He nodded, as if he had been expecting to hear worse. "Not too late, at least."

She put out a hand. "We need a dummy of some sort for your cot, so they don't realize right away—”

“No time, lass." He shook his head. "I'm away up the mountain."

Elizabeth knew he was right, but having come so far so quickly, she was suddenly almost paralyzed with worry. She forced herself to say it, anyway. "Go on, then, I'll cope here."

At the door, Hawkeye paused. "You're a fine woman, Elizabeth. I'm proud to call you daughter."

She pushed at him, her anxiety almost at the breaking point. "Go," she said. "We'll come after. Just go."

He didn't need more urging. Elizabeth watched him running across the garden, as elegant and quick as a deer in flight, his hair fluttering silver in the moonlight. He disappeared into the woods without a sound.

Drenched in sweat, she set off into the garden, listening as she went to the sounds of the fight out front.

* * *

If he had ever seen a sure thing, a fight worthy of a wager, this was it, thought Julian. Nathaniel Bonner in a white fury, and sober, against Billy Kirby with a half bottle of schnapps in him. Billy might weigh a few stone more, but it would do him little good tonight. More bad luck, to have put all his money into drink and cards before Bonner showed up. Up to that point, it had been a boring affair, this Irish wake. The memorial toasts for a man few had liked and fewer still would miss were only vaguely amusing; the singing had set more than one dog to howling. It was almost enough to make Julian appreciate the empty house he had waiting for him. He had been on the point of going when things got interesting.

Of course, Billy had brought the fight on himself. He could no more keep from bragging about tossing Hawkeye in the gaol than he could stop breathing. Bonner, cold bastard that he was, hadn't blinked. He just listened to Billy rant on and on, and then asked in a conversational tone if the sheriff had the balls to stand up with somebody his own size and age, or if it was only old men he felt safe taking on, and that at the end of a rifle. That stare of his was like a poke in the chest; drunk or sober, a man couldn't walk away from it and call himself a man.

They had all trooped out after Billy, bellowing encouragement and calling out wagers. Drinking men would put coin on any absurdity in the name of friendship; sober men—or men who could handle their schnapps—could profit. If only a man had the necessary funds. But since the accident that had sent Moses to his comeuppance, with the old Indian to follow soon after, the judge had not handed over a copper penny. Hadn't even shown his face at home. Julian still hadn't figured out how to get past Galileo and into the money chest and he was feeling the pinch. But still, he couldn't quite stay away from the fight. He thought Bonner would put Kirby down clean and neat; there might be a free round, afterward.

Fifteen minutes into it, it was clear that neatness wasn't on Bonner's mind. He had a long reach and hands like iron hooks, and he knew how to hurt a man without taking too much out of him. Standing aside from the crowd safe from the dust and the occasional spattering of blood, Julian might have enjoyed the show if he'd had anything to invest in it.

"Sweet Mary, Nathaniel ain't even broke a sweat yet," muttered Henry Smythe. In the flicker of the torches the crowd waved like flags, the ginger fuzz that covered Kirby's back and chest streamed with sweat.

"Better Billy than you or me, eh?" Smythe edged closer to Julian. He smelled of boiled cabbage and wet wool.

"You're in my way, old man."

Axel stood a few yards away with all the weapons around him, a condition he had placed on this fight; he was a man who knew his clientele, after all. Julian moved in his direction, keeping his eyes on Bonner and Kirby.

They were circling, Kirby working his bloody fists in front of him as if he had no idea what they were for, although there was no lack of advice from the audience. Bonner didn't have too many friends in this crowd, but he didn't seem much to mind, one way or another. Shouts of support and jeers slid off him as slickly as Billy's haphazard jabs.

A shout of reluctant approval followed a left hook that took Billy in the chest, but left him rocking. Like a stunted oak in a high wind, he groaned but he would not quite topple.

"Nathaniel Bonner!" cried Anna Hauptmann. "Are you fighting with the man, or dancing? Will you knock some sense into his bloody head once and for all?" She was the only woman in the crowd, standing there in a dressing gown and bouncing up and down on her bare feet like a girl of twelve. Not a pleasing sight.

"Aw, Anna. I got a dollar on Billy there, give him a chance."

She grunted, and flung her long plaits back over her shoulders. "You want to throw your good money away, Ambrose, you go right ahead. But I guess when your Marianne gets done with you, you won't look much better than Billy there."

Nathaniel reached out with a left cross and Billy's lip split open with a pop. The crowd bellowed in response. From his one open eye, Billy threw them a baleful glare. His nose had been slightly reoriented on his broad, lopsided face, and he stood there heaving and foaming like an overworked horse in the sun.

"Christ on a pony, Kirby, fall down and stop embarrassing your sainted mother!" shouted Anna, disgusted. "Would you see to business, Nathaniel?"

Bonner just circled, as if he had nothing better to do than watch Billy Kirby bleed into the dust. If he was getting any pleasure out of it, it couldn't be seen on his face.