Chasing the Rebel by Tyler Flynn

Author:Tyler Flynn [Flynn, Tyler]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Carina Press
Published: 2014-06-02T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The horse bolted. Rothbury was still reaching down for Lockhart and nearly slid out of the saddle. The reins ran through his hands—he clutched at them convulsively. Below him, the cobbles of the square, damp with rain, sped past, alarmingly close. Shouting. Lockhart’s voice.

He gripped hard with his knees, got himself upright, tried to pull the horse back. It was too strong for him. Another shot. He threw himself forward over the animal’s neck.

The horse bolted under one of the trees; branches whipped back at him. He clung on. Wind roared into his face. He grabbed at breath. Another shot whined over his head.

The horse was heading directly for the bridge over the river. Children screamed, scattered in alarm. He fought for control. Over the summit of the bridge. He slid sideways again as the horse took fright at the children’s screeching. He got back in the saddle, twisted his hands in the reins.

All he could do was hang on until the animal ran itself into exhaustion. They came down off the bridge. A man with a handcart panicked and ran for safety. The handcart toppled. Dirt-encrusted potatoes all over the track. The horse stumbled, nearly went down. Rothbury threatened to go over its head, hung on desperately.

The track began to climb a ridge, the horse started to labour. Rothbury risked a glance back. Two troopers had reined in their horses on the crown of the bridge, were yelling, gesticulating. One of them levelled his pistol to take a last shot. Rothbury ignored that—he was well out of range.

The track levelled out, ran past hovels clustered in a sun-drenched hamlet, into cooler woodland. Rothbury concentrated on staying in the saddle, on trying to get his breath back. On trying not to panic about Lockhart—there was no way Serrault would kill him. At the very least he’d want to question him.

How the hell had Serrault and his men known where they were? Bad luck? Had they simply been combing the countryside and happened on them by chance?

Damn Lockhart—why the devil hadn’t he climbed up behind Rothbury?

The horse eased back from its mad gallop to a canter, then a trot, a walk—it stood trembling in the middle of the track, head down. No one in sight. Rothbury climbed down, patted the horse, talked to it until it stopped shivering then checked it over. A shot had caught the fat brown bulge of its hind leg, high on its flank, about where Lockhart had punched it. The tiniest of scrapes, drawing a mere dribble of blood.

He led the horse to the shade at the side of the track, waiting until it had calmed. Running his hands through his hair, rubbing sweat from his temples. He shouldn’t linger too long; Serrault must know the horse couldn’t gallop madly for hours—if he had any sense, he’d have sent his troopers after Rothbury. Once the horse had recovered a little, Rothbury ought to go on. Alone. That was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? To get rid of Lockhart? The man was at best a nuisance, at worst a threat.

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