Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette.Volume XVI

"Sounds like someone is calling someone else a 'dirty little thief,'" commented Dieter.

"Aye, and I think I know that voice," Reichard said. "If it is him, he dies today." Suiting actions to words the big man reached down and pulled his rifle from its scabbard.

"Yes, and any of the mangy crew he runs with," Wilf added in agreement as he also readied his rifle. "That pastor last night had the right of it-devils in disguise."

"Who are you talking about? Do you think these are the thieves Major Stieff was worried about?" Rob asked in confusion. He reached under his coat for his own revolver.

"Stay out of the line of fire, Rob. This is old business-dangerous business," a grim-faced Wilf warned. "Not your business nor that of Grantville…"

"It's old mercenary business, Rob, with as bloody-handed a mercenary as you'd find. Made the Spaniard look like a saint." Even Dieter, usually smiling and laughing, had a grim look. "The tracks said five men."

"Don't assume that's all. This place may hold others. Spread out. We don't want to give anyone a massed target." Wilf grinned, his face looking wolf-like. "Against wheel locks or snaphances we've a good chance. Pray they've not gotten their hands on up-time weapons. Rob, your eyes are good, watch the upper stories and our backs. "

Rob nodded in agreement and started to turn his horse around. Art Deco, the Spanish stallion Rob was riding, quivered and refused to turn. Shoving his revolver into a coat pocket, he reached down to stroke the stallion's neck. "Easy, Deco, easy fellow."

The shouting was coming closer and now Rob could hear hoof beats on cobbles. Deco suddenly rocked back on his haunches and rose into a levade. Rob took both sets of reins in his hands, automatically separating curb and snaffle reins. He took a solid hold on the snaffle as Art Deco's forefeet landed and the horse arched his neck with a snort. "Hey, silly, ease off," he told the horse and again turned him; thankful that he had the pelham on the stallion instead of the plain snaffle he usually rode with. With the stallion this restive the curb would come in handy.

"Get a good hold, Rob. That's a warhorse. When the fight starts he'll be ready to move fast-very fast." Wilf started forward into the village square.

Rob managed to hold the stallion back until the rest of the group had cleared the road. He eased up on the bit. A pair of prancing steps brought horse and rider far enough forward to see what was happening.

In the open area a mounted man was chasing a small boy around the well. The child darted frantically back and forth while the horseman cursed and threatened to trample him. A couple of men standing in a doorway yelled bets back and forth on how long the boy would live after the 'captain' caught him. Two other men were restraining a woman against the wall of a house.

When Rob leaned forward to see better, the stallion grabbed the bit and leapt out, hitting a full gallop on the third stride. Without veering the warhorse ran at the other horseman. Rob sawed on the reins and finally managed to put Deco into a sliding stop, somehow ending up next to the child. Rob leaned down and scooped the boy up. He tried to spin the stallion away, thinking to dodge back the way he'd come. Instead, Deco spun to face the other horseman. Rob managed, barely, to stay on.

His game spoiled, the horseman spurred straight at Rob, his hand fighting with his bulky cloak to reach his saber. Deco leapt forward again, colliding with the other horse. The lighter mount went down.

The downed horseman screamed, "You bastard! You'll die a long, painful death for this!"

Rob recognized several shots from at least two up-time rifles and the boom of a wheel lock. His attention was focused on the horse under him. Deco didn't quiver with excitement now-he radiated rage. The stallion half-reared and smashed his hooves down at the fallen horseman. None of Rob's efforts to control him made it past Deco's pinned ears.

The stallion screamed, high-pitched and eerie, his head snaked forward and grabbed the downed man's face. The crack of splintering bone followed. The fallen horse struggled, blocking Deco from his prey and the stallion stepped back a pace.

Rob slid off and, still clutching the child, stumbled backward until a wall stopped him. He set the child down behind him and turned back to watch the monster that two minutes before had been his favorite horse.

Deco's backward steps gave the other horse room enough to stand and limp off. The rider lay unmoving, his face an unrecognizable mass of raw flesh and blood. Rob was certain that the man was dead. The stallion circled the body, his nose nearly touching it, sniffing and snorting. Then Deco squealed, reared again and brought both front hooves down on the body. Again and again the horse reared and brought those steel shod hooves down, trampling the body.

Movement on Rob's left resolved into a man with a sword and pistol. Rob ducked away from the sword and pulled his revolver from his pocket. He danced far enough away to bring the revolver up and fire a quick shot. The attacker hesitated, dropped his sword and pointed his pistol at Rob. Rob took aim and squeezed off another shot. The wheel-lock pistol in his attacker's hand wavered and dropped, followed by the man's body. Belatedly Rob remembered to check for other bandits.

Against the wall, where the woman had been held, two bodies lay crumpled. Another body convulsed in a doorway. Rob heard Reichard yell "Clear!" off to his right and Wilf's reply from the left. Dieter's voice seemed to come from the house with the open door. The man Rob had shot gave a sighing groan and was still. Blood was everywhere-a shocking red highlight to the brilliant white snow. After one last check for other bandits, Rob turned, dropped to his knees, and lost his breakfast.

"Are you hurt, lad?"

Rob looked up to find Reichard standing over him. "No, I'm okay. But Deco… God, Reichard, I've got to shoot him! He's gone nuts!"

"Ah, lad, no. He's a warhorse, doing what warhorses are taught to do. Now, if horses have souls I might worry that Deco is enjoying his revenge a bit too much." The element of satisfaction in Reichard's voice caught Rob's attention.

"Revenge?" Climbing to his feet, Rob made himself look again at the stallion and the bloody bundle of rags under the horse's hooves.

"Few of your horse's scars came from battle. That miserable excuse for a man…" He sneered, pointing to the body Deco was still pounding. "… put the rest there with spur and whip. Especially the whip." Reichard spat and continued. "I, for one, would say this is a fitting end to Captain von Schor."

"Aye, and he had no right to either the 'von' or the 'captain,'" Wilf said as he approached. A look of satisfaction spread across his face. "It was just the five of them. Old Jacob's still alive, for now at least. Dieter is with him so he may not last long. Joachem and Pigears had the boy's mother. They'll not bother anyone again."

Struggling to hold himself upright and steady, Rob mechanically reloaded his revolver. He looked around and saw a few heads peering out of doorways and windows. "I reckon we've saved the town from the outlaws, Marshall," he drawled in English.

Both Reichard and Wilf laughed. Most Saturday nights found the former mercenaries at Rob's house watching old movies. Westerns were their favorites. The movies were generally accompanied by cackles of laughter and loud exclamations of the number of ways various villains and heroes would have died in a real battle.

Wilf added thoughtfully, "Watch yourselves with the villagers. I don't think we've earned ourselves any welcome here. To them we are just another set of armed scum. Be careful of catching a knife in your backs."

"Or a shot from across the square," Reichard added.