One of the hounds stopped at a log beside the stream and yapped with excitement. The other splattered across the water to join it. Both sniffed at the fallen tree with great care, pacing up and down its length several times.
To Tate, the dogs appeared hesitant. If the scent of a slave led out of the stream, they would take it. If it did not, then they would continue following the flow of the water in the hope of picking it up soon. Yet they appeared torn between these two choices.
“Why do they seem so confused?” asked Hughes as the dogs continued investigating the log.
“I don’t know,” said Tate. “If these were younger dogs, I’d say a fox was distracting them. But these two are experienced. They’re onto something, and they don’t know what to make of it.”
One dog finally moved away from the log and into the woods. It had only gone about ten feet, however, when it turned around and barked. Its companion did not follow. Instead, it jogged back to the bank of the stream, pointed its snout in the direction they had been traveling, and barked a reply.
“They’re having a disagreement,” said Tate. “One wants to go into the trees and the other wants to stay with the stream.”
“Then it’s obvious what has happened,” said Hughes. “The slaves have split up. They must have panicked. I suggest we split up as well. You go into the woods because that’s where your dog wants to go, and I’ll follow the creek. We’ll have them soon!”
“I’m not so sure. It might make more sense to stay together-to catch one, and then the other.”
“Nonsense,” said Hughes. “It could take a couple of hours to track down just one of them. By then we would have allowed the gap between us and the other runaway to widen. I want to get them both, Tate. This is not a suggestion-it’s an order.”
Tate scowled at that comment. He did not care for orders coming from someone other than Bennett, though he understood Hughes to be Bennett’s man on this chase. Why had Bennett insisted that Hughes join him on this jaunt? He had spent the early part of their pursuit wishing one of the other overseers was with him instead.
“Very well,” Tate said at last, and he crashed into the trees.
Hughes watched him go. The man was good, he had to admit, even if there was a whiff of insubordination about him. Splitting up was the right thing to do, though. Capturing just one of the slaves rather than both was not necessarily half a success-it might very well be a total failure. What he needed was that picture. Only one of them could have it. Or perhaps each of them carried a copy. Whatever the case, Hughes knew he had to find both Portia and Joe. There was no other way to be sure an image of Mazorca did not fall into the wrong hands.
He continued down the stream, letting his dog dart from side to side. The animal had picked up the pace a bit. It sensed that success was at hand, and so did Hughes.
About twenty minutes after leaving Tate, Hughes and his dog came upon another big tree that had fallen into the creek. It lay horizontal but was not dead. Branches reached upward for the sun.
The animal let out a yelp and looked back at Hughes. It seemed eager to rush into the woods. When Hughes did not respond immediately, the dog issued a torrent of barks. “So you think it’s time, do you, boy?” said Hughes, unhooking the long leash. The dog did not budge, but Hughes could see the excitement in its eyes. He smiled. “Get ’em!” he snapped, and the dog zipped into the trees.
Hughes examined the young branches on the fallen tree and noticed that one of them had cracked near its base. Beneath the bark, the wood was pale yellow. This was a fresh wound. Somebody had stepped on the tree.
Hughes could not match the dog’s speed, but he followed its barking. He half expected Portia or Joe to run his way begging for deliverance from the sharp fangs and claws of a fierce dog whose first instinct was to cripple its prey. The young man walked up a small rise and along the edge of an open field, always following the sound of the dog. When he reentered the woods, he heard the barking grow more intense. It probably meant that the dog had spotted a slave. Hughes jogged in the direction of the noise.
In a couple of minutes, he was there. His dog was running in circles and barking like mad at the foot of a tree. About eight feet off the ground, on a low-lying limb, quivered Portia. She kept her eyes locked on the dog. She was paralyzed by fear.
Hughes could not keep from smiling. “Hello, my dear.”
A few minutes later, everyone was gathered in the cabin. Davis held his head in his hands, still dizzy from being bowled over; Stephens, having been yanked out of the water by Springfield, was soaked and coughing. Mallory held a towel to his bloody nose. Toombs was unscathed but twitched with nervousness. They were all disarmed and sitting. Higginson continued to watch over them from his boat. Clark described how he had followed Davis and the others from the hotel but was recognized and forced on board the boat at gunpoint.
“What’s the cargo?” asked Rook.
“I don’t know,” said Clark.
“Let’s find out.”
Rook and Springfield left the cabin and removed the hatch cover closest to them. Below it was a pile of coal. They yanked off the next cover, with the same result. Removing the third panel exposed even more of the stuff.
“This doesn’t look good,” muttered Springfield.
“We’re not done yet,” said Rook.
One by one they tore off the hatch covers, always finding coal beneath. Finally, with just two panels remaining, they discovered something else: a dozen wooden kegs.
“What do you suppose that is?” asked Springfield.
“I have an idea,” said Rook. “Wait here.” The colonel went back to the cabin and found a hatchet. When he returned, he broke open the top of the keg. Black powder spilled out.
Rook examined the other kegs and searched between them. When he saw what he was looking for, he reached down and pulled up a white coil of string. He set it on top of a keg and hacked it in half. A fine black powder poured out of the string too.
“Do you know what this is?” asked Rook.
“No.”
“It’s a fuse. These kegs are full of blasting powder.”
Hughes whistled loudly, silencing the dog and compelling it to sit still. He thought that Portia would be relieved to see him, but instead she seemed to panic. She grabbed a branch above her head and prepared to pull herself higher into the tree.
“You should be happy to see me, Portia,” he said. “I’m the only thing that stands between you and this vicious creature Mr. Bennett forced me to take along on our little romp in the woods.”
Portia spit in his direction. A big dollop of dribble landed on his forehead.
Hughes was stunned by her act. Why did she refuse to come down? He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.
“This is silly, Portia. I mean you no harm. I merely want to take you back home, where you belong.”
Portia frowned. “Get away from me,” she said and then spit again. This time Hughes was ready and her aim not as good. The projectile landed on the ground near his feet. The dog, still sitting at attention, growled.
“Really, Portia. I’m sorry it has to come to this, but you leave me little choice,” said Hughes, pulling a pistol from his holster. “Come down right now, or I will use this, as much as I would regret doing so.”
Portia did not move immediately. Her alternatives were few. She could climb higher, but that would not stop Hughes from shooting her. Jumping at him did not seem like a good idea either-she was more likely to break her own bones than to hurt him. She scanned the other trees nearby but saw nothing to encourage her. Only one option made sense. She remembered something her grandfather once told her: When you don’t have a choice, you don’t have a problem. That was a bleak bit of advice, but it seemed that surrender probably was her only real choice. She eased herself down from the branch. A minute later she was on the ground. Hughes put his gun back into his belt, and Portia turned to face her pursuer.