The Morning River: Saga of the Mountain Sage, Book One: A Classic Historical Western Series by W. Michael Gear

Author:W. Michael Gear [Gear, W. Michael]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781639778249
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2023-05-16T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

The question is whether, assuming we recognize in the whole series of events nothing but natural necessity, we may yet regard the same event which in the one instance is an effect of nature only, or in the other instance is an effect of freedom; or whether there is a direct contradiction between these two kinds of causality.

—Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason

A door slammed, jerking Richard from his dreams of Boston. He had been walking through the Commons, talking to his long-dead mother. An odd dream for him, but it kept his mind from dwelling on his growing thirst.

“Leve! Wake up!” a harsh voice ordered. A boot jabbed at his ribs.

Light filtered through the cracks beneath the roof. Morning had come. Richard twisted his head and looked up. A big man with a black beard gazed down at him. He wore the boatman’s loose white shirt, red sash, wool cap, and high, laced moccasins. Like the others of his kind, his arms and shoulders bulged with muscles.

“You rest up, mon ami? Sleep good, eh, bourgeois? I should tell you, so did we. In the Le Barras Hotel, eh? Imagine, poor engagés like us, living like kings with so many fresh banknotes to spend!”

Richard wriggled around and tried to sit up. The big man flattened him with a vicious kick to the ribs. The pain made him gasp.

“You be still, pig.” The boatman pulled a long knife from his belt. The honed blade gleamed in the slitted light. Richard moaned into his gag.

“François and I have talked, mon ami. You have made our fortunes. More wealth than we would have seen had we counted every sou to pass through our lives since the day of birth. But, if you lived, told the wrong person…like Chouteau, perhaps, or Judge Lucas, it could be very bad for us. You understand, do you not? We are not, how do you say, wicked men. Just practical.”

Richard closed his eyes and tensed, waiting for the stab of cold steel and the pain that would follow. Instead, he could feel his arms being wiggled and one hand flopped onto the ground in front of him. He opened his eyes. His hand looked horrible, blue in color and mottled. Then it began to hurt worse than even that blinding headache.

“Get up!” The order was followed by another kick.

A rough hand jerked the gag out. Richard’s mouth and tongue felt made of canvas.

“Who…are you?” Richard croaked.

“Get up!” The big bearded man repeated. He bent down, lowering the long steel blade until Richard stared cross-eyed down the shining length. The sharp point dimpled the tip of Richard’s nose. “I do not have to leave you beautiful, mon ami. Perhaps you ‘ave seen men with their nostrils slit? Among the Maha, it is said that a man can run faster that way. Get more air to the lungs.”

Richard jerked back—only to flop about on the floor as his numb hands and legs refused to support his weight.

“I can’t!” Richard wailed.

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