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Authors: Larry D. Sweazy
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for Liam OâReilly. Or he could stumble over a watering trough, smack his head on an unseen post, and die trying to escape. But thankfully, Josiah had a little experience running at night.
It was one of the skills that had saved him during the war.
Once he reached a certain level of fear or anger or need to flee, it was like his body no longer belonged to him but moved on its own accord, his feet dancing on pure instinct, his eyes cutting a path that a cat would have been lucky to see.
He could only hope that his skills would rise from wherever they slept and save his life one more time, like they had in Chickamauga and Knoxville.
His heart was beating so hard Josiah was certain his chest was rolling like a wheat field facing the wind, the rhythm of blood wild and fast, the organ preparing to jump out of his skin if he ran any faster. But he did. He had to. A quick look over his shoulder gave him even more reason to fear. There were several riders on horses, all carrying torches, heading right for him.
He zigged, then zagged, pumping his legs furiously, the concern about his beating heart goneâhe was only worried about saving his hide. Plain and simple, that seemed like a slim possibility.
Ahead, he saw two barns, both smallâthree or four stalls at the most. The closest barn sat a fair distance from a well-lit house. The other one, a run of about five hundred yards, sat in near darkness. If there was anyone at the house it seemed to belong to, then the barn looked empty, dark, and unattended. He hoped his instinct was right.
Josiah gripped the Spencer, knowing for certain he had five shots left, and made his way to the farthest barn, sure that he was about to make his last stand.
CHAPTER 7
The posse thundered by the barn, but it was easy to tell that a few of the riders had dropped off to conduct a close search.
Josiah could only hope that there wasnât a discernible trail of blood for them to follow. Heâd scooted his feet upon entering the barn, wiping away as best he could any sign of entrance in the ankle-deep straw. But he knew that any man who could track a rabbit on hard dirt could see right through his feeble ploy to hide any evidence of his existence.
A dark corner of the barn beckoned as Josiah was able to adjust his eyesight. He had to trust his feet to find a high pile of straw and hay.
He burrowed inside, destroying well-established mice and rat tunnels. The smell of rot and rodent piss was strong, but it didnât matter, he could go no farther. He would die where he lay, or live to fight another day. It was that simple.
Regulating his breathing took a second, then he pushed the barrel of the Spencer to the edge of the pile of straw and cleared enough of it away to have a line of sight to the huge double doors that heâd just entered through.
There was nothing to do now but wait for his pursuers.
He was too close to town for them not to check the barn. It was just a matter of time before they came looking for him. Through the thinly planked walls he could hear the slow and steady trot of horse hooves, circling the barn, looking for any sign of him.
A small glint of light passed by the other side of the barn; a torch and murmured voices.
The loss of blood had weakened Josiah to the point of fearing for his next breath.
Not only did his leg hurt, but the pain had traveled all the way to his chest, even reigniting the tender pain of the old knife wound.
Chills began to travel across every inch of his skin. He was sweating profusely. The inside of his mouth tasted like old dirt, metallic and unhealthy. It was the taste of death, and Josiah knew it.
But he held his breath and tried his best not to move, as the barn door creaked open. Odd thing was, this all seemed very familiar to Josiah, reminded him of fighting the Northern Aggressors in Antietam a lifetime ago. As it was, this was not the first time he had thought his shallow breath might be the last one heâd
It was one of the skills that had saved him during the war.
Once he reached a certain level of fear or anger or need to flee, it was like his body no longer belonged to him but moved on its own accord, his feet dancing on pure instinct, his eyes cutting a path that a cat would have been lucky to see.
He could only hope that his skills would rise from wherever they slept and save his life one more time, like they had in Chickamauga and Knoxville.
His heart was beating so hard Josiah was certain his chest was rolling like a wheat field facing the wind, the rhythm of blood wild and fast, the organ preparing to jump out of his skin if he ran any faster. But he did. He had to. A quick look over his shoulder gave him even more reason to fear. There were several riders on horses, all carrying torches, heading right for him.
He zigged, then zagged, pumping his legs furiously, the concern about his beating heart goneâhe was only worried about saving his hide. Plain and simple, that seemed like a slim possibility.
Ahead, he saw two barns, both smallâthree or four stalls at the most. The closest barn sat a fair distance from a well-lit house. The other one, a run of about five hundred yards, sat in near darkness. If there was anyone at the house it seemed to belong to, then the barn looked empty, dark, and unattended. He hoped his instinct was right.
Josiah gripped the Spencer, knowing for certain he had five shots left, and made his way to the farthest barn, sure that he was about to make his last stand.
CHAPTER 7
The posse thundered by the barn, but it was easy to tell that a few of the riders had dropped off to conduct a close search.
Josiah could only hope that there wasnât a discernible trail of blood for them to follow. Heâd scooted his feet upon entering the barn, wiping away as best he could any sign of entrance in the ankle-deep straw. But he knew that any man who could track a rabbit on hard dirt could see right through his feeble ploy to hide any evidence of his existence.
A dark corner of the barn beckoned as Josiah was able to adjust his eyesight. He had to trust his feet to find a high pile of straw and hay.
He burrowed inside, destroying well-established mice and rat tunnels. The smell of rot and rodent piss was strong, but it didnât matter, he could go no farther. He would die where he lay, or live to fight another day. It was that simple.
Regulating his breathing took a second, then he pushed the barrel of the Spencer to the edge of the pile of straw and cleared enough of it away to have a line of sight to the huge double doors that heâd just entered through.
There was nothing to do now but wait for his pursuers.
He was too close to town for them not to check the barn. It was just a matter of time before they came looking for him. Through the thinly planked walls he could hear the slow and steady trot of horse hooves, circling the barn, looking for any sign of him.
A small glint of light passed by the other side of the barn; a torch and murmured voices.
The loss of blood had weakened Josiah to the point of fearing for his next breath.
Not only did his leg hurt, but the pain had traveled all the way to his chest, even reigniting the tender pain of the old knife wound.
Chills began to travel across every inch of his skin. He was sweating profusely. The inside of his mouth tasted like old dirt, metallic and unhealthy. It was the taste of death, and Josiah knew it.
But he held his breath and tried his best not to move, as the barn door creaked open. Odd thing was, this all seemed very familiar to Josiah, reminded him of fighting the Northern Aggressors in Antietam a lifetime ago. As it was, this was not the first time he had thought his shallow breath might be the last one heâd
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