Free Swift Runs The Heart by Mary Brock Jones Page B

our lives,” called the young man.
    A hardened veteran of the goldfields, the trooper looked at him briefly then continued firing. “You think they will let us live afterwards?” he said, without taking his eyes off their attackers.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIt’s light enough to see their faces, that’s why. You think they want witnesses left behind?”
    The young man gulped, then reached for his satchel on the seat. He pulled out a pistol and began firing out the opposite window. The trooper glanced over, gave a short nod of approval, then returned to his vigil.
    â€œAnd you?” said Geraldine to the older merchant. “What do you intend to do?” But the man said nothing, quivering into his corner in terror. She shot him a look of disgust, then bent again to her patient.
    â€œPass me your sword,” she whispered to the trooper. “I need it to cut off his jacket,” she added, as he did not respond.
    The man kept looking out the window, eyes seeking shapes in the growing light and firing the occasional shot. “Help yourself,” he said. She reached over, pulled back his coat and slid the well-honed blade from its sheath. The trooper kept firing, intent on their defence. She ripped the thick cloth of the driver’s coat and shirt, baring the shoulder to allow her to loosen the strips she had tied there earlier. Now uncovered, she could see where the bullet had entered by the dark welling coming from the entrance wound. There was nothing she could do here to remove the bullet,; she could only hope to stop the bleeding. She repositioned the wadding squarely over the wound, then retied the flannel strips tightly over it, tugging the ends round his back to anchor the bandage firmly down. Thankfully he was still unconscious, but his breathing was harsh as she hauled him round and she was relieved to hear it settle once she finished.
    She sat back, keeping her head low, and looked up. The older man was huddled on the only piece of floor left. On either side of her, the two others kept up their firing. One of the trooper’s arms hung uselessly at his side. He had his weapon tucked awkwardly under one leg while he reloaded with his other hand and mouth.
    â€œPass it here,” she urged quietly. He looked startled, but she reached for the weapon and bullets and swiftly reloaded. He nodded acceptance and after that would pass it swiftly to her as he alternated between carbine and pistol.
    Still the fusillade continued from the outside. There had been silence from the roof of the coach for some time.
    â€œThere’s only one round left,” she said finally, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.
    â€œThat’s it for me.” said the young man at the same time.
    â€œSurely someone must have heard all the firing and come to investigate?” asked Geraldine.
    â€œSorry Ma’am, but not likely,” replied the trooper. “Setting off gunshots is pretty common round these parts, especially if someone’s been celebrating a big strike. Pass back my sword. No offence, but I doubt you are skilled at its use in close quarters.” There was a hint of a brave chuckle in his voice and Geraldine smiled gratefully at him. All hope was not lost yet. He fired his last bullets and then tossed his carbine over to the young man. “Here, this will swing a fair wallop against them. You take my pistol, Ma’am. Hold it by the barrel and hit any attackers with the butt.”
    She did not even think to argue, ripping off yet another strip of cloth from her damp petticoats to wrap around the hot barrel of the pistol. A fierce swell of determination thrust up through her.
    Some time later, the noise outside stopped. The bandits had realised they were out of ammunition. Then came a shout.
    â€œYou, in the coach. Come on out peaceable-like and we’ll let you be. We only want the gold.”
    â€œTake it then, and get out of here,” called back