John Miller - The First Assassin

About twenty minutes after leaving Tate, Hughes and his dog came upon another big tree that had fallen into the creek. It lay horizontal but was not dead. Branches reached upward for the sun.

The animal let out a yelp and looked back at Hughes. It seemed eager to rush into the woods. When Hughes did not respond immediately, the dog issued a torrent of barks. “So you think it’s time, do you, boy?” said Hughes, unhooking the long leash. The dog did not budge, but Hughes could see the excitement in its eyes. He smiled. “Get ’em!” he snapped, and the dog zipped into the trees.

Hughes examined the young branches on the fallen tree and noticed that one of them had cracked near its base. Beneath the bark, the wood was pale yellow. This was a fresh wound. Somebody had stepped on the tree.

Hughes could not match the dog’s speed, but he followed its barking. He half expected Portia or Joe to run his way begging for deliverance from the sharp fangs and claws of a fierce dog whose first instinct was to cripple its prey. The young man walked up a small rise and along the edge of an open field, always following the sound of the dog. When he reentered the woods, he heard the barking grow more intense. It probably meant that the dog had spotted a slave. Hughes jogged in the direction of the noise.

In a couple of minutes, he was there. His dog was running in circles and barking like mad at the foot of a tree. About eight feet off the ground, on a low-lying limb, quivered Portia. She kept her eyes locked on the dog. She was paralyzed by fear.

Hughes could not keep from smiling. “Hello, my dear.”

A few minutes later, everyone was gathered in the cabin. Davis held his head in his hands, still dizzy from being bowled over; Stephens, having been yanked out of the water by Springfield, was soaked and coughing. Mallory held a towel to his bloody nose. Toombs was unscathed but twitched with nervousness. They were all disarmed and sitting. Higginson continued to watch over them from his boat. Clark described how he had followed Davis and the others from the hotel but was recognized and forced on board the boat at gunpoint.

“What’s the cargo?” asked Rook.

“I don’t know,” said Clark.

“Let’s find out.”

Rook and Springfield left the cabin and removed the hatch cover closest to them. Below it was a pile of coal. They yanked off the next cover, with the same result. Removing the third panel exposed even more of the stuff.

“This doesn’t look good,” muttered Springfield.

“We’re not done yet,” said Rook.

One by one they tore off the hatch covers, always finding coal beneath. Finally, with just two panels remaining, they discovered something else: a dozen wooden kegs.

“What do you suppose that is?” asked Springfield.

“I have an idea,” said Rook. “Wait here.” The colonel went back to the cabin and found a hatchet. When he returned, he broke open the top of the keg. Black powder spilled out.

Rook examined the other kegs and searched between them. When he saw what he was looking for, he reached down and pulled up a white coil of string. He set it on top of a keg and hacked it in half. A fine black powder poured out of the string too.

“Do you know what this is?” asked Rook.

“No.”

“It’s a fuse. These kegs are full of blasting powder.”

Hughes whistled loudly, silencing the dog and compelling it to sit still. He thought that Portia would be relieved to see him, but instead she seemed to panic. She grabbed a branch above her head and prepared to pull herself higher into the tree.

“You should be happy to see me, Portia,” he said. “I’m the only thing that stands between you and this vicious creature Mr. Bennett forced me to take along on our little romp in the woods.”

Portia spit in his direction. A big dollop of dribble landed on his forehead.

Hughes was stunned by her act. Why did she refuse to come down? He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.

“This is silly, Portia. I mean you no harm. I merely want to take you back home, where you belong.”

Portia frowned. “Get away from me,” she said and then spit again. This time Hughes was ready and her aim not as good. The projectile landed on the ground near his feet. The dog, still sitting at attention, growled.

“Really, Portia. I’m sorry it has to come to this, but you leave me little choice,” said Hughes, pulling a pistol from his holster. “Come down right now, or I will use this, as much as I would regret doing so.”

Portia did not move immediately. Her alternatives were few. She could climb higher, but that would not stop Hughes from shooting her. Jumping at him did not seem like a good idea either-she was more likely to break her own bones than to hurt him. She scanned the other trees nearby but saw nothing to encourage her. Only one option made sense. She remembered something her grandfather once told her: When you don’t have a choice, you don’t have a problem. That was a bleak bit of advice, but it seemed that surrender probably was her only real choice. She eased herself down from the branch. A minute later she was on the ground. Hughes put his gun back into his belt, and Portia turned to face her pursuer.

The dog rose to its feet. It was on her left. She glanced at it nervously, and Hughes let the animal frighten her for a moment. “Back off,” he said finally, and the dog sat down again. It continued to stare at her, though.

“I don’t know why you’re trying to avoid me, Portia,” said Hughes. “I want to be your friend. I think you would like me if you simply tried.”

He stepped toward her. She might have taken a step away, except her back was already to the tree trunk.

“I can be good to you.”

Hughes now stood directly in front of her. He caressed her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Very, very good to you.” Portia closed her eyes. Hughes brushed his hand against her neck. She swallowed hard. He moved his hand lower and cupped one of her breasts, feeling its curve and sensing its mass through her shirt. He massaged it lightly. The sensation aroused him. He lowered his hand again, keeping his eyes on her face. She was gorgeous. He had noticed this before, of course, but the difference between recalling her features in his mind and actually seeing them-and touching them-was enormous. He wanted her badly. Hughes hoped that she would not resist.

Portia opened her eyes, and Hughes saw the hatred. He wanted her to want him, but he wanted something else more, and so he just returned the gaze with a blank expression. She broke away from it a moment later, though, and glanced to her right. Hughes heard a commotion nearby and turned his head just in time to see Joe lunging at him with a knife. He must have been hiding behind a tree, Hughes realized-though he barely had time to complete the thought.

The big slave slammed into Hughes, driving his blade deep into the white man’s shoulder as they both tumbled to the ground. Hughes fell flat on his back and let out a terrible groan. Blood began to soak his shirt immediately. Joe ripped out the knife and jumped to his feet. He was preparing to thrust it again when the dog hurtled toward him. Joe raised his arm to block the animal. Its teeth clenched his forearm with the strength of a vise. Its claws raked Joe’s body. Joe managed to force his arm through this thicket of legs and drive the knife into the dog’s abdomen. It released his arm and howled. On its way down, Joe slashed upward and sliced its jugular. The dog was dead before it even hit the dirt.

Joe paused long enough to make sure the dog did not move, and then he stepped toward Hughes, still lying on the ground. Just as he was about to lean in and deliver a fatal blow, Hughes rolled to his side and pulled a pistol from his holster. He fired a single shot into Joe’s chest.