“You mean prison.”
“If necessary. It’s my duty to inform you that unless you’re prepared to take the oath, this land becomes forfeit, as do all goods and chattels, which will be sold off for the benefit of the Continental Congress.”
“Sold?” Archer shot back. “The hell you say! Stolen, more like! And how do you propose to do that? You going to hitch it all to a wagon? Or roll everything up and deliver it to Albany in your saddle bags? That, I’d like to see.”
“‘T’ain’t the farm that’ll be heading Albany way, Archer. It’ll be you. You and your family.”
It was Levi Smede who’d spoken. A thin smile played across his sharp-edged face.
Archer stared at him. His finger slid inside the musket’s trigger guard. “You’re threatening my family, now?”
Deacon threw the brother a sharp look before turning back. “I’ve orders to deliver you to the Board, under guard if necessary. It’s up to you.”
“Well, I suppose that answers that question,” Archer said.
“Question?” Deacon frowned.
“Why there’s six of you.”
He looked along the line. Deacon was riding point, but based on their reputations, the Smedes were undoubtedly the more significant threat, though Ephraim was the only one of the two holding a musket. Levi’s was still strapped across his shoulders. Of the other three, Shaw and Meeker, although they had their weapons to hand, would probably hesitate. Jeremiah Kidd, Archer sensed, would be too scared to do anything, even if he did manage to un-sling his musket in time.
Throughout the exchange, Archer had become increasingly and uncomfortably aware that Beth was standing behind him. He knew that it would be no use telling her to go inside. Her independent streak was part of what had attracted him to her in the first place. He was surprised it had taken her this long to come out to see what was happening.
“There’s just you and me,” Deacon said, his voice adopting a more conciliatory tone. “No reason why this can’t be settled amicably. All you’re required to do is ride with us to Johnstown and place your signature on the document. Small price to pay for all of this.”
His eyes shifted to the porch where Beth Archer was framed in the doorway. The inference was clear.
Archer stepped forward. “Go home, Deacon. You’re trespassing. This is my land. I fought for it once. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t do so again.”
Deacon turned his attention away from the house and stared down at him in silence, eyeing the musket. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, if that’s your decision; so be it. Ephraim, Levi …”
So much for “just you and me”, Archer thought.
“Will!” Beth cried, as Levi Smede grinned and drew a pistol from his belt.
Archer threw the musket to his shoulder.
“Inside, Beth!” he yelled, as Deacon brought his gun up.
Archer fired.
The ball struck Levi Smede in the chest, lifting him over the back of his saddle and down into the dust. The pistol flew from Smede’s hand.
Archer was already twisting away when Deacon’s musket went off, but he wasn’t quick enough. The ball punched into his side with the force of a mule kick. Pain exploded through him. Dropping his musket as he fell, he heard another sharp yet strangely distant report and saw Deacon’s head snap back, enveloped in a crimson mist of blood and brain matter. Hitting the ground, he saw Beth draw the pistol from beneath the checked cloth, aim and fire.
Axel Shaw shrieked and clamped a hand to his thigh. Dark blood sprayed across his horse’s flank.
Ephraim Smede, bellowing with rage at his brother’s plight, flinched as another shot rang out and stared aghast as Isaac Meeker’s mount crashed on to its side, legs kicking. Searching frantically for the source of the attack, his eyes were drawn to a puff of powder smoke dissipating in the space between the barn and the hen house.
“Bitch!” Spitting out the obscenity, Smede aimed his musket at Beth Archer. The gun belched flame. Without waiting to see if the ball had struck, he tossed the discharged weapon aside and clawed for his pistol.
Meeker, meanwhile, had managed to scramble clear of his horse. Retrieving his musket, he turned to see where the shot had come from, only to check as a ball took him in the right shoulder, spinning him like a top.
Archer, on the ground, venting blood and trying to make sense of what was happening, found Jeremiah Kidd staring at him in puzzlement and fear. And then Archer realized that Kidd wasn’t staring at him he was staring past him. Archer squirmed and looked over his shoulder. Through eyes blurring with tears he could see four men in uniform, hard-looking men, each carrying a long gun. Two of them were drawing pistols as they ran towards the house.
Another crack sounded. This time it was Kidd who yelped as a ball grazed his arm. Wheeling his horse about, he dug his heels into the mare’s flanks and galloped full pelt in the direction of the stream.
Only to haul back on the reins, the cry rising in his throat, as a vision from hell rose up to meet him.
Wyatt, discharged rifle in hand, stepped out from the side of the barn. He’d been surprised when Archer had shot Smede, assuming that Deacon would be the farmer’s first target. It had taken only a split second to alter his aim, but he’d not been quick enough to prevent Deacon’s retaliation. As a result, Archer was already on his back by the time Deacon met his emphatic demise, courtesy of Wyatt’s formidable, albeit belated, marksmanship.
It had been Jem Beddowes, Wyatt’s fellow Ranger, who’d shot Meeker’s horse from under him. Beddowes had been aiming at the rider, but the horse had shied at the last moment, startled by the volley of gunshots, and the ball had struck the animal instead, much to Beddowes’ annoyance. His companion, Donaldson, had compensated for the miss by shooting Meeker in the shoulder, which had left the fourth Ranger – Billy Drew – and Tewanias with loaded guns, along with two functioning rebels, the younger of whom, to judge by the way he was urging his horse towards the stream, was fully prepared to leave his companions to their respective fates.
Isaac Meeker, meanwhile, having lost his musket for the second time, pushed himself to his knees. Wounded and disoriented, he stared around him. His horse had ceased its death throes and lay a few feet away, its belly stained with blood from the deep wound in its side. Deacon and Levi Smede were sprawled like empty sacks in the dirt, their mounts having bolted. Half of Deacon’s face was missing.
He looked for Shaw and saw that the postmaster had fallen from his horse and was on the ground, trying to crawl away from the carnage. The musket looped across Shaw’s back was dragging in the dirt and acting like a sea anchor, hampering his progress. He was whimpering in agony. An uneven trail of blood followed behind him.
A fresh shot sounded from close by. Not a long gun this time, but a pistol. Meeker ducked and then saw it was Ephraim Smede, still in the saddle, who had fired at their attackers. Meeker looked around desperately for a means by which to defend himself and discovered his musket lying less than a yard away. Reaching for it, he managed to haul back on the hammer and looked for someone to shoot. He wasn’t given the chance. Ranger Donaldson fired his pistol on the run. The ball struck the distracted Meeker between the eyes, killing him instantly.
Ephraim Smede felt his horse shudder. He’d been about to make his own run for the stream when Billy Drew, having finally decided which of the two surviving riders was the most dangerous, took his shot.
The impact was so sudden it seemed to Smede as if his horse had run into an invisible wall. One second he was hunkered low in the saddle, leaning across his mount’s neck, the next the beast had pitched forward and Smede found