Disengaging myself from Tebbe, I crawled out, to discover the rest of the men grouped round an ominously flattened spot in the bushes fringing the gorge. One or two were hurriedly fetching ropes and yelling contradictory orders, from which I deduced that Mr. Brown had indeed fallen into the gorge, but was not yet certifiably dead.
I rapidly reversed directions, meaning to dive headfirst into the vegetation, but came up instead against a pair of cracked boots, belonging to Hodgepile. He seized me by the hair and yanked, causing me to shriek and lash out at him in reflex. I caught him across the midriff. He oomphed and went open-mouthed, gasping for air, but didn’t let go his iron grip on my hair.
Making furious faces in my direction, he let go then, and boosted me toward the edge of the gorge with a knee. One of the younger men was clinging to the bushes, feeling gingerly for footholds on the slope below, one rope tied round his waist and another slung in a coil over his shoulder.
“Frigging mort!” Hodgepile yelled, digging his fingers into my arm as he leaned through the broken bushes. “What d’ye mean by this, you bitch?”
He capered on the edge of the gorge like Rumpelstiltskin, shaking his fist and hurling abuse impartially at his damaged business partner and at me, while the rescue operations commenced. Tebbe had withdrawn to a safe distance, where he stood looking offended.
At length, Brown was hauled up, groaning loudly, and laid out on the grass. Those men not already in the river gathered round, looking hot and flustered.
“You mean to mend him, conjure woman?” Tebbe asked, glancing skeptically at me. I didn’t know whether he meant to cast doubt upon my abilities, or only on the wisdom of my helping Brown, but I nodded, a little uncertainly, and came forward.
“I suppose so.” An oath was an oath, though I rather wondered if Hippocrates ever ran into this sort of situation himself. Possibly he did; the ancient Greeks were a violent lot, too.
The men gave way to me easily enough; once having got Brown out of the gorge, it was obvious that they had no notion what to do about him.
I did a hasty triage. Aside from multiple cuts, contusions, and a thick coating of dust and mud, Mr. Lionel Brown had fractured his left leg in at least two places, broken his left wrist, and probably crushed a couple of ribs. Only one of the leg fractures was compound, but it was nasty, the jagged end of the broken thighbone poking through skin and breeches, surrounded by a steadily widening patch of red.
He had unfortunately not severed his femoral artery, since if he had, he would have been dead already. Still, Mr. Brown had probably ceased to be a personal threat to me for the moment, which was all to the good.
Lacking any equipment or medication, bar several filthy neckcloths, a pine branch, and some whisky from a canteen, my ministrations were necessarily limited. I managed—with no little difficulty and quite a lot of whisky—to get the femur roughly straightened and splinted without having Brown die of shock, which I thought no small accomplishment under the circumstances.
It was a difficult job, though, and I was muttering to myself under my breath—something I hadn’t realized I was doing, until I glanced up to find Tebbe crouched on his heels on the other side of Brown’s body, regarding me with interest.
“Oh, you curse him,” he said approvingly. “Yes, that is a good idea.”
Mr. Brown’s eyes sprang open and bugged out. He was half off his head with pain, and thoroughly drunk by now, but not quite so drunk as to overlook this.
“Make her stop,” he said hoarsely. “Here, Hodgepile—make her stop! Make her take it back!”
“‘Ere, what’s this? What did you say, woman?” Hodgepile had simmered down a bit, but his animus was instantly rekindled by this. He reached down and grabbed my wrist just as I was feeling my way over Brown’s injured torso. It was the wrist he had twisted so viciously the day before, and a stab of pain shot up my forearm.
“If you must know, I expect I said ‘Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ’!” I snapped. “Let go of me!”
“That’s what she said when she cursed you! Get her away from me! Don’t let her touch me!” Panicked, Brown made to squirm away from me, a very bad idea for a man with freshly broken bones. He went dead-white under the smears of mud, and his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Look at that! He’s dead!” one of the onlookers exclaimed. “She’s done it! She witched him!”
This caused no little uproar, between the vocal approbation of Tebbe and his supporters, my own protests, and outcries of concern from Mr. Brown’s friends and relations, one of whom squatted down by the body, putting an ear to the chest.
“He’s alive!” this man exclaimed. “Uncle Lionel! You all right?”
Lionel Brown groaned loudly and opened his eyes, causing further commotion. The young man who had called him Uncle drew a large knife from his belt and pointed it at me. His eyes were open so wide that the whites showed all around.
“You get back!” he said. “Don’t you touch him!”
I raised my hands, palms out, in gesture of abnegation.
“Fine!” I snapped. “I won’t!” There was, in fact, little more I could do for Brown. He should be kept warm, dry, and well-hydrated, but something told me that Hodgepile would not be open to any such suggestions.
He wasn’t. By means of furious and repeated bellows, he quelled the incipient riot, then declared that we were crossing the gorge, and right quickly, too.
“Put ’im on a stretcher, then,” he said impatiently, in reply to protests from Brown’s nephew. “And as for you—” He rounded on me, glaring. “Did I tell you? No tricks, I said!”
“Kill her,” Brown said hoarsely from the ground. “Kill her now.”
“Kill her? Not bloody likely, oul’ son.” Hodgepile’s eyes gleamed with malice. “She’s no more risk to me alive than dead—and a good bit more profit alive. But I’ll keep her in line.”
The knife was never far from his grasp. He had it out in an instant, and had seized my hand. Before I could so much as draw breath, I felt the blade press down, cutting partway into the base of my forefinger.
“Remember what I told you, do you?” He breathed it, his face was soft with anticipation. “I don’t need you whole.”
I did remember, and my belly hollowed, my throat dried to silence. My skin burned where he cut, and pain spread in a flash through my nerves; the need to jerk away from the blade was so strong that the muscles of my arm cramped with it.
I could imagine vividly the spurting stump, the shock of broken bone, ripped flesh, the horror of irrevocable loss.
But behind Hodgepile, Tebbe had risen to his feet. His odd, smudgy stare was fixed on me, with an expression of fascinated dread. I saw his hand close in a fist, his throat move as he swallowed, and felt the saliva return to my own. If I was to keep his protection, I must keep his belief.
I fixed my eyes on Hodgepile’s, and made myself lean toward him. My skin quivered and jumped, and the blood roared louder in my ears than the voice of the cataract—but I opened my eyes wide. A witch’s eyes—or so some said.
Very, very slowly, I lifted my free hand, still wet with Brown’s blood. I reached the bloody fingers toward Hodgepile’s face.
“I remember,” I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. “Do you remember what I said?”
He would have done it. I saw the decision flash in his eyes, but before he could press the knife blade down, the bushy-haired young Indian leaped forward, grabbing at his arm with a cry of horror. Distracted, Hodgepile let go his grip, and I pulled free.
In an instant, Tebbe and two more men surged forward, hands on knives and pistol grips.
Hodgepile’s thin face was pinched with fury, but the moment of incipient violence had passed. He lowered his own knife, the menace receding.
I opened my mouth to say something that might help defuse the situation further, but was forestalled by a panicked cry from Brown’s nephew.
“Don’t let her talk! She’ll curse us all!”
“Oh, bleedin’ ’ell,” said Hodgepile, fury transmuted to mere crossness.
I had used several neckcloths to bind Brown’s splint. Hodgepile stooped and snatched one from the ground, wadded it into a ball, and stepped forward.
“Open your mouth,” he said tersely, and seizing my jaw with one hand, he forced open my mouth and crammed the wadded fabric into it. He glared at Tebbe, who had made a jerky move forward.
“I shan’t kill her. But she says not a word more. Not to ’im”—he nodded at Brown, then Tebbe—“not to you. Nor me.” He glanced back at me, and to my surprise, I saw a lurking uneasiness in his eyes. “Not to anyone.”
Tebbe looked uncertain, but Hodgepile was already tying his own neckcloth round my head, effectively gagging me.
“Not a word,” Hodgepile repeated, glaring round at the company. “Now, let’s go!”
WE CROSSED THE river. To my surprise, Lionel Brown survived, but it was a lengthy business, and the sun was low by the time we made camp, two miles past the gorge on the farther side.
Everyone was wet, and a fire was kindled without discussion. The currents of dissension and distrust were still there, but had been damped by the river and exhaustion. Everyone was simply too tired for further strife.
They had tied my hands loosely, but left my feet unbound; I made my way to a fallen log near the fire and sank down, utterly drained. I was damp and chilled, my muscles trembling with exhaustion—I had been forced to walk from the river—and for the first time, I began to wonder whether Jamie would in fact find me. Ever.
Perhaps he had followed the wrong group of bandits. Perhaps he had found and attacked them—and been wounded or killed in the fight. I had closed my eyes, but opened them again, seeking to avoid the visions this thought had conjured up. I still worried about Marsali—but either they had found her in time or they hadn’t; either way, her fate had been decided.
The fire was burning well, at least; cold, wet, and eager for hot food, the men had brought an immense pile of wood. A short, silent black man was stoking the fire, while a couple of the teenagers rifled the packs for food. A pot of water was set on the fire with a chunk of salt beef, and the lion-haired young Indian poured cornmeal into a bowl with a lump of lard.
Another bit of lard sizzled on an iron girdle, melting into grease. It smelled wonderful.
Saliva flooded my mouth, absorbed at once into the wad of fabric, and despite discomfort, the smell of food bolstered my spirits a little. My stays, loosened by the travel of the last twenty-four hours, had tightened again as the wet laces dried and shrank. My skin itched beneath the fabric, but the thin ribs of the boning did give me a sense of support, more than welcome at the moment.
Mr. Brown’s two nephews—Aaron and Moses, I had learned—limped slowly into camp, a makeshift stretcher sagging between them. They set it gratefully down beside the fire, evoking a loud yell from the contents.
Mr. Brown had survived the river crossing, but it hadn’t done him any good. Of course, I had told them he should be kept well-hydrated. The thought undid me, tired as I was, and I made a muffled snorting sound behind my gag.