South Carolina
October 1784
Every few minutes Colonel John Preston would rub at his throat, reliving the last few hours of his life. The bizarre battle with an Indian that looked like he'd been birthed by wolves, followed by the even more freakish melee with his former guardian.
Tom Heyward being angry and even bitter was understandable. Blaming him for Anne Whiting's death, given the nature of the Georgia and Carolina press, made
some sense. Everyting else though; choking him from twenty feet away, pinning him from ten? That simply wasn't possible. Yet it happened.
John's wildest imaginings could only allow for two possibilities: The Bible talked about God granting miracles; Moses parted the Red Sea. Samson's terrible strength. Elijah's prayers. Jonah surviving being eaten. Didn't Catholics believe their 'saints' were similarly blessed?
Still, Tom certainly wasn't acting saintly which opened up the other possibility: Could he be a warlock? A tool of the Enemy? Did they really exist?
Preston wanted to talk to Reverend Coleridge, but even more so he wanted to see Cassie - to hold and love her and see his little daughter. Perhaps Cass could make sense of all this...
*******
Sergeant Callahan stared into his mug of coffee, steam rising fitfully into the cool morning sky to vanish in the dawn's fog. Lukewarm stuff, indifferent beans, too much water. It served as an effective counterpoint to his mood. He'd signed up for the Carolina Guard to serve his state, protect his friends, and (were he to be honest) for his share of glory.
"Should we pack the gear, sir?" asked Private Lowry. Lowry didn't like this job either and found 'gear' a suitable colloquialism for their real cargo.
Callahan didn't fear words. "Yes. Chain the nigs and let's get the f- out of here." He pointed to the bound figures lying on the damp earth.
"Shouldn't we water and feed them first?"
"Why waste supplies? With any luck we can be there tonight then rot them all!"
"But Branchville? Didn't everyone die there once?"
"Rumors." Callahan shrugged. A few more of them dead didn't bother him in the slightest. Black or red, it was all one. "They're not going to cause any more trouble. That's all that matters."
Private Danforth rose from the coffee pot. He'd made the stuff (by far his best work) and claimed the right to drink the last dregs. No one disputed this. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and belched.
"That's a Carolina uniform you're soiling!" Callahan shouted.
"Sorry, Sergeant." Danforth wiped ineffectually at the sleeve, shrugged, then packed the pot and pan.
"Off with you, Lowry."
"Aye." He rose unhappily and straightened his own uniform, red and blue, then walked away.
"Take Cracker. I want them alert."
Lowry stopped in mid-stride. 'Cracker' was a fifteen-foot bullwhip with ha'penny nails driven into the thong. On a 'lucky' strike the nail would dig in, ripping away skin and causing terrible wounds. One Indian had already died. He hung his head. "Aye."
Callahan watched him disappear in the mist for the dark shadow of their wagon and shook his head. "He'll be fine when this is done with," he muttered. Callahan stared at his coffee, now so much sludge. "So will I."
He glared at Danforth's back as he headed for the wagon as well. "If one of the nigs can cook, maybe I'll keep him," he said. Callahan rose and stretched to ease sore muscles. He then frowned at the still lying Indian bodies. No sign of Lowry. If the boy's heart failed him now, HE might be the one finding out what Cracker could do!
He paced across the field, slowly moving his arm in a circle. "Lowry! Where the hell are you, boy?" No reply. "Danforth!?" His eyes narrowed and Callahan stopped. "Private!"
"They're resting, Sergeant," said a voice from the wagon. He could tell the stranger was trying to disguise it. "I'm armed," he added softly as Callahan reached for his pistol.
"What do you want? Where are my men?"
"I want to know who told you to take the Indians to Branchville."
Callahan tilted his head. Something about the stranger's voice sounded uncertain, though that could have been the disguised tone. "Why do you care?"
"I'm aware of what happened there. The place should be burnt!"
"That's not my concern." Callahan slowly reached for his belt.
"Don't!" He froze. "Who gave you orders?"
The sergeant saw movement by the head of the wagon, near where they'd tied the horses.
Ahh. He slowly slipped to one side to get a better look. "Why don't you tell me who you are first?"
"You're not in a position to negotiate!"
"Perhaps." Callahan could see the figure more clearly now. Dressed in black and masked, he stood near the head of the wagon. One hand clenched at his side, his right hand held ... something. A pistol? "But sooner or later the others will wake up. Time's on my side."
"Not if I kill you," the stranger warned in a quavering voice.
Callahan smiled. A mask?
Gotcha. "I don't think you'll kill me. Otherwise I'd already be dead." He reached for his belt again. "You're not a killer....Spider."
"Don't!"
"Why don't you just sit down and we'll wait for the others?" He drew his pistol.
The stranger's arm raised. A flash of light, burst of smoke, then something sharp and hot slammed into his chest. The shot threw him twelve feet to land in a heap. It hurt to breathe, and the world turned crimson. Callahan could hear his heart pounding, followed by a hollow ringing.
The stranger leaned over him and tore off his...no her!...mask. A woman? He'd been killed by a woman? Why did she look familiar? Why was she crying? He laughed weakly through bloodied lips. "Black Widow," he whispered.
"Who gave you orders?"
What a silly question. Why was everything going dark? Was it sunset already? "Moultrie..."
The woman nodded, not surprised.
"Orders," Callahan murmured. He felt warm now, the pain almost gone, just a faint buzzing in his ears. "I was following orders..."
*******
Cassandra Preston stood, wiping tears with her sleeve. She reached down and stole his pistol and knife, sticking both into her belt.
"Not good enough, Sergeant," she said softly. Cassie restored her mask and glanced at the two fallen privates. They would wake up soon with nasty headaches. "That's just not good enough."
