“A big man like Campion couldn’t hide, no matter where,” said a man with a muffled voice.
“Well, he has, damn him,” the rider countered with no small amount of frustration. He had a deep bass voice that sounded as if it came up all the way from his toes. A voice that would be hard to forget. An English voice.
His companion on horseback added, “Not only that, who would have thought he’d fight instead of turning tail and leaving the girl to us? What’s she to him?”
“Money,” the first rider answered. “Well, we’re wasting our time at this point. How’s your nose?”
“Broken. The bloody sod will pay for it when I get my hands on him,” the muffled voice responded, and Lyssa knew this must be Mason. So, the Irishman hadn’t killed him. Now Lyssa wished he had.
One of the others asked, “What do you want to do, Fielder? Your call.” They all had London accents.
Mason growled out that he wasn’t leaving until the deed was done. “She could have seen me. I’ve no desire to have my neckstretched for attempting murder. And beware, lads, if I go, you’ll all go.”
Even from her position on the ground, Lyssa could sense an instant negative response to his words from the others. No one liked to be threatened, especially murderers. Two of his comrades started to complain, but the man called Fielder, the one with the deep voice, cut them off.
“Are you certain they could recognize you, Mason?”
“How could they not?”
“How unfortunate,” was the only warning Lyssa, or apparently even Mason had, before a pistol shot was fired.
Mason hit the ground with a thud, falling on his back, his left hand outstretched toward where she and the Irishman hid. She could even see his fingers twitch one last time.
She wanted to cry out, to gasp, to react in some way to the horror. The Irishman caught her in time, raising his fingers up to her lips, his own mouth close to hers as if he would swallow any sound she made. They both waited, their bodies tense, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air.
“Did you have to kill him, Fielder?” the other mounted man complained.
“Couldn’t you see him shaking? He would have broke and turned us all in. Here, you two bury him.”
“With what, Fielder?” one of them asked.
“There’s a ravine down that way. Throw him in it and put some logs over him. He’ll decay before he is discovered.”
Mason’s body was unceremoniously picked up by his arms and legs and carried off.
Once they were alone, the horseman with Fielder said, “We started off with six and now we are down by two, and we still haven’t gotten the girl. Campion is better than we thought. What do you want to do? Keep searching the woods?”
“No,” Fielder responded. “It’s a waste of time. We’ll head back to the inn. Campion needs to get the girl to London as quickly as possibly or else he won’t get paid. After all is said and done, he’s still nothing more than a mercenary. I’ll wager he’ll try and beat us to the inn where the maid and coach wait and then attempt to outrun us to London. He knows it will be harder for us to kill her on English soil.”
“What if he gets by us?”
“He won’t,” Fielder answered with certainty. “We’ll guard the roads.”
“By ourselves?” his companion asked incredulously.
“We’ll hire help,” Fielder answered. “The girl’s hair is a damn beacon. Anyone who sees it doesn’t forget her. They can’t go far on foot. We’ll catch up with them and then we’ll see if Campion feels like such a bloody hero.” There was a clicking sound that she remembered from recently and she realized Fielder had been reloading his weapon.
The two other men tramped back to join the party. “Is it done?” Fielder asked.
“Aye,” was the answer.
“Then get your horses and let’s head to the inn.”
“What about the maid?”
“We’ll pay her off. She did a good job of leaving signs of the path they were taking and deserves her money. She is also smart enough to go running off and keep her mouth shut.”
One man asked what they were going to do with Campion’s horses.
