Simon stood stock still, his eyes following the man as he walked casually back and forth in front of him.
“Now, if it was up to me, I'd just kill ya.” The words sent a cold shiver through her, but there was a glimmer of hope, too. Maybe they would survive this.
The man holding Elizabeth laughed again and her hope dimmed a little. God, she hated that sound. It was cruel. The laugh of a man who enjoyed other people's pain.
“But as it is, I'm just here to make sure you learn your lesson this time. You understand?”
Simon's hands flexed at his sides. “Yes, I understand.”
The man smirked at his friend. “I don't think he means it.”
The tall man tucked his gun into the back of his belt. He took a step forward and spit into one hand before rubbing them together. Before Simon had a chance to react, the man punched him hard across the jaw. Elizabeth cried out, surprised by the sudden violence.
Simon stumbled backwards, but kept his feet.
The tall man laughed with appreciation. “Even better,” he said and held out his hands palms up and curled his fingers, urging Simon forward. “Come on!”
Simon didn't need a second invitation. He shed his coat and stepped forward, fists raised and ready. The other man smiled. Elizabeth looked around their little clearing for something, anything she might be able to use to help him, but the man holding her, as if sensing her thoughts, tightened his grip on her arms.
Simon and the other man circled each other, each sizing up his opponent. The man threw a wild right that Simon was just able to duck under. He countered with a short jab that connected with the man's jaw in a sharp crack.
Elizabeth hoped it had been enough to stun him, and that Simon could get the upper hand. But the man shook his head, recovered quickly and lunged forward again. He wound up his right again, but it was a feint. Simon realized it too late and couldn't stop his counter punch in time. He'd stepped right into the man's short left, his head snapped back with the power of the blow. Simon staggered back and blinked to clear his head. Blood trickled down his chin.
“Simon!” Elizabeth cried.
The man holding her shook her and laughed. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Fun's just gettin' started.” His hands rubbed up and down her arms as he pulled her back against his body. Elizabeth shuddered and fought down her growing sense of panic.
Simon wiped the blood from his mouth and suddenly charged. He lowered his shoulder and drove it right into the other man's chest. They tumbled to the ground. Simon rolled on top of the other man and hit him twice before he was bucked off. They both scrambled back to their feet.
The gun had fallen out of the man's waistband and lay in the grass between them. He saw Simon eyeing it and smirked through the blood that poured out of his broken nose. Hope flared in Elizabeth's chest until he pulled a long Bowie knife from a sheath and waved the blade in the air. “Try for it,” he said.
This was bad. The man flipped the knife expertly in his hand. Very, very bad.
Simon crouched and tried to lunge for the gun. The knife caught him on the arm and he cried out in pain as it sliced through his skin. Blood blossomed on his shirt sleeve.
“Simon!” Elizabeth cried out.
He turned to look at her and was nearly cut again, barely dodging the man's attack. Elizabeth silently cursed herself. Simon couldn't afford any distractions. She struggled against the iron hands that held her, but kept silent.
Simon grabbed his arm before quickly releasing it. His breath came in short, pained bursts as he tried to avoid another strike. The other man wasted no time now. He might not have been the best with the punch, but he could handle a knife. He made a lunging swipe with the long blade and it cut Simon's shirt just below the ribs.
Elizabeth gasped. There was only a little blood, but it was just a matter of time now. She knew she had to do something, but she wasn't sure what. This was all just a sick game to them. No matter what Simon did, he could not win this fight.
The man's breath behind her was hot on her neck and cheek as he pulled her flush against him again. Elizabeth fought down the urge to wretch and closed her eyes as he whispered horrible things in her ear. Suddenly, he jerked her around to face him.
“Can't let my friend have all the fun, now can I?” he said with a leer that made her feel like she'd already been violated.
His breath was hot and fetid. She felt repulsed and angry and frightened. His kiss was rough and disgusting. She tried to turn her head away, to twist out of his arms, but his fingers dug into the already bruised flesh and would not let her go.
Once he'd had his fill of that kiss, he held her away from his body for a moment to admire his prize. Elizabeth squirmed, but her arms were still trapped at her sides. Then, in a flash of understanding, she realized that her legs were free. Eighteenth century ladies might not be taught self-defense, but modern women were. As he started to pull her closer, she brought her knee up into his groin with all the force she could muster.
He gasped in pain, frozen in place for a moment and then released her. Reflex made him double over and reach for his shrinking manhood. As he fell to his knees, Elizabeth grabbed the gun from his waistband and stepped away from him. Her hands trembled with fear and adrenaline, but she willed them to be steady.
“Enough!” she cried as she pointed the gun at the man with the knife.
Both he and Simon stopped their fight and turned to her.
Her breathing was short and quick, as she took a step closer. “That's enough.”
The man behind her grunted and she spun back toward him as he lunged at her. She fired. It sounded like a miniature cannon. There was no sharp crack or pop, but a deafening boom. A large puff of smoke and sparks shot out of the barrel. The gun kicked hard in her hand and she nearly lost hold of it, but she'd held on for dear life.
The man cried out as the bullet tore through his arm. He clutched at his arm and staggered back. Ignoring the fact that she'd just shot a man, she quickly turned back around just in time to see the man with the knife raise it again, ready to strike.
She pulled back the hammer on the gun with her free hand and leveled it at his chest. “Drop it.”
He held onto his knife and she could see behind his smile, he was calculating his chances.
“Consider this your final warning,” she said.
The man's smile finally fell and he let his knife drop to the ground. She waved him away from it. Simon hurried over and picked up the other gun and the discarded knife. He repositioned himself and pointed his gun at the man she'd left in a puddle by the carriage.
“Are you all right?” he asked, still trying to catch his breath. His eyes darted over her, looking for injuries and then shifted to the man on the ground.
She nodded. “How badly are you hurt?” His face was covered with a sheen of sweat and streaks of blood and dirt.
“I'll be fine,” he said, but his right sleeve was already drenched in blood.
They herded the men together and Elizabeth kept a gun on them as he went to one of their horses and removed a coil of rope. Elizabeth kept a wary eye on their prisoners as Simon cut a few lengths and then forced one of them to bind the hands of the other behind his back. He made quick work of the second. Next, he used a third length of rope to tie one man's ankle to the other like a chain gang.
Once they were secure, Elizabeth asked for the knife.
Simon frowned, but gave it to her.
She lifted up her skirt and cut a long strip of material from one of her petticoats. “For your arm.”
Simon looked down at it briefly and frowned. He didn't argue.
Even in the dying light, Elizabeth could see the cut was long and deep. She needed something to clean it with. She rummaged through the saddlebags on the back of the horses and found a small bottle of whisky.
She tore away the bottom of Simon's sleeve and held the bottle over the open wound. The cut was long and deep, the flesh slightly flayed to the sides. It was
awful. She shook herself out of it. This was going to sting like nobody's business, but they had to do something to help fight off infection. She held up the bottle, and looked at him with sympathy.
“I know,” Simon said. He steeled himself and clenched his jaw, then nodded. “Go ahead.”
He hissed in pain, but held his arm steady as she poured what was left of the bottle over the cut, saving only a small amount. Then, she bound his arm as best as she could, and quickly inspected the cut by his ribs. Thank God it wasn't too deep and the bleeding had already stopped. She splashed it with the last bit of alcohol, wincing in sympathy as Simon's breath caught, his stomach muscles tightening.
“I'm sorry,” she said, and finished binding his wounds.
Simon's injuries tended to, she tore off another strip of cloth and wrapped it tightly around the injured man's arm. She was far from gentle with him as she had been with Simon, but she still didn't want him to bleed to death.
Simon tied one of their horses to the back of the buggy.
“Do you think you can manage the buggy on your own?” he asked her.
She had no idea. “Absolutely.”
Simon nodded and mounted the other horse. He waved his gun at their prisoners. “Get up.”
Slowly and awkwardly, the men did as they were told, glaring at Simon as they did.
He brought his horse a step closer. “You can walk or I can put a bullet in you and drag you back to town.”
Reluctantly, the men started forward with Simon riding behind them. Elizabeth climbed up into the carriage and put the gun on the seat next to her. She'd been paying more attention than she'd thought and drove the buggy along behind them without much trouble.
It took a half an hour for their little parade to reach town, and she could see Simon's shoulders beginning to slump forward. Townspeople stepped out of the way and whispered as Simon drove his prisoners down the middle of the street. A few men on horseback and young boys on foot followed behind, curious and wanting to get in on the action if anything happened.
Finally, they arrived at the police station. Young Officer Miller snapped to attention as they marched their prisoners inside. The barrel chested sergeant's eyes flashed with recognition at both men. Apparently, this wasn’t their first visit to the Natchez jail.
Elizabeth gave the officers a quick sketch of the attack. Highwaymen who'd chosen the wrong people to rob and try to murder. Simon added some details, his voice betraying his pain and exhaustion. She could see how tired he was and could hardly blame him. Also, there was no telling just how much blood he'd lost. She told the officers where to find them and helped Simon back to the buggy. He didn't argue when Elizabeth took the reins. He just leaned back in the seat in silence.
When they arrived at Cypress Hill, she helped Simon into the back parlor.
“Good heavens!” Catherine exclaimed when she saw him. She sprang from her reading chair, leaving her book behind, forgotten. “What happened? Papa!”
The Colonel appeared in the doorway and Elizabeth gave them the short version and sent Abraham to fetch a doctor, anyone but Dr. Walker. The Colonel told him to find Dr. Parish and Abraham raced out into the night.
“Let's take him upstairs,” the Colonel said. The calm in the storm. For once, she welcomed his authoritative stoicism. “Abraham will be back shortly. Best get him comfortable.”
Simon was able to stand and started toward the stairs without assistance, but it was clear he was near the point of total exhaustion. Elizabeth put her hand around his waist to help him, but the Colonel interceded.
“You look about ready to fall down yourself,” he said and took Simon's arm and placed it over his shoulder. Without another word, he helped Simon make his way upstairs to their room.
Once there, he eased Simon down onto the bed and then retreated to the doorway as Elizabeth and Catherine came in.
The Colonel lingered in the open doorway as Elizabeth sat down next to Simon.
“I'll be back shortly,” the Colonel said.
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder, offering a quick thanks. Her focus was fully on Simon as she began to unbutton his vest and shirt. She carefully helped him out of them and set them aside. Red blotches on his ribs marked where bruises would be tomorrow. The thin cut on his side just above his waist wasn't too bad, but it would need to be cleaned.
Right on cue, Catherine appeared with clean cloths and a basin of water.
“Can you bring some whisky?” Elizabeth asked. “And another basin. An empty one?”
Catherine nodded and disappeared again.
“How are you doing?” Elizabeth asked Simon.
“Tired, but all right.”
He looked tired, but not quite all right. This was far worse than anything he'd suffered before. This had not been a bar fight that left him with a few bruises. This had been a fight for his life, for their lives.
Simon's face was drawn and pinched. Elizabeth carefully probed his ribs. He grunted quietly when she touched a few tender spots, but nothing too bad.
“I don't think anything's broken,” she said. “Can you lie down?”
“I'm not an invalid,” he said with his customary crankiness.
It was good to hear, but despite his protests, he moved slowly and painfully as he sat down on the bed. She piled up pillows against the headboard and urged him to lean back.
She'd just pulled off his boots when Catherine returned with the whisky, basin and a glass. “Anything else I can do?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Just bring up the doctor when he arrives.”
Catherine nodded and hurried back downstairs. Elizabeth closed their bedroom door and noticed how filthy her hands were. They were covered with Simon's blood and dirt. She quickly washed her hands and wiped her face before she opened their trunk. She rummaged around inside until she found the small pillbox at the bottom. Inside were several baby blue-colored pills, doxycycline. She removed one and hid the pillbox back in their trunk.
“I'm glad you thought to bring these,” Elizabeth said as she poured him a small glass of water. “God only knows what was on that knife.”
Simon grunted in agreement and took the antibiotic. He'd insisted they take Malaria pills before they left and bring these just in case. Thank God he had.
Elizabeth took the empty glass from his hand and poured in some whisky.
“I probably shouldn't,” he said. “Not with the antibiotics.”
Elizabeth nodded and then looked at the half-full glass. She shrugged and downed the glass in one swig. It burned as it went down and she fought a cough and squinted in discomfort.
Simon grimaced and held his side. “Don't make me laugh.”
Dr. Parish arrived a few minutes later. He was what a country doctor should be. He was tall, slightly stooped over, but kind and gentle. He unwrapped Simon's arm and said reassuring things as he did. Simon hardly cared, but Elizabeth was grateful.
The cut was long, about four inches, and deep, but the bleeding had almost stopped so that meant no artery had been cut. Simon had lost a fair amount of blood, but not enough to be worrying.
The doctor dug into his medical bag and took out a suture kit. The kit was little more than a few large and slightly curved needles and some thick silk thread.
Elizabeth cast a sympathetic look at Simon. “About that drink?”
He looked at the whisky bottle and back to the large needles. “Maybe just one.”
Elizabeth poured him a shot and he threw it back.
The doctor started to thread one of his needles when Elizabeth stopped him. “I know this will sound silly,” she said, “but would you mind soaking those in the whisky for a few minutes?”
She poured half the bottle of whisky into the empty basin Catherine had brought.
“What on earth for?”
“It's good for the insides and for the outside,” she said, holding out the basin. The doctor frowned. “Please?”
He clearly thought she was insane, but saw no h
arm in humoring her. Of course, he knew nothing about germs or the importance of disinfecting. Louis Pasteur's discoveries were still a decade away. And it would be another twenty before doctors would even begin to sterilize their instruments. How on earth anyone had survived to see the other side of the century was a miracle.
Elizabeth doused Simon's arm again with more alcohol, ignoring the doctor's arched eyebrows. Simon remained ridiculously stoic, although she knew it must have hurt like the devil.
How Simon managed not to cry out when the doctor stitched up his arm, Elizabeth would never know. He'd turned down the offer of laudanum and just gritted his teeth as the huge hooked needle pierced his skin over and over as the doctor sewed his arm closed.
Elizabeth watched it all with horror. Finally, the doctor tied off the thread and was finished. Despite the bulky thread, he'd actually done a fine job of closing the wound. There would no doubt be a scar, but they'd learned to live with those.
Just as the doctor was wrapping the wound, the Colonel returned. “How's our patient?”
“He should be fine,” the doctor said. “Keep the dressing clean and come see me in a few days, sooner if you have increased pain or swelling.”
“Thank you,” Simon said.
Catherine offered to show the doctor out, as the Colonel lingered in the doorway. “I went to the police station.” He noticed Elizabeth's questioning expression. “You are guests in my city, in my house. This is unacceptable.”
His scowl deepened. “Dr. Walker was there, like a bad penny that man. But competent enough, I suppose for their needs. Those two men, they've…let's just say this is not their first brush with the law.” He cleared his throat. “You can be assured they will not bother you again.”
Elizabeth wasn't quite sure what he'd done, but she couldn't argue with the outcome. 'Thank you.”
“If you think you'll be up to it, I'll send Cassie up with food later,” he said.
“That would be very kind,” Elizabeth said.
He nodded curtly before closing the door behind him.
Elizabeth turned to Simon, one eyebrow raised. “The Colonel does have a heart after all.”
Thursday's Child (Out of Time #5) Page 20
