The two friends trudged on in silence, taking a lesser road that swung to the south of the outpost. The blue dusk gave way to an early winter twilight, set aglow by a crisp, high moon. But Burkitt showed no sign of stopping for the night. Smith sensed that his friend wished to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the fort.
"You can go ahead and say I told you so if you want," Smith finally murmured to his friend.
"I ain’t said nothin’," Burkitt grumbled.
"Does somebody have a reward out for you? Not that it makes any difference, but do they?"
"I tol’ you…ain’t nobody lookin’ for me ’cause ain’t nobody own me."
"But if you’d shown them some kind of legal paper that proves you’re free, it might have helped."
"You long on fightin’ tallow, boy. But they a few things..." Burkitt’s voice died away, and he put a finger to his lips for silence as the muffled sound of hoof beats issued softly on the trail behind them. Saddle horses, less than a quarter mile back down the trail toward Gower.
"How much shot you got left?" Burkitt whispered, reaching for his own rifle pouch.
"Hezekiah, you know I don’t hardly have any."
"You had a lick o’ sense, you’d hightail it outta here right now. But I ain’t camped wid you these two months ’thout seein’ that the Good Lord put some mighty righteous stuff in you."
Burkitt moved to Scrap Iron and undid the cinch ropes of her pack. As the entire load of pelts and gear slid to the ground, he put his mouth to the little creature’s ear. "Scrap Iron," he whispered huskily, "now you be a good girl and skedaddle on outta here." He slapped the donkey’s rump, but she simply turned and looked at him with surprise and confusion in her doe-like eyes. "Go on, now, git!" Burkitt shoved the little beast from behind with all his weight.
Scrap Iron finally took the hint and started down the trail. When she paused and glanced back over her shoulder, Burkitt snapped off a hickory branch and lobbed it at her. The little donkey broke into a trot, then vanished into the driving snow.
Burkitt and Smith crept as quietly as they could off the trail just seconds before four dark shapes loomed out of the snowfall. Fletcher and his men reined in and dismounted at Burkitt’s heap of gear. As his companions searched the fresh-fallen snow for their tracks, Fletcher called into the trees, "C’mon out, boy. Bring him to us. If there’s a reward, we’ll cut you in."
Smith realized with horror that the tow-headed man was wearing a set of wrist irons on his belt.
At that moment, Fletcher spotted their tracks. The four cronies drew pistols and gave chase.
Burkitt and Smith plunged down a shallow embankment and struggled through a thick stand of willow saplings. Smith hoped that the whip-like young trees would render the chase more difficult for the portly fellows pursuing them, then realized with a sinking sensation that they couldn’t offer any protection against a well-aimed bullet.
Burkitt led him out of the grove of saplings to the leeward side of a great, fallen oak, then Smith peered out from behind the tree. The men were in close pursuit, and they had marked the place where the Negro and the white boy were taking cover.
As Burkitt and Smith loaded their rifles with trembling hands, the first shot chipped the tree trunk. They eased their muzzles along the trunk and prepared to return fire. And then they heard a forlorn braying.
Scrap Iron was working her way back up the trail, calling out plaintively for the man who always scratched the itchy places on her back.
Fletcher’s cronies spotted the little animal at once. "Look here, boys. Target practice!"
Smith, crouching behind the fallen oak, felt his flesh crawl at the cruelty in their laughter.
The first few shots flew wide, kicking up the snow before the frightened creature’s hooves. The next shot buried itself in the base of her neck. Smith bowed his head; he could already see what was coming.
Burkitt couldn’t possibly sit idly by while Scrap Iron was butchered before them.
The little donkey rolled her eyes in bewilderment as a ribbon of steaming liquid, sable-black against her dark coat, rolled down her breast. The second shot took her in the left knee, dropped her headfirst into the snow. With this, Burkitt was up, sprinting across the frozen ground toward his longtime companion, exposing himself to the line of fire.
Smith would later marvel at the strange clairvoyance that came to him the moment Burkitt leapt from their shelter behind the oak. For those few haunted seconds, he knew exactly what was going to happen next.
They’ll get him first in the thigh, he thought, even as the deafening report of Fletcher’s Hawken rifle rang out. A ragged corona of leather and blood bloomed above the right knee of Burkitt’s deerskin breeches. He stumbled, but continued on.
Now they’ll hit his left leg just above the ankle, Smith thought, in mind-numbing horror. The next lead ball passed cleanly through Burkitt’s left tendon, severing it. As his weight came down on it, the leg collapsed beneath him, and he tumbled into the snow.
Fletcher’s men had aimed low intentionally. Kill the merchandise, claim no bounty.
Blind fury took hold of Smith. As Fletcher’s men surrounded his friend, he threw himself at them, swinging with bare fists. The tow-headed fellow swung his pair of wrist irons high in the air, then brought them down hard on the side of Smith’s skull. All at once, the scene before him skewed sideways. The snowy ground rose to smack against his cheek.
Then the world went black.