David Gemmell: The Last Guardian

Samuel tried to stifle the giggle with his fist, but it exploded from him in a high peal. Beth stormed round to the rear of the wagon, but the boy squirmed up over the piled furniture where she could not reach him.

'You little snapper-gut!' she yelled. Then Mary began to laugh and Beth swung on her.

'You think it's funny to be trapped out here with the wolves… and the enormous lions?'

Mary's face fell and Beth was instantly contrite. 'I'm sorry, honey. There ain't no lions. I was only joking.'

'You promise?' said Mary, gazing out over the plain.

'I do. And even if there was, he'd know better than to come anywhere near your Ma when she's angry. And you come down from there, Samuel, or I'll rip out your arms and feed 'em to the wolves.'

His blond head peeped over the chest of drawers. 'You ain't gonna whack me, Ma?'

'I ain't gonna whack you, snapper-gut. Help Mary get the pots unloaded. We're going to have to camp here and figure a way to mend the wagon.'

While the children busied themselves preparing a camp-fire, Beth sat on a boulder and stared hard at the wheel. They would need to unload everything, then try to lever up the empty wagon while she manhandled the spare wheel into place. She was sure she could do it, but could the children handle the lever? Samuel was big for a seven-year-old, but he lacked the concentration necessary for such a task, and Mary, at eight, was wand-thin and would never muster the power needed. But there had to be a way… there always was.

Ten years ago, when her mother was beaten to death by a drunken father, the twelve-year-old Beth Newson had taken a carving-knife and cut his throat in his sleep. Then, with seven silver Barta coin, she had walked seventy miles to Seeka Settlement and spun a terrible tale of brigands and killers raiding the farm. For three years the Committee made her live with Seth Reid and his wife, and she was treated like a slave. At fifteen she had set her cap at the powerful logger, Scan McAdam. The poor man had no chance against her wide blue eyes, long blonde hair and hip-swinging walk. Beth Newson was no beauty, with her heavy brows and large nose, but by Heaven she knew what to do with what God had given her. Scan McAdam fell like a poleaxed bull and they were wed three months later. Seven months after that Mary had been born, and a year later Samuel. Last Fall, Sean had decided to move his family south and they had purchased a wagon from Meneer Grimm and set off with high hopes. But the first town they reached had been hit by the Red Death. They had left swiftly, but within days Sean's huge body had been covered with red weeping sores; the glands under his arms swelled and all movement brought pain. They had camped in a high meadow and Beth tended him day and night, but despite his awesome strength Sean McAdam lost the fight for life, and Beth buried him on the hillside. Before they could move on, Samuel was struck down by the illness. Exhausted, Beth continued to nurse the boy, going without sleep and sitting by his bedside dabbing at the sores with a damp cloth. The child had pulled through, and within two weeks the sores had vanished.

Without the strength of Sean McAdam the family had pushed on, through snow and ice, through spring floods, and once across a narrow cliff trail under threat of avalanche. Beth had twice driven wolves from the six oxen, shooting one great beast dead with a single shot from Sean's double-barrelled flintlock. Samuel's pride in his mother's achievement was colossal.

Five days ago he found another source for pride when two brigands had accosted them on the road — sour-looking men, bearded and eagle-eyed. Beth laid down the reins and took up the flintlock pistol.

'Now, you scum-tars don't look too bright to me, so I'll speak slow. Give me the road or, by God, I'll send your pitiful souls straight to Hell!'

And they had. One even swept his hat from his head in an elaborate bow as she passed.

Beth smiled at the memory now, then returned her gaze to the wheel. Two problems faced her: one, finding a length of wood to use as a lever; and two, figuring out how to do both jobs -

levering and fitting the wheel — herself.

Mary brought her some soup; it was thin but nourishing. Samuel made her a cup of herb tea; there was too much sugar in it, but she thanked him with a bright smile and ruffled his hair. 'You're a pair of good kids,' she said. 'For a pair of snapper-guts, that is!'

'Ma! Riders comin'!' cried Mary and Beth stood and drew the flintlock from her wide belt. She eared back the hammers and hid the weapon in the fold of her long woollen skirt. Her blue eyes narrowed as she took in the six men and she swallowed hard, determined to show no fear.

'Wait in the wagon,' she told the children. 'Do it now!' They scrambled up the tailboard and hid behind the chest.

Beth walked forward, her eyes moving from man to man, seeking the leader. He rode at the centre of the group, a tall, thin-faced rider with short-cropped grey hair and a red scar running from brow to chin. Beth smiled up at him. 'Will you not step down, sir?' she asked. The men chuckled but she ignored them, keeping her eyes fixed to Scar-face.

'Oh, we'll step down right enough,' he said. Td step down into Hell for a woman with a body like yours.' Lifting his leg over the saddle pommel, he slid to the ground and advanced on her. Taking a swift step forward, she curled her left arm up over his shoulder, drawing him down to a passionate kiss. At the same time her right hand slid up between them and the cold barrels of the flintlock pressed into his groin. Beth moved her head so that her mouth was close to his ear.

'What you are feeling, pig-breath, is a gun,' she whispered. 'Now tell your men to change the wheel on the wagon. And touch nothing in it.'

'Ain't ya gonna share her, Harry?' called one rider.

For a moment Scar-face toyed with the idea of making a grab for the pistol, but he glanced down into Beth's steely blue eyes and changed his mind.

'We'll talk about it later, Quint,' he said. 'First, you boys change that wheel.'

'Change… we didn't ride in here to change no damned wheel!' roared Quint.

'Do it!' hissed Scar-face. 'Or I'll rip your guts out.'

The men swung down from their mounts and set to work — four of them taking the weight of the wagon and the fifth, Quint, hammering loose the wheel-pin and manhandling the broken wheel free. Beth walked Scar-face to the edge of the camp, where she ordered him to sit on a round boulder. She sat to the right of him, leaving his body between her and the working men; out of sight, the flintlock remained pressed now to his ribs.

'You're a smart bitch,' said Scar-face, 'and — except for that big nose — a pretty one. Would you really shoot me?'

'Sooner than spit,' she assured him. 'Now, when those men have finished their chore you'll send them back to wherever your camp is. Am I making myself clear, dung-brain?'

'It's done, Harry. Now do we get down to it?' called Quint.

'Ride back to camp. I'll see you there in a couple of hours.'

'Now wait a goddamned minute! You ain't keepin' the whore to yourself. No ways!' Quint turned to look to the others for support, but the men shifted nervously. Then two of them mounted their horses and the others followed.

'Dammit, Harry. It ain't fair!' protested Quint, but he backed to his mount and stepped into the saddle nevertheless.

As they rode from the camp, Beth lifted the heavy pistol from the scabbard at Scar-face's hip.

Then she stood and moved away from him. The children climbed out of the wagon.

'What you going to do now, Ma?' asked Samuel. 'You gonna kill him?'

Beth passed the brigand's gun to Mary; it was a cap and ball percussion revolver. 'Get the pliers and pull off the brass caps, girl,' she said. Mary carried the gun to the wagon and opened the tool box; one by one she stripped the caps from the weapon, then returned it to her mother. Beth threw it to Scar-face and he caught it deftly and slid it home in its scabbard.