Page 69 of Heart on the Line

But if she slowed, one of Lockhart’s bullets would take her down.

Ride, Grace, he silently urged. Ride.

A movement caught Amos’s eye, drawing his attention away from Grace. Lockhart was pivoting toward him, working the lever of his repeater.

Time to go.

Amos dodged around to the back side of the tree again and sprinted cross-country, keeping the tree between himself and Lockhart to make the gunman’s shot as difficult as possible. Unfortunately, that meant running in the opposite direction from Grace, but he’d veer east to search for the road as soon as he put adequate distance between himself and Lockhart’s rifle.

Grace must have gotten in a good shot to leave the gunman favoring his left side so significantly. With any luck, Lockhart would be too wounded to chase down either of them. Yet Amos couldn’t count on that. Vengeance would fuel the imposter now, and that could be a powerful motivator. Amos had to find Grace and keep her safe until Lockhart was either behind bars or dead.

So he kept running. In the dark over uneven terrain. He stumbled more than he didn’t, but he never went down. As if the Lord’s mighty hand had a steadying grip on his collar, keeping him on his feet.

The landscape changed, steepening into sloping hills and slowing his progress. Yet he ran on. Through the cramps in his side. Through aching lungs that screamed at him to rest. He ignored it all, keeping his eyes focused on a tall cylinder that began to separate itself from the rest of the darkness. Too tall to be a juniper. Too thin to be a mesquite.

If it was what he thought it was, it just might be their salvation.

So fixed was Amos on the pole that he failed to notice the road until he practically tripped over it. Even then, he paid it little heed as he crossed to the wooden pillar on the far side. A dark wire extended along its top on either side.

Telegraph wire. The very wire that led from the depot in Seymour to Grace’s office in Harper’s Station.

Amos stumbled to a halt and braced a bent arm against the pole. He rested his forehead on his wrist as he struggled to catch his breath. His chest heaved, but his mind churned, testing and discarding theory after theory for climbing the pole. If he had his clawed climbing boots, he could reach the top in a heartbeat. But he didn’t. Neither did he have a ladder. The gun belt he’d borrowed from Shaw would not expand enough to encompass both himself and the pole, which rendered it useless as a climbing belt. So he was left with good old-fashioned arm and leg coordination. Not exactly his forte.

Give me strength, he prayed as he straightened. He dug his pocketknife out of his front trouser pocket, extended the blade, then placed the handle between his teeth. Amos glanced upward, eying the distance. Twenty-five feet. Maybe thirty.

Not a problem, he told himself. He could do this.

He stepped close to the pole and hugged it at chest height. A stinging in his right arm reminded him of his injury. A tear in the fabric a few inches below his shoulder caught his eye, but he didn’t see much blood. Probably just a graze. Still hurt like the dickens, though, not that it mattered. His arm could be on fire, and he’d still find a way to get up this pole.

Amos grunted as he tightened his abdominal muscles and drew his legs up to cling to the pole, bending one foot behind the pole while pressing the instep of the other against the side. Holding firm with his left arm, he lifted with his right and pushed up with his legs. One hand up, then the other, thigh muscles straining to maintain his hold on the pole, his feet already aching from the awkwardness of their position. As he reached a third time, the soles of his shoes slipped. Down he slid, splinters stabbing his palms before he landed hard on his rear.

The shoes had to come off.

Amos yanked them from his feet, followed by his stockings. He spared a few moments to pull the worst of the splinters from his hands, then replaced the knife between his teeth, set his shoulders, and tried again.

He contorted his legs around the pole and slowly inched his way upward. He glued his gaze to the round, glass insulator at the top of the pole. That was where he needed to be.

The back of his right foot curled around the pole, keeping him from sliding down as his left foot craned sideways to find purchase. Hand over hand he crawled. Muscles fatiguing. Sweat beading on his upper lip and rolling down the back of his neck.

Just . . . a little . . . farther.

The insulator was nearly within reach. A groan ripped from his throat as Amos forced his exhausted body to pull one more time.

Finally, the top. The insulator sat at eye level, and telegraph wire bumped against the side of his head. Amos stretched his left hand up to cup the pointed top of the pole and support his weight while he crossed his legs for a more stable grip.

With his right hand, he took hold of the telegraph wire and pulled in some of the slack. Wires needed extra length so they wouldn’t snap when the wind gusted. Thankfully north Texas had plenty of wind, so he had a decent amount of play to work with. Feeding the extra line to his left hand, he held it steady a couple inches from where the main line was fastened to the insulator with a twist of support wire.

Then he eased his jaw open and grasped the handle of his knife. Working carefully, he cut a section of wire between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Once he had it cut, he dropped the knife to the ground, no longer needing it. Keeping one end of the wire pinned between his left thumb and the top of the pole, he took the other end in his right hand and started tapping out a message.

When he’d put the local operators on alert before leaving, he’d asked them to stay late in case anything urgent came through. Hopefully the operator in Seymour remained at his post.

Lockhart spotted in clearing half mile east of Gladstone farm. Injured, armed, angry. Grace making escape on horseback. Send sheriff at once.

Without a line tapping clamp with a portable sounder and key, there was no way to tell if his message had been received. He’d have to leave that part of the equation in God’s hands.

Amos twisted the wire ends back together, crimping them as best he could with his fingers. He’d put in a request for a maintainer to come out and splice it properly later.

As he released the wire to drape back into place, his feet slipped. Gasping, he grabbed for the pole with his right arm. His cheek smashed against the wood. His heart throbbed in his chest, and his muscles clenched. But his limbs were too fatigued. He couldn’t support his weight any longer. He started to slide.