The second the horse whinnied, Émile’s heart stopped beating. The Irishmen on the road looked up in unison, squinting in the darkness as Émile looked for a way out. Back through the woods? Too unpredictable, and if the Irishmen could get off a good shot from their rifles, a dangerous proposition.
He looked back the way he’d come: it was a straight line out to the road…but then what? Back toward Bytown? Or further west, where even more Irishmen might be waiting? The only thing he knew was he couldn’t stay where he was.
“You hear that?” asked Jimmy, slipping off his horse.
“What you reckon it is?” asked his partner.
“I don’t know,” said Jimmy, creeping over to the edge of the forest and peering in. “But I’m gonna find out. Keep watch.”
Jimmy pushed past the frozen branches, loud cracking heralding his approach. Émile was out of options. In or out, he was going to have to deal with the Irishmen. Somehow.
He crawled, flat as he could be, toward the road. If he put a little distance between himself and the horse, maybe they’d think it was a stray and give up looking further.
But the damn thing wouldn’t let him go. It started to follow him, pausing as he paused. He wanted to wave it off, but couldn’t risk being seen.
Jimmy paused, squinting through the trees. “It’s a horse,” he called back.
“Wild?” asked his partner.
“No,” said Jimmy, pulling a pistol from his belt. “Saddled.”
The partner moved his horse a bit further east, preparing his rifle for another shot. Émile’s escape route was being cut off. The horse nudged him with its nose, reins jingling right by his ear, and it bolstered his courage. He reached back, grabbed hold of the straps, and stood—
“Don’t move!” shouted Jimmy, taking aim.
Émile could see the exit. He could see it so clearly. And they only had two shots—at best—between them; one, through dense forest, and the other after a moving target, heading quick around the bend. He could make it, if he was lucky.
He could try.
He pulled on the reins and started forward—
—but the horse didn’t move. Its foot was stuck between a pair of fallen trees, wedged at a strange angle. It tried to get free, but couldn’t, and let out a frustrated sound as it wobbled back and forth.
There was no way to run.
Jimmy stepped closer, now with a clear shot, and called out: “Nice and slow. Out to the road.”
Émile let go of the reins, lifting his hands slowly above his head as he marched out the way he’d come, up the embankment to the road. He kept trying to think of a way to escape, of a daring trick that might let him disable the Irishmen, or incapacitate them, or just outrun them. Maybe he could steal one of their horses and ride…
…ride where? And how?
He slipped on an icy patch, stumbling to his knees, but not letting his arms drop at all. Jimmy’s aim was too certain for that. He got back to his feet, steadied himself, and carried on, out into the open.
The Canadien was lying in a pool of blood, his pistol not too far from his body. With a pistol, Émile stood a chance of evening the odds. But it was an impossible distance away. He imagined the steps it would take, the time it would take, and could picture all the opportunities the Irishmen would have to shoot him down, before he even got a chance to touch the weapon.
Jimmy emerged from the forest a short distance away, joining his partner on the road, both their guns trained carefully on Émile’s chest.
“What you hiding from, friend?” asked Jimmy.
Émile swallowed slowly. He knew his accent would doom him. He shrugged instead.
The partner laughed. “You a mute or something? Talk!”
Émile’s life would be over the second they heard him speak. They’d shot the Canadien for no reason at all, and now that they had a taste for blood, there was nothing stopping them from killing two Frenchmen and rolling their bodies off the road for safe keeping.
He wished he’d learned to fake an English accent. He felt sick that he’d never put in the time. But they were waiting, and they wouldn’t wait forever, so he shook his head, apologetically, like he couldn’t speak…
Jimmy took a step forward, perfecting his aim. “Yes you can. Now tell us why you’re hidin’, or we’ll come to our own conclusions.”
“I…” Émile croaked, then cleared his throat, and said—
“What’s all this, now?” came a voice from behind him, and suddenly the Irishmen were adjusting their aims to something else entirely. A few somethings, based on the height, and the spread.
Émile dared to check over his shoulder and saw a band of four men on horseback approaching. Whether they were friend or foe was hard to tell: they weren’t Irish, based on the heavy furs they wore and the way they were riding in the dead of night with no torches to guide them. The one in the back, with long black hair, had a sabre strapped to his back, and was watching the periphery with unease, like he expected an ambush.
The leader, an older man with a big scruffy beard and a bright red sash around his neck, edged his horse closer, taking stock. He had the look about him of an experienced tracker. Someone who was at home in calm and chaos alike, and could stare down Death himself with a cocksure laugh.
“You folks alright?” he asked, a slight smirk on his face.
“Keep movin’,” said Jimmy, switching his aim back to Émile. “This ain’t your concern.”
The man laughed. “No it’s not,” he said, then pointed at the dead Canadien. “Was it his?”
Jimmy’s partner sneered. “They ambushed us,” he said. “Came out of the woods firin’. We had to—”
“Where’s his gun, then?” asked the man, pointing at Émile. “Not much of an ambush if he’s not armed, is it?”
“He dropped it,” said Jimmy, not at all convincingly. “Back there.”
Émile twitched at the lie. His arms were still up, but he was directly between the two groups, with no hope of escape.
“Well the way I figure it,” said the scruffy man. “He’s not armed anymore, so you can go ahead and lower those guns.”
Jimmy scowled as he said: “Don’t think we will.”
The man sighed, nodded. “Right. Let me rephrase that.” His hands came up with a pair of pistols pointed at Jimmy, and his three companions split their targets between both Irishmen. The leader gave a condescending nod. “Lower those guns. Now.”
Jimmy and his partner were brave, but not stupid. They took their fingers off their triggers and lowered their guns, aiming them at the snow—but not letting them go. Émile felt his heart beat again for the first time in what seemed like forever.
“You got a name, friend?” the leader asked Émile.
Émile’s turned, nice and slow. “Émile. Émile Deschênes,” he said.
Jimmy’s eyes shot wide open at the sound of Émile’s voice. “French!” he gasped, and whipped his gun up—
—and caught two bits of lead in the chest and neck. He fell backward in a heap, blood pouring out of him, as his partner dropped his own weapon and scrambled away in horror.
The leader nodded at the thicker man to his left, who was already preparing another shot. “Hit a bit high there, Nowak. Feelin’ tired?”
Nowak gave him a sour face. “I aim for throat,” he said in a thick Polish accent.
“Show off,” said the man on the right, stowing his two pistols. His complexion was darker than the others, and he had a long scar from his ear all the way down his neck, which did nothing to detract from his wise-ass grin. “Ain’t no rewards for precision, you know.”
“I know,” said Nowak. “I take pride in work.”
The other Irishman whimpered, doubling over as Jimmy’s blood seeped closer and closer. Whatever toughness had been there before, it was gone now, shattered irrecoverably.
The leader set down his pistols before turning his attention to Émile. “You can put your arms down, Mr Deschênes.”
Émile realized he was still frozen in fear. He lowered his arms and took a few shaky breaths before saying: “Thank you, Monsieur…?”
“Gauthier,” said the man, tipping his hat. Émile’s shocked expression prompted a bemused smirk. “Father was French. Left me with a funny name, an appreciation for the underdog, and not much else.” He gestured to the man on the right. “The one with the mouth is Topek.”
Topek cricked his neck. “He ain’t ridin’ with me.”
“I have my own horse,” said Émile, pointing into the forest. “It got scared when they—”
The other Irishman started to cry, which lasted all of ten seconds before another gunshot rang out, and he dropped forward with a hole in the head.
Everyone looked back at the man with the black hair, who was stowing his rifle. He noticed their stares and shrugged. “Noisy,” he said.
Gauthier laughed. “And that’s Dexter Worthington.”
“Not my name,” said Dexter.
“You gonna tell us what your name really is, then?” Gauthier asked over his shoulder.
Dexter thought a moment, then said: “No.”
“Dexter Worthington it is.” He turned his attention back to Émile. “Where you off to tonight, Mr Deschênes?” he asked.
Émile looked back west, off into the pitch black night, wondering how far he had to go, and how many terrors he’d confront along the way. “Perth,” he said. “I’m going to Perth.”
“Odd time to be doin’ it,” observed Gauthier. “Especially alone.”
Émile remembered what the dead Canadien had said: “I travel at night to avoid troubles.”
“Didn’t work out so well, did it?” cracked Topek.
“Bad luck, I suppose,” said Émile. “I don’t know what made them do it. They shot that other man in cold blood, then tried to—”
“Blind hatred,” said Gauthier. “Some people get so wrapped up in their anger, the reasons don’t matter anymore. They heard your accent on a deserted road at night, and something just clicked and said ‘yes, this is fine’.” He shook his head sadly. “Don’t go looking for reasons, ‘cause there aren’t any.”
Émile nodded again, smiling weakly. There was a reason he’d been targeted—and the Canadien had died—but he couldn’t tell them why. He couldn’t even tread a step closer to that truth. He had to play innocent as far as he could. He was good at that.
“Thank you again,” he said, heading back toward the woods, and his horse. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Can you cook?” called Gauthier, and Émile paused, turned. “‘Cause as luck would have it, we’re headin’ to Perth, too. And while we most certainly have the brains and the brawn and the wit well in hand…” Topek winked. “None of us can make an edible meal.”
Émile laughed nervously. “I…I mean I’m not—”
“We’re worse,” said Topek. “However bad you are, we’re worse.”
“I vomit often,” agreed Nowak.
“Often,” nodded Dexter.
Gauthier gave Émile a smile that, while wrapped in kindness, seemed to have a sharper core to it. One that would cut, eventually. “So how about it? Ride with us to Perth. Safer for you, and all we ask in return is a little cookin’ we can hold down long enough to enjoy.”
Émile looked back at the dead Canadien, at the two dead Irishmen, and at the long road off to Perth. The road he didn’t know how to navigate, filled with dangers he knew were there, but couldn’t predict.
He saw Gauthier sitting there, that smile still upon his face, waiting to see what move Émile would try next.
He saw Nowak, Topek and Dexter all waiting, too. Their hands were decidedly not away from their weapons. An uneasy silence settled down around them.
He shrugged. “I could use the company, to be honest.”
Gauthier’s smile widened. “Excellent,” he said. “Then let’s get you to Perth.”