Jim DeFelice - The iroh chain

The response was the soft but definite sound of a pistol being cocked.

"Say your prayers, Tory."

"Which prayers would you like to hear?" Jake asked his tormentor, who edged his horse so close to Jake's that their necks touched. His companion remained silent, sitting on his horse opposite Busch, near the side of the darkened road.

Even as Jake asked his question, he realized he had mistaken the situation. This was not a stage play — the men holding weapons on them were aligned with the American side, though the hour and the rum indicated they were not regulars.

"You are interested in our money, not our politics," said Busch evenly. "Don't add murder to your crimes."

"It's not a crime to kill a Tory," said the man holding the gun at Jake's head. He nonetheless interpreted Busch's words to mean that they would comply, and his tone lightened ever so slightly. "Hand over what you've got, slowly. And we'll see if your lives are worth saving."

The man started to lower his pistol so he could accept the travelers' gold. Jake's officer's gun was in the front holster of his saddle, near the horseman; it was impossible to get it without being seen — and shot. But at the first sign of trouble he had slipped his right hand into his shirt, and managed to conceal his pocket pistol in his fingers, away from the man covering him.

He was unlikely to have as large an advantage as this again. While Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs did not like harming anyone connected to the American Cause, these two men had already declared themselves criminals, and the patriots would be well rid of them.

He dove down across his horse, flinging his left boot upwards into the flank of the thief s animal with such a sharp kick that the horse leaped sideways, stumbling backwards and losing its balance. The man's gun went off as he fell to the ground; by that time, Jake had fired two of the Segallas' small but deadly bullets into the bulky shadow before Busch. He aimed for what he took to be the man's shoulder, hoping to wound but not kill him. The man fell back in a tumble, his own pistol firing errantly.

Busch drew his gun from a front holster but Jake pounded his stallion's side and got the animal in motion, reaching over and pushing Busch's along with him. The Tory's aim was disrupted and he missed the thief, who by now was rolling on the ground in pain but not mortal danger.

The threat diffused, Busch and Jake thundered down the road. It was soon clear they had not been followed, but they galloped another half mile just to be sure.

Busch's two-cornered hat had slipped from his head but landed in his hand during the brief battle; when they stopped, he examined it carefully before turning his attention to Jake.

"Are you all right, Smith?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"You saved us both, I daresay." Busch's voice was grateful, and yet not panicked; he could have been talking about having preserved a few quarts of milk from spoiling. "The villain's bullet grazed my jacket." He showed Jake the damage, a light singe in the otherwise strong cotton that crossed directly beneath the left shoulder, perhaps four or five inches removed from his heart. "I thought they'd gotten my hat as well. I would have preferred that; I'd much like an excuse to buy a new one."

"You're lucky to be alive."

"I can't recall a closer scrape," admitted Busch. "Did you fire two shots from a pocket pistol?"

"It is a gun I bought in London some time ago," said Jake, holding it up so Busch could see. There was a new moon and the tree-covered road was particularly dark. "Made by Segallas. I do not believe there is another on our whole continent."

"It is an admirable weapon," said Busch.

"Who were our friends?"

"The rebel criminals call themselves Skinners, though they are after more than mere animal skins, that you may believe."

"Are they soldiers?"

"The law does not draw a distinction between rebels and plain criminals," said Busch, patting his horse's side gently before spurring it onward. "But no, not in the sense you or the rebel congress mean. These men use the war as an excuse for their depravity — as, unfortunately, do some who fancy themselves Royalists. Come, we have much to do tonight."

Busch's pace precluded further talk. Jake realized that he could not have staged a better incident to gain the Tory's trust. He also saw that his initial assessment of Busch had, if anything, underestimated him. A lesser man might have well been flustered by his brush with death, nor would it have taken too much ego to insist on returning to finish the thieves off. But Busch had both overcome the shock of the close call and realized the men held little real threat to his ultimate mission, whatever that might be.

He was also man enough to admit the truth of the roving bandit gangs and their allegiances, which many a hot patriot would not.

Three miles north, the Tory pulled up his horse's reins. They had arrived at a crossroads undistinguished from hundreds of others in the surrounding countryside. Jake had only a vague idea of where they were? a mile or so from North Castle and not far from the Kisco River. "We'll rest here a bit," said Busch. "So what are we all about, then?" Jake asked. "Come now, surely you've guessed after our encounter." "I'm not in the habit of making guesses." "Well, Mr. Smith, what are you in the habit of?"

"I have only good and sober habits," said Jake. "I am God fearing and looking for work, if the truth be told. I have no money."

"I wouldn't worry about that," said Busch. He pulled his horse around to look down the road. The stars shone as brightly as they could, but the neighboring vicinity was still dark and shadowy. "I know from your actions as well as your comments that you are loyal to the king, and a brave man besides."

"As are you," said Jake.

" Indeed, I am a bit more," said Busch, his voice instantly acquiring an elevated tone. "I am Captain John Busch, of his lordship Earl Graycolmb's own Loyal Rangers, working with His Majesty's Marines to defeat the rebels in the Highlands. I am recruiting men, such as yourself, to vindicate His Majesty's name."

Jake could only nod.

"I assume you will join us."

" What do I get if I join?"

"Besides preserving your country and winning back your land? I would think those enough for a man of honor." Busch's displeasure was brief but genuine; he had already formed an opinion of Jake, and the expression of material interests conflicted with it. "You will get a bounty of fifty pounds, legal money, besides pay, and the return of your land when the insurrection is ended. Is that good enough for you?"

"I would fight for my king without reward," responded Jake, "though in my destitute state I will be glad for any I can find. Where do I sign up?"

"Consider yourself recruited," answered the captain. "After tonight, I consider you the brother I never had."

Approaching hoof beats echoed through the trees, and Busch took a fresh pistol from a holster on his horse's saddle as he guided the animal to the side of the road. Jake pulled his own animal around and waited opposite him, his own pistol in hand. The Segallas was reloaded and returned to its resting place inside his belt beneath his shirt.

The rider had approached from a long way off, and it took several minutes for him to arrive. Finally his horse's light trot was replaced by a soft whistle — two bars from the fighting song, "British Grenadiers."

Busch answered with a whistle of his own.

"Captain?"

"Approach," Busch ordered. He kicked his horse's side gently and the mount cantered into the roadway, meeting a rider. Jake waited until both men had stopped, then pushed his horse out behind the newcomer.

"Corporal Caleb Evans, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Jake Smith. He has just joined us."