Free Kate Wingo - Western Fire 01 by Fire on the Prairie Page B

paper, Mercy disheartened to see that it was her original note.
    “Turn-it-over,” Gabriel panted, still trying to catch his breath.
    Flipping the sheet of paper over, Mercy saw that there was a hastily scrawled message on the other side. ‘Gone for help.’
    “Oh, praise be!” she cried, hugging Gabriel to her waist. Remembering the decoy, she quickly pulled away from him. “There’s no time to waste. You dismantle the dummy while I gather the laundry.”
    Hurriedly, they went about their tasks. Within minutes, they were ready to return to the house, Mercy barely able to contain her joy.
    After cautioning Gabriel to say nothing about their exploit, not even to their own family members, the two of them trudged up the hill.

C HAPTER FIVE
     
     
     
     
    The rider galloped into the encampment at full speed, his face wind-burned, his horse lathered. After tugging on the horse’s reins, his exhausted body fell from the saddle in an ungainly heap. Before he could stagger to his feet, a pistol was shoved against his temple.
    “Bushwhackers!” he hissed at his would -be assailant.
    T he pistol was immediately removed from his forehead as if, with that one word, the horseman had invoked a magical incantation.
    Perhaps he did; for within seconds, a dozen or more armed men swarmed around him, repeating the word, their voices getting louder and louder, creating a ferocious, primal din.
    Just as suddenly, they quieted, their ranks opening wide as a white-haired man stormed through the mob. The horseman took nervous note of the pair of loaded Navy revolvers strapped around the man’s waist, another pair protruding from his shirt pockets. Although clothed in civilian attire, the white-haired man wore a pair of fringed red leather leggings, a uniform of sorts.
    Standing over top of the spent rider, the white-haired gunman extended an accusing finger. “Who are you?” he queried, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
    “S-Sam G-Guernsey,” the rider sputtered. Suddenly realizing the identity of the man standing before him, his bowels threatened to liquefy from the fright of it.
    “And where did you see these whore -mongering bushwhackers?”
    “I ain’t set eyes on them myself,” he answered. Seeing the look of fury that flashed across the other man’s face, Guernsey quickly amended himself. “I got a message that they’re camped out at the Hibbert farmstead.”
    “And the man -child, Gabriel, does he still live with the Hibbert family?”
    The rider nodded, not about to ask why such a th ing would be of any importance.
    “Thank you, brother.” The white-haired gunman held his hand over Sam Guernsey’s head as though giving a benediction. “You have done good work this day.”
    The leader of the group then turned toward his hand-picked followers, his arms opened wide, his eyes gleaming with an evangelic light. More than one man present thought that he resembled a crusader of yore, one of those priestly warriors who had marched to far-flung Jerusalem to slay the infidels. As he spoke, the assembled crowd fell silent.
    “The time has come for us to do the Lord’s work. And the Lord commands that we kill the southern-born heathens. Kill them, one and all!”
    En masse, the men ran to their horses amid a cacophony of savage cries. Within moments, they were gone, leaving only a thick cloud of dust in their wake.
    Sam Guernsey waited until they had completely disappeared from sight before he slowly rose to his feet, still stunned that he’d actually come face-to-face with the infamous Dark Angel.
     

     
    Bent over a large brass kettle, Mercy diligently scrubbed it with vinegar and coarse salt. Pausing in her labors, she wiped her brow with her forearm, taking a moment to catch her breath.
    “How much longer do you think they intend to stay?” Prudence inquired, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.
    Mercy raised her head , eyeing her sister and Gabriel. Both of them were seated at the kitchen