Nothing. Only the slow thud of hoofbeats from his and Remy’s mounts.
“We’re fortunate,” the Cajun whispered. “I don’t think anybody’s out there right now.”
“Yeah,” Luke breathed, “but I wouldn’t count us lucky until we see whether the bridge is there.”
The road was fairly straight, with only a few curves in it. They had just ridden around one when a large structure loomed in front of them about two hundred yards away. Luke recognized it as the covered bridge that crossed the James River.
“That’s it,” Remy said. “It’s still there.”
Luke grinned in the darkness. “Yeah.” His eyes searched the shadows around the bridge, looking for any sign of movement. “Seems to be deserted, too. But we’d better take a closer look before one of us goes back and tells the colonel the path is clear.”
“Absolutely.” Remy heeled his horse into a slightly faster gait. “Let’s go.”
Luke started to call out to his friend and tell him to slow down, but Remy was right, they didn’t really have any time to waste. As Colonel Lancaster had said, the farther away from Richmond they were by morning, the better. Luke rode after Remy.
They were about fifty feet away from the bridge when a sheet of orange muzzle flame split the night.
CHAPTER 4
Luke’s only warning was a sudden toss of his horse’s head a split second before the shots rang out, giving him just enough time to duck.
It was a good thing he did. As it passed over his head, he heard the sinister hum of a minié ball.
He pulled the revolver from his waistband—he had five rounds ready—and cocked the gun as he brought it up, turning the cylinder from the empty chamber on which the hammer had rested.
As several men on horseback burst out of the trees just short of the bridge, Luke thumbed off a couple rounds. Even though he couldn’t see their uniforms, he knew they had to be Yankee cavalrymen.
More shots blasted as muzzle flames continued to tear orange gashes in the darkness. He pulled hard on the reins to whirl his horse around and flee, but saw something that made him stop short.
A match had flared into life on the bridge. He could think of only one reason why somebody would be striking a lucifer out there.
To light the fuse attached to a keg of blasting powder.
The Yankees hadn’t destroyed the bridge yet, but only because they were just getting around to it.
“Cover me, Remy!” Luke yelled, and he did something the Yankees wouldn’t have expected in a million years. If he’d had time to think about it, likely he wouldn’t have done it.
He charged straight at them.
Luke leaned forward over his horse’s neck as he sent the animal lunging toward the cavalrymen. The revolver in his hand roared twice more. He saw one of the troopers topple loosely from the saddle. A glance over his shoulder told Luke his friend had taken cover in the trees at the side of the road and opened up with his revolver. Remy was firing, too.
The Yankees were confused. Instead of fleeing, as they had expected, the two Confederates were putting up a fight. The patrol’s charge had broken up, and the horses were milling around in the road.
Luke’s horse thundered between a couple Yankees. One of the cavalrymen drew a saber. Silvery moonlight winked off the blade as it started to slash toward Luke. He still had one round in the revolver. Tipping up the barrel, he triggered the gun.
The .36 caliber slug caught the saber-wielding cavalryman in the throat. A fountain of blood, black in the moonlight, sprayed from him as he went backward out of his saddle. Luke flashed past, unharmed.
With no time to reload the revolver, he jammed it back in his waistband. Up ahead, sparks flew in the darkness as the lit fuse burned toward a small keg filled with blasting powder. It would be enough to destroy the bridge. Even if the explosion didn’t blow the bridge in two, the fire it was bound to start would finish the job.
The fuse lighter stood in the middle of the bridge, vaguely illuminated by the sputtering glow. Confused by the unexpected fight of the Confederates, he took too long to decide whether to flee or stay. Luke was already on the bridge, his horse’s hooves ringing on the planks and echoing from the arched cover.
The Yankee lifted a rifle and fired. The ball whipped past Luke’s head.
Luke kicked his feet free of the stirrups and left the saddle in a diving tackle that sent him crashing into the enemy soldier. The collision’s impact drove the man backward off his feet.
Luke landed hard, too, knocking the breath out of him. He gasped for air as he scrambled to his knees. The powder keg was about ten feet from him, sitting against the wall on the left-hand side of the bridge. The fuse had only a few inches left to burn.
The Yankee wasn’t interested in fighting anymore. He just wanted to get the hell out of there before the powder went off and he was blown to bits. Leaping to his feet, he raced for the north end of the bridge.
Luke threw himself at the keg, snatched it up, and plucked the fuse from it as he rolled over. As he came up again, he flung the keg after the fleeing Yankee.
It landed beside the man and bounced past him. He screamed in sheer terror and stumbled, falling and hitting the ground right at the end of the bridge. He rolled over a couple times and came to a stop with the keg resting on its side a few feet away from him.
Luke heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats and looked back to see the cavalry patrol had regrouped. They charged toward him. Their revolvers roared as they opened fire.
Luke lunged toward the closest decorative opening in the cover of the bridge as bullets sizzled through the air right behind his back. Down at the far end of the bridge, the Yankee who’d lit the fuse screeched, “Stop shooting! Hold your—”
It was all he got out before one of the wild slugs aimed at Luke struck the powder keg. Luke saw the fierce burst of flames from the explosion out of the corner of his eye as he dived through the opening in the bridge cover.
There wouldn’t be enough left of that luckless Yankee to bury.
Luke had problems of his own. He was plunging through empty air toward the black surface of the James River.
He barely had time to drag a breath into his lungs before he struck the chilly water and went under. The river closed over him. He kept sinking for a moment before he was able to right himself.
He wasn’t the best swimmer in the world, but he stroked his arms and kicked his feet, fighting his way back to the surface until his head broke out of the water.
While he tried to stay afloat, gun thunder pealed and echoed along the bridge. The Yankees weren’t shooting at him, Luke realized. A separate fight was going on under the arched cover. Muzzle flashes were visible through the openings in the walls.
Since nobody seemed to be trying to kill him at the moment, he struggled toward the northern bank, which was closer. By the time he got there, the shooting had stopped and a couple horsemen emerged from under the cover near the site of the blast.
Luke didn’t know how he was going to put up a fight. His revolver wasn’t loaded, and getting dunked in the river probably had ruined his caps and powder. He still had his knife, but he wasn’t in any shape for hand-to-hand combat against overwhelming odds.
The Yankees could just sit there and shoot him while he tried to climb out of the river.
“Luke! Luke, is that you?”
The familiar voice sent a surge of relief through him. “Remy! Down here!”
The Cajun laughed. “Come out of there, you old water rat!”
With river water streaming from his clothes, Luke clambered onto the bank and collapsed. Remy dismounted and went down to help him.
“What happened?” Luke asked as he made it to his feet with Remy’s assistance.