Harry Turtledove - Walk in Hell

After Scipio had visited Marshlands, she’d taken him off her list. When she was in Columbia, she’d learned he’d quit his job and didn’t seem to be in town any more. That had been wise of him. She bared her teeth. In the end, it would do him no good. She’d have her revenge on him as on all the others now.

She stayed in the undergrowth alongside the road instead of going straight down it. That slowed her and wounded her bare feet, but left her less visible. As far as she was concerned, the latter was more important.

Every so often, she stopped in the best shelter she could find and listened to try to find out if anyone was pursuing her. She heard nothing. That made her feel only a little safer. She knew how good a hunter Cassius was. But every painful step she took brought her closer to safety.

She was, she thought, more than halfway to St. Matthews when a horse-drawn fire engine, lanterns blazing in the night, came clattering up the road toward Marshlands. A couple of armed guards on horseback trotted along beside it.

Anne stepped out into the roadway, waving her arms. She was so muddy, the fire engine almost rolled over her instead of stopping. “Jesus Christ!” one of the firemen exclaimed. “It’s Anne Colleton.”

“Don’t go any farther,” she said. “You haven’t got enough firepower. Cassius and his Reds will be waiting to bushwhack you. And besides”-her mouth twisted-“the fire will have done whatever it can do.”

The fireman who’d recognized her helped her up onto the engine. It stank of coal smoke from the steam engine that powered the pump. From a long way away, a rifle barked. The fireman grunted and crumpled, shot through the head. Another shot rang out, the bullet ricocheting off the engine before the sound of the report reached her.

“Get the hell out of here, Claude!” one of the guards shouted to the driver. The other guard started shooting in the direction from which the shots had come.

Claude could handle horses. He turned the six-animal team and headed back toward St. Matthews faster than Anne would have thought possible-but not before another fireman got hit in the foot. He cursed furiously, pausing every so often to apologize to Anne for his language.

Cassius, she thought. It has to be Cassius . The iron bulk of the pump shielded her from any more bullets. All she had to do, all the way back to town, was think about how the hunter, the Red, had ruined her twice. But she was still alive, still fighting-and so, in spite of the Negro uprising and everything else, were the Confederate States.

We’ll whip the Yankees yet, she thought. And you, Cassius, I’ll whip you .