Relentless

8

The one he had shot in the shoulder had slid down with his back to a tree until he was sitting on the snow. He still had his rifle, clumsily upheld in his left hand, and Watchman spoke to him from cover:

“You may as well drop that thing. I’ve got a bead on you.”

The man thought about it for a while and then threw the rifle down with a grunt of disgust and Watchman approached him cautiously, alert to the threat from that third man who had faded into the timber. He heard soft hoofbeats start up in the snow somewhere to the right, and he stopped and waited while the sound diminished with distance. It could be a ruse. He stood by a pine, his shadow blending into the tree, and said, “Get up on your feet.”

“I don’t know if I can. I think you broke my shoulder.”

“Then roll over on your belly and stick your arms out to the sides.”

He could hear the grate of broken bone ends when the man moved, slowly, bracing himself on his left arm, lowering himself onto the snow. The left arm went out at a ninety-degree angle, cruciform; the right arm was buckled and Watchman made another sweep of the trees before he stepped forward and knelt down and patted the man for weapons. He extracted an automatic pistol and put it in his pocket and stood up. “On your feet now. You can make it. Which one are you, Hargit?”

The man sat up slowly and sneered. “Not fucking likely.”

“Baraclough then.”

“You know everything. You tell me.”

“Come on. Up.” He gave Baraclough a hand.