The Last Orphan by Lowder Jeffrey

Author:Lowder, Jeffrey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rockhampton Press
Published: 2019-11-23T00:00:00+00:00

~24~

WHEN THE MOLTEN ANGER BEGAN TO COOL, Peter realized he couldn’t risk a direct encounter with Quincy’s men. He hid out until dark. Then, with only a slivered moon to light the way, he kept horse and tiny wagon off the thoroughfare, steering his rig through sagebrush flats in the general direction of the Gale place. He found a little hill overlooking the property from about fifty yards distant and tucked the wagon into a grove of scrub oak, low and densely gnarled. Peter retrieved his rifle from the wagon bed and ducked behind a bushy cluster to commence his watch.

The windows of the home glowed pale yellow, and it appeared none of Quincy’s horses were missing. Surely some, maybe all, of the Gales are home. The door opened suddenly, leaking light. A moment later, a large figure appeared, silhouetted in a dull corona of lamp shine. Quincy? A portly figure stepped out, then turned to close the door. It’s him. Peter’s heart jumped and his grip on the long gun tightened. He’s not on my track. Not just yet.

Barely seen in the dim light, Quincy moved his bulk in a semi-waddle to the nearby necessary, then closed the privy door behind him.

Peter’s racing mind now matched his runaway heart. He patted his rifle. The Enfield is accurate at triple this range. I can shoot him through the door right now and be done with the whole business. He raised the rifle and pressed its butt into his shoulder. With his right thumb, he adjusted the ladder sight to the estimated distance between the muzzle and the flimsy wooden door. Squinting his left eye closed, Peter sighted along the barrel with his right—but the gun bounced and jumped off target with every heartbeat that hammered through his chest and skull.

He finally lowered the rifle and shook his head, whispering, “Don’t be a damned fool, Peter Wilton. Shooting Quincy would do naught but give the militia justification to hunt you down and kill you.” He slumped to the ground, gun cradled in his lap.

“What now, then?” He tumbled the question over and over in his mind while darkness crept toward dawn.

***

Some hours had passed since Peter had begun the watch, and his bladder was painfully full. He stood, stepped a few feet away from his makeshift nest and unbuttoned his trousers. Holding the flaccid flesh in his right hand to direct the stream, he recalled how rigid the member had recently been. So much had transpired in the short time since the almost-adultery. He closed his eyes and relaxed. With a small sigh of relief, Peter drained away the discomfort, rolling the knots out of his neck while he finished up.

Outlining the mountains to the east, a thin stripe of purple was beginning to bleed into blue.

A distant shout: “Come on, boys. Let’s go find us that son of Satan and separate him from them tiny British balls.”

Peter pushed a branch aside. In the predawn gloom he could make out three boys following their father out the door, all carrying old style muzzle-loading rifles.

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