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"How about a vote, Captain?" Post asked.
"Sure. Ewenge?"
All Valentine saw was the top of his hat as the man spoke. "Yes, sir. I give up."
"Striper?"
The Jamaican nodded. He took out a small eating knife and tossed it to the ground.
"Slave labor camp's not my style," Jefferson said.
"You're free to try to make it on your own."
"Okay then," Jefferson said. He knelt and relaced his boots.
"Tayland's still out," Post said.
Valentine handed Jefferson his canteen. "That leaves you, Will."
"Wonder if they'll send me back to New Orleans to hang as a renegade?"
"If that happens, I'll surrender and hang with you," Valentine said.
Post shrugged. "Sure. Don't do that though, sir. Just find my wife and tell her what happened on the Thunderbolt."
The only other refugee from the column couldn't speak. The horse just shifted a foreleg out and gulped air.
"That's it then," Valentine said. He walked around to the rear of the horse, and opened Tayland's eye. The pupil reacted to the light of the overcast, but the former Texas wagon-man showed no sign of regaining consciousness. Valentine nodded to Post, who untied the saplings from the horse's saddle. They lowered the litter to the ground, placing it gently on the winter leaves. Jefferson shook hands with everyone, accepted Post's pistol, received a few words of encouragement and some jerkey in wax paper from Striper, and ran southward.
"I couldn't run if the devil himself poked me," Ewenge said, watching him go. Jefferson waved as he disappeared from sight. The Jamacian marine mechanically removed the horse's saddle and wiped the sweat from its back.
"They'll be here soon. Walk around a lot and mess up the tracks," Valentine told Post. "If they ask about me, tell them I took off hours ago."
"What about me?" Ahn-Kha asked.
"You left now. Scared Grog running for tall timber."
"You'll leave tracks just like Jefferson, Captain," Striper said. "Maybe they follow you too."
Valentine nodded to Ahn-Kha, who was, as usual, ahead of his human ally's thoughts in throwing a blanket over his shoulders. Ahn-Kha bent over and Valentine climbed onto his back. He clung there like a baby monkey.
"One set of tracks," Post said. "Good luck, sir. Don't worry about us. Remember to find Gail. Gail Foster, her maiden name was. Tell her..."
"You were wrong," Valentine offered.
Post bit his lip. "Just 'I'm sorry.""
Valentine thought of telling Post that he could tell her himself, but with hope vanished from the Ozarks like the winter sun, he couldn't bring himself to offer an empty lie to a friend.
* * * *
Ahn-Kha ran, legs pounding like twin piledrivers in countersynch, clutching his long Grog rifle in one hand and Valentine's empty gun in the other. The trees went by in a blur.
They splashed up an icy stream, startling a pair of ducks into flight. If the freezing water hurt the Grog's long-toed feet, he gave no indication.
Valentine heard a distant shot from the direction of Post's group.
"Stop," he told Ahn-Kha.
