Drugeth had told them he would release them once his expedition got far enough away from any chance of pursuit. Okay, he hadn't officially "given his word." But Denise was pretty sure that the genuine articles when it came to noblemen didn't bother with silly flippery like solemn vows, except on formal occasions. He'd said what he would do, and so he would. To do otherwise would be a transgression of a code he took seriously.
Good enough, she decided, for a day that included bombing your own guys. Jesus, it'd take her years to live that down. Even Minnie would make fun of her, when she found out.
But when they reached the small clearing where the defectors had been waiting, things immediately got tense.
Unfortunately, even sober, Jay Barlow was nobody's idea of a nobleman-and he'd apparently spent the time since Drugeth left him with the others getting half-plastered. Him and Mickey Simmons. There was another prize for you.
"That's the fucking bitch!" he shouted, when he spotted Noelle. He thrust a half-empty bottle into Mickey's hand and took several steps forward. To make things perfect, he had his hand dramatically positioned to yank out the silly cowboy gun on his hip. He looked like something out of Grade D western.
Drugeth moved up in front of him. "Enough, Barlow. Get back on the wagon. Now. We have to be moving."
"Fuck that!" Barlow pointed the forefinger of his right hand accusingly at Noelle. Unfortunately, he was left-handed and his left hand was now gripping the gun butt. "She's the one went after Horace! I say we shoot her now and good riddance."
Matching deed to word, he yanked the gun out of the holster.
Keenan squawked. Denise probably did too. She wasn't sure, because whatever she'd been about to say was stifled in her throat by Drugeth's sword.
Blurring like an arc. Barlow's gun and the hand holding it went sailing off somewhere. Barlow stared at the stump, gushing blood. His expression seemed one of amazement, not pain.
But it was Drugeth's expression that mostly registered on Denise. The Hungarian seemed to be in some sort of weird brown study. Just standing there, the sword in his hand, point down, dripping a little blood from the tip, while he contemplated Jay Barlow.
He shifted deftly to the side, the sword blurred again, and a fountain of blood gushed out of Barlow's neck. His whole throat looked to have been cut, from one ear to the other.
Paralyzed by shock, Denise realized that Drugeth had just been calculating whether to keep Barlow alive or not. The decision having come up negative, he'd shifted to the side so he wouldn't get blood all over himself.
And he didn't, not a drop. Barlow collapsed to his knees and then to the ground. He was effectively already dead.
Mickey Simmons was shouting, and clawing for something in the wagon. A gun, Denise assumed.
"Kill him," said Drugeth. Quietly, almost conversationally.
Gage and Gardiner's shotguns seemed to go off simultaneously. The heavy slugs hammered Simmons into the side of the wagon. He collapsed to the ground.
A lot of the American defectors were making noise now. Billie Jean Mase came running up to Drugeth, screaming at him. For a moment, Denise expected to see her throat sliced in half, too. But Drugeth simply planted a boot in her belly and that was that. She went down, gasping for air.
"Silence," said Drugeth. Not hollering, exactly, but the word carried like nobody's business. "You will all be silent."
That shut them up. Including Denise. Which was a good thing, or she might have giggled hysterically, because-well-there was something insanely amusing about the scene, if she ignored the gore. It was like watching a bunch of rabbits suddenly realize they'd pissed off a bobcat. Or a cougar.
Drugeth drew out a handkerchief and cleaned off the blade, then slid the sword back into the scabbard. Throughout, he did not take his eyes once off the defectors clustered around the two wagons in the clearing.
"I told Ms. Stull and her companions that they would be released unharmed once we were far enough from pursuit. So I spoke, and so it will be. And I am no longer inclined to tolerate any obstruction or dispute. I am in command, not you. You will obey me in all things, until we reach Vienna."
He waited a few seconds, to see if any protest would be made.
None was. What a shocker.
"And now, we must dig two graves. Mr. O'Connor, perhaps there is some tool in the wagon that might serve."
"We didn't bring any shovels," said Allen O'Connor uncertainly. His voice was a little shaky, maybe, but not much. He certainly didn't seem stricken by grief. Leaving aside the shock of the sudden blood-letting, Denise didn't think many of the defectors-leaving aside the cretin Billie Jean and Caryn Barlow-had any serious personal attachment to the two dead men. Simmons' wife was a down-timer, a widow he'd married the year before. But she wasn't in the group. Mickey must have decided to abandon her when he defected.
And the baby they'd had a few months ago. And his two step-children by his wife's first marriage.
The shithead.
Qualifying that, the now-dead shithead. And good riddance.
O'Connor's son Neil started digging amongst the goods piled in the wagon. "I'll find something."
Marina Barclay swallowed. "Are you sure, Mr. Drugeth? I mean, you were saying we needed to move as soon as…"
Her voice trailed off, as it must have dawned on her that she was perilously close to "obstruction and dispute." Nervously, she eyed the sword.
But either Drugeth was inclined to be lenient toward women-Billie Jean, still gasping for breath, supported that theory-or he was simply not given to bloodshed for the sake of it. That theory was supported by everything else Denise had seen.
Including his next words.
"They are not animals, to be left to scavengers. Time presses, yes, but God created time also. Everything we do is watched by Him."
Noelle got off her horse, holding a small spade that she'd retrieved from her saddlebag. "Let's get started," she said. "Officer Drugeth is right." She seemed quite calm, although with Noelle you never knew. She was the kind of person who clamped down her emotions under stress. She didn't so much as glance at Drugeth.
Less than half a minute later, having found a good spot, she started digging. Drugeth came up and offered to replace her. But, still without looking at him, she shook her head.
"You can spell me when I get tired. This'll take a while."
Denise started digging alongside her-more like just breaking up the ground-with a heavy stick she found in the woods. Meanwhile, the two male O'Connors and Tim Kennedy dug the other grave, with some tools they'd found in the wagon and a spade that Gardiner had in his own saddlebags.
When Noelle did relinquish the shovel to Drugeth, maybe half an hour later, she finally looked at him.
"What is your rank?"
He was back to that sad-eyed sorrowful-look business. "It is quite complicated, and depends mostly on the situation. For now, 'captain' will do."
She nodded, still with no expression. "Why did you kill him, Captain Drugeth? You'd already disarmed him."
"Literally," muttered Denise; again, having to fight off a semi-hysterical giggle.
"I am not certain," was the soft reply. "I fear some of it was simply ingrained reflex, although I strove to contain it. First, because it would have been a struggle to keep him alive on the journey, with such a wound, and would inevitably have slowed us down. Second, because I decided if I didn't kill one of them now, I would have to kill one of them later. Perhaps more. They are undisciplined people, prone to emotional outbursts. That was bad enough before you appeared to make it worse. Clearly, they have an animus against you."
He took a long breath. "And, finally, because he was not essential to my mission. Not even important, really. Neither was Simmons."