Rebel in Time

They had prepared a story to explain their circumstances. Shaw claimed to have hurt his ankle in a fall. His second pair of trousers covered the bandage and his realistic limp gave plausibility to the story. Troy kept carefully in the background while the purchase was completed, coming forward only when the stable owner waved him over to hitch Shaw's horse to their new buggy. Troy made a mess of it, he had absolutely no idea of where all the lines and traces went, and was boxed on the ear and cursed out by the man for his efforts. After that he stood to one side, hand over his sore ear, while the man did it himself, glaring at his back and thinking about which way would be the most satisfactory to kill the son-of-a-bitch.

With their goods dumped into the buggy, the old mule tied on behind, the trip became a good deal easier. They couldn't hurry because Shaw's leg was stiff and painful, and too much travelling fatigued him greatly. Troy tried not to show his concern when the wounded man developed a fever but it was gone the next morning. Shaw took his penicillin every day, and there were no signs of infection around the wound. It should be all right.

They proceeded at a leisurely pace, taking a week to get to Richmond, reaching the city late one afternoon when the shadows were already slanting lengthwise through the trees.

'Lovely city,' Shaw said, 'one of my favourites.'

'Are we going to this hotel of yours, the Blue House?'

'Yes, they know me there, inexpensive, and the food is filling. Frequented by commercial travellers who believe in getting their money's worth. But we'll make a little detour on the way there. Down this street. Pleasant homes.'

'Really great. Does the leg hurt?'

'It really feels much better. Throbs a good deal and protests if I put too much weight on it. Otherwise, doctor, the operation was a success. What are those little pills you make me take every day?'

'I told you. An old secret family recipe against the fever. Seems to have worked, too.'

'Indeed. There, see ahead? The large white house surrounded by the cast-iron fence.'

'I see it. What about it?'

'The thing about it is that it is owned by the man I know as Colonel Wesley McCulloch. What must be determined next, I imagine, is to discover if he is the same man whom you are looking for.'

Troy pulled hard on the reins and the horse whinnied in protest as it stopped. Troy looked at the house, his face tight, staring as though he could see right through the walls if he tried hard enough.

Had he found him?

Was this the end of the hunt — or just the beginning?

Chapter 26

ROBBIE SHAW

He was certainly a strange man, my new American friend, and I really wasn't quite sure what to make of him. By that I don't mean that I had doubts about his courage — or his resourcefulness. The little contretemps with the highwaymen had certainly proved his abilities on that score. It was a number of small things, as well as his overall manner, that I found so disturbing. His determination was rocklike and steadfast. It was in every lineament of his body as he sat now, his jaw clamped, staring at McCulloch's house as though wishing to destroy it on the instant. I am driven to admit that I felt a small shiver at the sight; I would not wish to be this man's enemy.

'Okay, that's enough, where to now?' he said, giving the reins a snap to wake the nag up.

'Three streets ahead, then turn right.'

That was part of it, his use of language. What on earth did okay mean? I had vague memories of having heard the term used before, though I could not remember the circumstances. Troy used other expressions like this from time to time, spoke them most naturally, though usually when relaxed. I had ceased to question him because he only put me off with vague explanations, then changed the subject. But where had he learned to speak in this manner? I am fairly well acquainted with the city of New York, so that I can verify that he certainly did speak in the New York style. But it was more than this. At times I felt that he must belong to some secret organization, some mysterious order that had long been locked away from the world on a hidden island, like some mad creation of the author Edgar Allan Poe. I longed to see what he had hidden in those saddlebags — but knew better than to even attempt to open them. And his knowledge of medicine was simply astonishing, far superior to that of any surgeon I have ever met. My bullet wound was healing without suppuration, and I had avoided the fever perhaps because of the strange and bitter tablets he made me swallow.