She struggled to free herself from his grip and ran to the middle of the raft, where two Schongau raftsmen were guiding the vessel with long poles. She knew them by sight from Semer’s tavern. They looked over at her hesitantly but didn’t intervene. Magdalena cursed. She was probably nothing more in these men’s eyes than the hangman’s tramp getting her just deserts.
For Oswald Hainmiller, the whole thing became more and more of a game. He ran after her, grinning, while she fled past the raftsmen toward the back of the raft. She clambered over crates and packages, past millstones and sacks of marble and salt. Finally, she reached the back of the raft, but the merchant was still close behind her.
“Very good,” Hainmiller purred, tugging at her bodice. “Here, at least we won’t be disturbed.”
Magdalena looked around. To her left, she spotted a large wooden cart full of quicklime, shrouded with a makeshift linen cover. Thinking quickly, she removed the waxed tarp, hoisted herself up, and skipped along the edge of the cart, smiling and swaying her hips suggestively.
“Come on!” she called to the merchant, who by now was out of breath. “If you want me, you’ve got to come up here and get me.”
Oswald Hainmiller hesitated a moment, then pulled his fat body up onto the side of the cart and edged his way toward her. “In just a second…just a second…I’ll have you,” he groaned.
When he’d gotten just an arm’s length away, Magdalena suddenly gave him a shove, and he waved his hands wildly in the air trying to catch his balance.
“You damn slut!” he roared before falling headfirst into the cart.
A cloud of white dust covered him, and before long, he started to scream. The quicklime was in his eyes, in his mouth, and in every little open cut. Writhing, he coughed and finally pulled himself out of the cart. His coat and the jacket underneath were covered with white spots that started eating away at the cloth wherever there was any moisture. Magdalena jumped down from the cart and grinned. At the very least, Oswald Hainmiller would need a new wardrobe before his next tryst. And perhaps a new face.
After hesitating briefly, she took two handfuls of the white powder and carefully filled the side pockets of her overcoat, being careful that the strong, caustic powder didn’t get wet and eat through her clothing, too. Who knows, maybe she could use it again.
“I’ll…I’ll make you pay for this, you hangman’s wench!” Hainmiller, panting and half blind, leaned over the back of the raft to wash his burning eyes in the water. Seconds later, he was squirming and screaming on the floor of the raft as the powder, hissing and smoking, reacted with the water. “You damned slut!” he howled, crawling across the logs in search of a clean rag to wipe his face. “You won’t enjoy anything in beautiful Augsburg, that I promise you!”
“From now on, leave me alone,” she shouted, moving to the front again, where the Schongau raftsmen stared at her curiously. “You, too,” she shouted, “you lecherous, cloven-hoofed scum! You’re all trouble!”
Sitting down on a crate in the bow, she wrapped her arms around her knees and stared straight ahead. Her mother always warned her that most men were either horny fools or unfeeling blocks of ice. It was best to have nothing to do with them. Magdalena started to cry, but not wanting any of the nosy people standing around to see how sad she was, she brushed away her tears.
At this moment, like a little child, she wished her father were there.
Jakob Kuisl slid down the bank until his feet came into contact with the first rung. An iron railing ran along the rock face before disappearing into a fissure after about fifty feet. For a moment, the hangman considered lighting the torches he’d brought along, but he decided against this, lest he warn the bandits. Inside the fissure, everything was black, but soon his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Above him, daylight was cut off briefly as each of the men squeezed his way through the crevice. There were only five of them, but Kuisl knew he could count on each, particularly Andre Wiedemann, who had fought with him near Augsburg in the battle against the Swedish invaders. But the blacksmith and the two other men looked like seasoned veterans, too.
After another fifty feet, the railing ended at the foot of the rock chimney. In one corner, Kuisl could make out a narrow passageway and hear the sound of muffled voices and laughter inside. The men slipped to the ground carefully on both sides of the passageway, and the hangman ventured a quick glance.
Behind the knee-high entrance, a short tunnel opened onto a large cave a few feet away. Over a crackling fire, a few rabbits sizzled on a spit. Now and then a ragged figure walked past the fire. Jakob Kuisl could see more men sitting on the other side of the flames, huddled in fur and rags against the cold. Someone belched loudly, others laughed, and two others still were quarreling loudly. Jakob could also hear the whine of a small child and smell sweat, gunpowder, and burning meat in the air.
Smoke stung Kuisl’s eyes; he blinked. He had been right. They had found the winter quarters of the Scheller gang, and it looked now as if most of them had returned in the evening from their daily forays. The hangman smiled grimly. There could hardly be a better moment to put a stop to their game. From the voices, Kuisl could only guess how many there were-perhaps around thirty, among them many women and children.
He nodded to Wiedemann, Kronauer, and the others; then he cut off six of the twelve wooden powder flasks from the chain around his shoulder. In each, there was enough powder for one charge. With a leather cord, he tied six of them together so tightly they could all fit in one hand.
He squinted, estimating how far away the thieves were, and raised his arm. With one smooth gesture, he tossed the self-made bomb through the tunnel and directly into the fire.
The explosion was so strong it threw Kuisl back a full yard into the tunnel. The blast reverberated from the rocky walls of the caverns and corridors, a thundering echo so loud it seemed the mountain might collapse. Jakob Kuisl felt a faint tingling in his ears, and it was a while before he could hear the screams, coughing, and cursing coming from the robbers’ den. He gave a sign to the four other men, and they crawled through the low tunnel, entering the inferno with their sabers drawn.
The explosion had blown embers and burning logs throughout the cave and caused rocks and boulders to fall from the ceiling. Ragged men and women crawled around, trying to get their bearings despite the heavy smoke. A few lifeless figures surrounded what was left of the fireplace, and agonized screams and the cries of children resounded through the smoke-blackened cave.
The hangman hesitated. Deciding against an attack, he shouted in a loud, deep voice that could be heard everywhere in the cave. “It’s over, you dirty thieves. Now put down your weapons and leave, nice and easy, with your hands up. There’s a small army of well-armed citizens waiting for you outside, and if you behave and surrender, then-”
A dark shadow flew at him. At the last moment, he ducked and the blade only brushed his cheek. The man in front of him was at least a large as he was, and though his face, framed by a shaggy beard, was blackened with soot, his eyes flashed like glowing embers.
Kuisl’s voice sounded deep and threatening. “Put down your weapons and go outside. You’ll only make this worse.”
“Go to hell, you bastard,” the man snarled, and raised his saber again. This time the hangman was ready. He jumped back, pulling out a loaded pistol and pressing the trigger in one motion.
The bullet hit the robber in the shoulder and threw him back against the wall. As he stared in disbelief at the bloody mass where his right arm had once been, the hangman took out his larch-wood cudgel and struck the giant so hard that he tumbled to the floor against the rock wall.