The Blooding. James McGee

into the ground, darkening the soil. Flies were starting to swarm.

      He could hear voices but they were low and indistinct. He couldn’t see who was speaking because the rump of Isaac Meeker’s dead nag blocked his line of sight.

      It occurred to Smede that he was probably the only one of Deacon’s party left alive. From the looks of Axel Shaw, he must have bled to death. There was no sign of Kidd, but Smede doubted the youth would have survived the ambush – or stuck around if he had.

      Which meant he was on his own, with a decision to make. Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to his brother’s glassy stare and a fresh spark of anger flared within him.

      As his gaze alighted on Levi’s pistol.

      A low moan came from close by. Smede dropped down quickly. He held his breath, waiting until the sound trailed off before cautiously raising his head once. Will Archer was propped some twenty paces away. One of the green-clad men was with him; he shouted something and two of the attackers ran immediately towards the barn.

      Another movement drew Ephraim’s attention. A second pair was rounding up the horses. One of them, Ephraim saw to his consternation, was an Indian. His startled gaze took in the face paint and the weapons that the dark-skinned warrior carried about him. There was also what appeared to be a lock of hair hanging from his breechclout.

      Bile rose into the back of Ephraim’s throat. Escape, he now realized, wasn’t only advisable; it was essential.

      He watched through narrowed eyes, nerves taut, as the two Rangers pulled open the barn door and disappeared inside. Quickly, his gaze turned back to the pistol lying a few feet away. He looked over his shoulder.

      Now, he thought.

      Concealed by Meeker’s horse, Smede inched his way towards the unguarded firearm until he was able to close his fingers around the gun’s smooth walnut grip.

      He took another deep breath, gathering himself, waiting until the Indian’s attention was averted. One chance at a clear shot; that’s all he would get.

      And then he would run.

      He knew the woods like the back of his hand; if he could just make it to the trees, the forest would hide him.

      Maybe.

      His main fear was the Mohawk, because the pistol, with its single load, was all he had. But his brother’s killer came first. An eye for an eye, so that Levi could go to the grave knowing that his brother had exacted revenge. So …

      In one fluid motion, Smede snatched up the gun, rose to his feet, took aim, and fired.

      As the blood-smeared figure tilted towards them, Wyatt, caught between supporting the wounded Archer and reaching for his weapon, let out a yell. Alerted by his cry, Tewanias and Donaldson both turned.

      Too late.

      The ball thudded into Archer’s chest and he collapsed back into Wyatt’s arms with a muffled grunt.

      Whereupon Ephraim Smede, who was about to launch himself in the direction of the woods, paused, his features suddenly distorting in a combination of shock, pain and disbelief. Mouth open, he uttered no sound as his body arched and spasmed in mid-air.

      As Wyatt and the others looked on in astonishment, Smede’s legs buckled and, one hand clutching the spent pistol, he pitched forward on to his face.

      It wasn’t until the body struck the ground that Wyatt saw the stem of the hatchet that protruded from the base of Smede’s skull and the slim figure that, until then, had been blocked from view by Smede’s temporarily resurrected form.

      “No!” Coming out of his trance, Wyatt threw out his arm.

      Tewanias, whose finger was already tightening on the trigger, paused and then slowly lowered his musket. A frown of puzzlement flickered across the war-painted face.

      Wyatt felt a tremor move through Archer’s body. It was obvious from the uneven rise and fall of the wounded man’s chest that death was imminent.

      The eyes fluttered open one last time and focused on Smede’s killer with a look that might have been part relief and part wonderment. Then his expression broke and he grabbed Wyatt’s sleeve and pulled him close.

      Wyatt had to bow his head to catch the words:

      “Keep him safe.”

      The farmer’s head fell against Wyatt’s arm. Wyatt felt for a pulse but there was none. He looked up.

      The boy, though tall, couldn’t be much more than eleven or twelve years old. For all that, the expression on his face was one that Wyatt had seen mirrored by much older men when the battle was over and the scent of blood and death hung in the air.

      A shock of dark hair flopped over the boy’s forehead as his eyes took in the scene of devastation, his jaw clenching when he saw the body on the porch. Running across the clearing to where Wyatt was crouched over the farmer’s body, he fell to his knees.

      Close to, Wyatt could see tear tracks glistening amid the grime on the boy’s face. A trembling hand reached out and gently touched the dead man’s arm.

      “Aunt Beth told me to hide in the cellar, but I came back up.” The boy looked to where Ephraim Smede’s corpse lay in the dirt. “I saw that man shoot her. Then he fell off his horse and I thought he was dead. But he was only pretending.”

      The boy’s voice shook. “I wanted to warn you, but there was shooting out front, so I went round the back by the woodpile. I saw the man pick up the gun. I was too scared to call out in case he saw me. I picked up the axe thinking I might scare him. Only I was too late. He …” The boy paused. “He shot Uncle Will, so I hit him as hard as I could.”

      The boy’s voice gave way. Fresh tears welled. Letting go of the farmer’s arm, he lifted a hand to wipe the wetness from his cheeks and looked over his shoulder, his jaw suddenly set firm. “He won’t hurt anyone again, will he?”

      “No,” Wyatt said, staring at the axe handle. “No, lad, he won’t.”

      An equine snort sounded from close by. Wyatt, glad of the distraction, saw it was Tewanias and Donaldson returning with the captured mounts. Behind them, Billy Drew, flanked by Jem Beddowes, was leading one of the two farm horses, harnessed to a low-slung, flat-bed cart.

      As they caught his eye, Wyatt gently released the farmer’s body, stood up and shook his head. “Sorry, Billy. We won’t be needing it after all.”

      “He’s gone?” Drew asked.

      “Aye.”

      “Son?” Drew indicated the boy.

      “Nephew,” Wyatt said heavily. “Far as I can tell.”

      “Poor wee devil,” Drew said. Then he caught sight of the axe. “Jesus,” he muttered softly.

      “What’ll we do with them?” Donaldson enquired, indicating Deacon and the other dead Committee members.

      “Not a damned thing,” Wyatt snapped. “They can lay there and rot as far as I’m concerned.”

      “Seems fair.” Donaldson agreed, before adding quietly, “And the other two?”

      “Them we do take care of. They deserve a decent burial, if nothing else. See if you can find a shovel. It’s a farm. There’ll be one around somewhere.”

      “And then?” Beddowes said.

      “And then we report back.”

      “The boy?”

      “He comes with us,” Wyatt said. “We might as well take advantage of the horses, too.” He turned. “Can you ride, lad?”

      The boy looked up. “Yes, sir. That one’s mine. He’s called Jonah.” He indicated the horse that Billy Drew had left in the paddock. It was the smaller one of the two.

      “There