Backing into a dark corner, Josh disappeared from Slyke’s view. Slyke could wait. His adversary had no place to run. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” he shouted laughingly. “You do not want to hide like a rat, do you?” Slyke’s eyes widened as Josh came out of the corner, running at him. The pitchfork in Josh’s hands changed the odds. The four flat fingers of steel glowed like silver daggers. Slyke backed into the wall next to Cicero’s stall. Josh did not stop, sprinting the final three strides. Slyke flipped the knife, grabbing its blade in preparation for a throw. He brought his right arm up – too late. Josh had already closed the distance. With a powerful, lightening thrust, he drove the pitch fork into Slyke’s gut. Josh’s power doubled by hate forced the sharp ends through Slyke’s muscles and intestines into the pine wall behind. Slyke could not move. His knife hand froze above him. He looked down, to see his body nailed to the wall. Slyke’s eyes teared up. The pain was agonizing. The blurry figure in front of him did not move. “Feel the hot blade, Slyke. Feel what all the others have felt.” The knife fighter was literally fastened to the wall. The victim now, his squeal - “A-a-a-agh!” – split the air. The knife slid from his hand. Never had he felt pain like this. Never had he seen his past in the present. Even as he pulled on the pitchfork, his white eyes raised to the ceiling, he saw again the deaths of his parents at the hands of the Cherokee braves – the moment when hatred entered his heart, never to leave. The long decline of his life into merciless death dealing saturated his thoughts. Grabbing the handle with both hands, Slyke grunted as he attempted to rock the handle back and forth. He pushed and pulled at the pitchfork – to no avail. The frontiersman’s strength must have reached that of the biblical Samson. The tool could not be moved. Slyke gave homage to his conqueror. “Bowman, I am . . . crucified.” With his next try, he merely gurgled. He looked down to see his abdomen distended from the blood flowing out of a major artery. Josh retrieved the pistol and held it to Slyke’s forehead. Slyke pushed his head against the barrel, wanting a quick death. Josh lowered the weapon and leaned forward. He spoke into Slyke’s ear, the words coming from a place that he would never conquer, submerged but cemented in his soul, a place still cruel and savage. “Die with the pain.” Josh stepped back as Slyke’s head dropped. As the end came, his upper body slumped over upon the pitchfork that still held him. Josh waited for his breathing to slow, then stuck the pistol into his sash. Cicero snorted. Josh patted him. He turned. She stood at the end of the pathway, one hand to her mouth. “My God, Josh.” He came up to her and reached out but she backed away. “He killed the man who saved my life.” She stared at him, hearing him, but still shocked by a display of violence like none she had ever seen. “Have you a shovel?” She motioned to a spade leaning against a wall. “Where can we bury him?” “Next to the pile of rocks in my meadow,” she answered. “We can use Cicero.” With only a lanthorn, the odd burial party dragged the dead Slyke to the meadow. Josh dug the grave and threw rocks over the loose dirt. Slyke had reached his final, ignominious, resting place. “You stayed all this time, waiting for him.” Josh threw a last rock on the grave and began walking, quickly, back to the house. “I stayed for other reasons.” With Cicero in tow, she struggled to keep up. “All this time, nothing but revenge on your mind.” “No.” She was quiet for a moment as they stumbled out of the meadow, past the stable. “You came from a savage land and . . . and that was savagery. You will never put your weapons down, will you.” “The world has not let me.” “The world? Don’t blame this on the world!” He stopped. She nearly collided with him. “I blame only myself!” She dropped her eyes. He continued on to the house; other matters needed tending. She followed him into the courtyard. “The Regulars are out,” he said over his shoulder. “On this road. You would do well to leave your house until the danger passes.” “Do others know?” she asked, trying to keep up. “It appears every person between here and Cambridge knows. Signal guns have been fired. Alarm bells have been rung.” “And the militia?” “On their way to Lexington.” They entered the house and reached the hallway. He gathered his weapons, powder horn, and cartridge bag. Her attitude had returned. She eyed him suspiciously. “Have you a plan, or are you merely moving on?” “I came here to warn you.” “The British have no interest in me or my house. If you think I am going to hide in the woods while you sit in front of my fireplace with a glass of brandy, you are sadly mistaken.” “Anne, Anne, will you please shut up? I am not going to stay here. I am going to Lexington. Take my horse if you need him. Take some food and water.” “I will . . . think on it.” “Do that,” he growled, his face inches away. Then he strode down the hall and out the door.
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