Free Sword of Vengeance by Kerry Newcomb Page B

yanked the corporal about and snatched a pistol from the man’s belt. He heard the outcry behind him. Morales roared the order to fire. Kit dove for the only cover that presented itself, Escovar’s grave.
    He cleared the mounded earth and hit the dirt as a musket volley thundered in the clearing. Geysers of soft earth erupted from the mound. That crudely fashioned cross of branches Father Ramon had erected to mark the grave all but exploded. And poor Corporal Galvez, who inadvertently had placed himself in the line of fire, choked back a scream as lead slugs ripped his bony frame and left him belly down on the grave. He shuddered, attempted to rise, then fell back, mortally wounded.
    Kit scrambled to his feet and ran toward the forest. The firing squad broke ranks. Most of the men hurried to reload their muskets, while four of their number gave chase.
    “Idiots!” Morales bellowed. “The Yankee is getting away. Stop him before he reaches the trees. Run, you fools. Run!” The stout sergeant made no effort to give chase. He wasn’t built for speed. But four of his dragoons most certainly were. The soldiers had rested well and in relative comfort, while Kit had been bound the entire night.
    Kit glanced over his shoulder, knowing such an action was a mistake even as he made it. His boots caught on a vine, and down he went, stumbling and then falling forward. He twisted and landed on his shoulder, then immediately rose up on one knee and leveled the pistol he had taken from Galvez. Kit’s pursuers had just passed the grave where the unfortunate corporal lay dying.
    A well-placed shot might slow them up and give Kit time to reach cover. He sighted on the lead runner, a lithe-looking Spaniard in a rumpled green and white tunic. The dragoon was armed with a pistol and chanced a shot at a dead run. His aim was wild.
    Kit fired, and the corporal’s pistol bucked in his grasp. Galvez must have loaded his weapon with a heavy charge, for the gunshot sounded unusually loud.
    Even more surprising, two of Kit’s pursuers, running several feet apart, dropped and doubled over, one staggering a few steps and falling backward, clutching at his throat. The other two Spaniards spun around on their heels and retreated at a dead run toward the cabin. Kit stared in disbelief at the gun in his hand. What the devil? he thought. Then he ducked as another volley of gunfire rippled from the emerald shadows behind him. A bugle trumpeted like the horn of Roland as powder smoke blossomed in the underbrush, and war cries filled the air as if a horde of banshees had been loosed among the pines.
    Kit hugged the ground and gripped the pistol by the barrel, ready to use the weapon like a war hammer if need be. The army in the forest was no friend of Morales’s. The Spanish dragoons bravely held their ground, but their muskets were no match for the rifles of their hidden enemies. Sergeant Morales looked on, furious, as first one, then another of his men yelped in pain and staggered off, wounded. The skirmish line began to waver.
    “Hold bravely, now,” the sergeant roared above the gunfire, sensing his dragoons’ growing panic.
    “We are outnumbered!” one of the men shouted.
    “It is the Yankee army! They’ll kill us all!” a second soldier exclaimed.
    “Then we must drive them—ahh!” Morales’s words were cut short as a slug ripped his shoulder and knocked him on his backside.
    Seeing the sergeant fall was the last straw for the remaining Spaniards. Sergeant Morales’s presence alone had held them in place. Leaderless now, three men bolted for their horses, and then the rest of the skirmishers followed suit. They rode past the cabin, raced across the clearing, and galloped into the woods.
    Morales, struggling to his feet, cursed them through his clenched teeth and ordered his men to stand and fight. But his bullying commands fell on deaf ears. The dragoons were routed. Morales groaned and clutched at his shoulder. He could stay and