Ghost River by Jon Coon (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

He edged toward the kitchen door, brandishing the chair as a shield and for a few precious seconds she dared to hope that he might retreat. William gave a bleated battle cry and dashed toward his opponent but at the last moment, the man slipped out of the way, as deftly as a Spanish bullfighter in the ring, letting the goat pass into the other room. The intruder slammed the door closed and turned.

Powder in the pan, girl, now shut the frizzen.

She had just finished the priming when the invader started toward her again, a murderous expression on his face. “Do not move,” she warned, raising the heavy weapon with effort. “I know how to use this.” The nanny goats bleated nervously as they heard William’s frustrated cries from beyond the closed door.

“Do you indeed, Madame,” Duncan said, his lip curling in a mocking grin. “That blunderbuss has not been fired since a Stuart was upon the throne of England and will likely not discharge again until the Jacobites are restored. I stand more chance of being pecked to death than being wounded by that antiquated piece. Now, who are you and what are you doing here?”

All at once, there was a burst of curses from beyond the door, followed by a retreating bleat. “Roast you on a spit I will,” Fred roared as he burst into the room, decidedly worse for wear, pushing before him a frazzled looking Daisy, her hands bound behind her. “Damned goat tried to turn me into a bleedin’ soprano. Found the woman sleepin’ in the pantry. Damme if she didn’t pop me on me noggin with a skillet. A real Bengal tiger this ‘un is.”

“A lucky thing your head is so thick,” Duncan commented in amusement.

“Don’t look to me like you was doin’ too good either,” Fred said, taking in his master’s bedraggled appearance. “Cor!” He looked around him wide-eyed. “It’s Noah’s bleedin’ ark, it is.”

“Best let her go or I will shoot your compatriot!” The woman declared to Fred, her expression frustrated but determined.

Fred looked at Duncan in puzzlement.

“Compatriot is another word for companion, Fred. She says that she will shoot me unless you let the woman go.”

Fred hesitated, but Duncan shook his head with a chuckle. “There is no need to release your captive. Any hope that she has of firing that antique is merely an exercise in wishful thinking,” Duncan said, stepping directly in front of the muzzle. “I would wager that if there is shot in that old stick, ‘tis gummed in a mass of damp powder.”

“On the contrary,” the woman said, cocking the trigger. “Years ago, I could get off two shots in a minute, sirrah, but at this range, one will do nicely. Let Daisy go, now!”

He heard the distinctive sound of the old thunderpipe being readied and hesitated, but when he looked into her eyes he somehow knew that she did not have it within her to kill him. Duncan took a step forward.

“And even if the powder is dry, I suspect ‘tis as likely to blow up in the female’s face as to discharge a ball into mine.” And if he was wrong, there were last visions far worse than those green depths. “Any rearrangement of my visage is bound to be an improvement. However I would mourn any damage to yours, lovely one.”

“Looks to me like she knows what she’s about, she does,” Fred protested. “Are you daft, Major?”

“Many a man has said so,” Duncan kept his voice soft, seeing her hesitation as she regarded him, a silent plea in her gaze. “And you are yet again dismissed, Fred.”

“I will pull this trigger,” she whispered, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him. “Do not make me kill you, Major, whoever you are.”

“Why not, inasmuch as it might be saving the world from villains like myself?” Duncan asked regarding her steadily as he closed the gap between them.

“I would be most sorry to slay a man who fought for our country,” she replied, honest regret in her voice.

He felt a stab of admiration. She had courage aplenty this wee warrior, for she stood barely to his shoulder. Who was she? And what was she doing in this hell-hole? “Has no one taught you that only a fool points a weapon if he does not intend to use it?”

His words startled her. He sounds as if he wants to die. The realization struck her with all the strength of a physical blow as she stared at her advancing nemesis. Now, she told herself, as he stood at the mouth of the gun, the rod of metal the only barrier between the two of them. There was something in that grey depth that held her in thrall. Somehow, she could not bring herself to blast him to Hell.

Abruptly, the weight of the blunderbuss left her hands and Kate could not keep herself from quivering. She was the very fool he had described. Now they were defenseless because of her cowardice. His arm came around her, supporting her, keeping her from falling down in utter despair.

“It would not have fired anyway,” the stranger said, as if he somehow felt the need to comfort her. Tears began to slip silently down her cheeks as he rested the stock against a nearby chair. The weapon slipped, discharging as it fell with a roar and a flash.

As the dust and smoke settled, the intruder eyed the new hole in the wall with curious detachment. “Then again, I have been known to be occasionally wrong,” he said coughing in the smoky cloud.

“I am sorry, Daisy,” Kate apologized, looking at the other woman in anguish. “I have failed you.”

“Never, milady,” Daisy declared stoutly, her eyes glistening.

“Milady?” Duncan asked his eyebrow arching sardonically.

“I am the late earl’s wife,” Kate said, seizing upon Daisy’s slip of the tongue. “My husband, The MacLean was killed at Badajoz.”

The man holding Daisy made a strangled sound and the