle. “Bring Gray into lodge.”

With a sigh of relief, Marx slid from his mount. So his real name was Gray. Amid a string of pained groans, Marx slipped his hands under Gray's armpits and eased him from the mount, then grabbed the lantern. With Jake's help, they carried him through the flap and laid him down on a bed of fresh pine boughs. Now what, Marx wondered and looked at his crimson shirt? The blood no longer gushed but rather oozed from the wound like a leaky sieve.

On bended knee, Jake removed Gray's shirt and rolled him onto his side. “No bullet in chest.”

“You sure?” Marx wished he could have retracted the words the moment the red man's bushy, silver brows rose.

“You build bigger fire here.” He pointed to the shallow pit dug out of the ground. “Keep Gray warm. I come back.”

“Where are you going? He needs help, now.”

“If soldier come, no one need help anymore.”

“Oh, good idea. You're going to see if they followed us.”

Jake nodded his gray head and followed it up with a grunt. “Make water too.”

Marx spotted an old cast iron kettle near the pit and the water inside glistening beside the flames. “Hot water, yes, I'll do that.”

He didn't know what he'd do if Darkmore and his men had tracked them into the old Indian's camp. Without Gray, he and Jake had little chance of coming out on the winning end. A rush of adrenaline coursed through him, and then he remembered he hadn't felt sick for hours. Gray had said the worst of the pneumonia had passed and the malaria had taken a hiatus. So he was a physician—a real bona fide physician from Charleston that haunted the same brothel as him before the war. But what was he now and how did he end up in the town of Elmira?

Marx didn't have much time to ponder those questions for long. Between worrying about Gray bleeding to death or coming down with an infection and setting the water to boil, his clogged brain couldn't begin to sort things out right now. If, and right now it was a big if, Gray pulled through he wouldn't ride another mile with the man until he knew what in the hell he was about. One way or the other, he'd pull the answer from him even if he had to shoot the damn fool again.

A commotion near the flap drew his attention. “No soldier. Move on to big town.”

“Harrisburg? They rode straight through? That's a relief.”

Jake walked toward the fire and tossed a handful of twigs and leaves into the boiling point. Before long, a foul stench permeated the lodge. “Jesus, if the wound doesn't kill him that shit will.”

“Here,” Jake said tossing him a rag he'd sloshed through the water. “Clean wound.”

Marx wiped the blood from the hole in Gray's chest and then watched Jake stir the pot a few times before skimming the twigs and leaves from the water. In the next breath the old Indian spooned the steaming mixture onto another rag. Kneeling beside Gray again, Jake plopped the poultice over the wound, wrapped it with a long cotton strip and then sat back on his haunches and brought forth a chant.

“We wait now,” he said. “Maybe spirits help him.”

Expecting to see a specter or two float down, Marx glanced around the lodge and shivered. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, exhaustion overtook him. He lay down on the hard ground beside Gray and lulled by the deep, resonant chants of the strange creature with half a nose, closed his eyes and sought the blessed land of forgetfulness.

* * *

Marx bolted upright to deafening silence. A low fire still burned but through the opening above, the stars had disappeared and ribbons of sunlight filtered down. He looked at Gray's torso and breathed a long sigh. The man's chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, but at least he still lived.

Ol' Jake entered the teepee with two bowls of meat and tin cups filled to the brim with freshly brewed coffee, the latter was the last thing he expected from the old man. “Thanks,” he said taking the food and cup from his weathered hand. He took a long swallow and nodded toward Gray. “What do you think? Is he going to make it?”

“He live through night. Good sign.”

“He told me I'd find you in the woods.” The seconds passed in amicable silence. “So how do you know Gray?”

“Old friend. Help people with strong medicine.”

“People? What people?”

“All gone now. Pox and what white man call black plague.”

“Your people all died?”

“Some leave, go to white man reservation. Not Jake.”

“No, I don't imagine you'd take a liking to such a place.” Marx waited until the man finished chewing a mouthful of meat and then asked, “How did you know soldiers were tracking us?”

“Have many eyes. Here,” he pointed to his sockets. “And here.” His fingers moved to the back of his head. “Everywhere. Here too,” he said placing his hands at his temples. “Like turtle.”

What a relief. I thought you were about to rotate your head in all directions like a fucking owl.

“I go hunting now. Need more meat. You stay by Gray and I come back.” He held up two fingers.

“Two days? You're not coming back for two days? But what about his wound?”

“Make more hot water. New cloth on wound. All you can do now.”

“When will he wake up?”

“When sun come up next. He be hungry.”

“Hungry, yes.” Marx looked around the lodge again and wondered what he'd eat for two days, and what would he feed Gray when he woke up. Then he remembered the stale biscuits and jerky Gray kept in his saddle bag.

“In tall branch next to lean-to, I leave meat. Water that way.” He pointed out the flap and to the right. Big river, you find.”

“The meat's hanging in a tree?”

“You want to share with bear?”

“Bear? No, I don't.” He paused and looked into the rheumy eyes. “Thank you, Jake, for helping us.”

“Help Gray. You friend of Gray, help you.”

Marx changed the rag around the wound soon after the old man left, and with the rifle tucked under his arm, walked to the river for fresh water. When he returned to the lodge, Gray was still sleeping.

Marx wandered toward the lean-to where Jake had left their mounts and rifled through Gray's saddle bag for the whiskey. Tonight, he'd celebrate, albeit alone, the fact they were both still alive. And then he'd come up with a plan to wrench the truth from Gray.