Free Land of the Free by Jeffry Hepple Page A

switching
back to English. “I’m nearly sure it is only one man.”
    “Where?”
    “There’s a narrow alley
beyond the butcher’s shop. He’s in there.”
    “Where?”
    “Three buildings up, on the
right. It has a sign with a cutout pig.”
    “Yes. I see it now. What do
we do?”
    “You do nothing other than
to stay clear of my sword. Unless he kills me, of course. If that
happens I’d advise you to shoot him with both barrels and risk the
nightmares.”
    “One.”
    “What?”
    “Only one barrel is
loaded.”
    “Why didn’t you reload
it?”
    “I don’t know
how.”
    He shook his head and
started off down the center of the street. “Stay on my left and a
half step behind me.”
    “Why must we do
this?”
    “New Orleans is a critical
part of our expanding country. It is our duty to protect our new
citizens.”
    “Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us now at the hour of our death.”
    “Hush.”
    They walked on. As they
reached the butcher’s shop, a dark shape emerged from the alley.
“Yer money or yer life.”
    “What’s that?” Yank
extracted his arm from Marina and walked forward, cupping his left
ear with his left hand.
    “I told y’ t’ stand and
deliver,” the man said louder, aiming a pistol.
    “Sorry, too much time with
the artillery, you know.” Yank kept closing the distance. “What was
that you said?”
    “By God, I’ll blow yer
stupid head off.” The man rushed forward until the muzzle was
inches from Yank’s forehead. “Gimme yer purse or die.”
    Yank grasped the man’s
pistol with his left hand, covering the pan and blocking the
striker. In the same motion, he drew his sword and pressed the tip
under the man’s chin. “Let go of the pistol and get down on the
ground.”
    A moment later the man
grunted and Yank jumped back to avoid the spray of arterial
blood.
    “You killed him,” Marina
gasped. Both her hands were covering her mouth. Her pepperbox was
on the cobblestones where she had dropped it.
    “Not yet.” Yank bent to wipe
the blade of his sword on the dying man’s trousers. “But it shan’t
be long.”
    “Why?” Her voice sounded far
away.
    Yank looked at her. “Why
what?”
    “Why did you kill him? It
wasn’t necessary.”
    “It was quite necessary.”
Yank pointed to the ugly little dirk in the robber’s left hand. “I
killed him to keep him from putting that between my ribs.” He
watched as the man gurgled his last breath. “Scotsman, I think.
Probably another deserter from a British ship. Bad luck, really. We
could have used him.” Yank stood up, retrieved Marina’s pistol from
the street and put it in his pocket. “Come along. We must find a
constable. The stray dogs will smell the blood and we’ll soon be
facing a pack.” He held his hand out to her.
    She took one more look at
the corpse, then ignoring his hand, continued down the dark street
toward the lights in the next block.
    “I gave him a choice, you
know. He gave me none,” Yank said defensively.
    Marina kept
walking.
    “I expected more of you.
Being brought up in the Wild West, abducted by Indians, sold into
slavery. I should think you’d be made of sterner stuff.”
    “I expected more of you
too.”
    “What else could I have
done?”
    “We could have gone on along
the river and found a constable.”
    “That constable would have
blown his whistle and soon ten of them would have come at the
robber from both ends of the street.”
    “They might not have killed
him.”
    “Bah. If he wasn’t killed
during his arrest, they would have hanged him in the morning. If he
didn’t escape that is. Perhaps that would have been your preferred
outcome. A criminal on the loose. Is that it?”
    “I don’t wish to speak of
this any more.”
    “Very well. I shall take you
to your hotel and then report what happened to the
authorities.”
    “Thank you.”

August 22, 1804
    New Orleans, Louisiana
Territory
     
    Marina, wearing only a long
nightshirt, opened her hotel room door then