Ride the River (1983) by Louis - Sackett's 05 L'amour Page B
Authors: Louis - Sackett's 05 L'amour
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discovered I am still not as old as you might believe. In fact, I feel ten years younger for the experience." He stood up. "Go now, Dorian, and be careful. This is a deadly serious business."
Dorian pocketed the sack of money and after a quick handclasp went out. The powerful black man, Archie, awaited him. "I have our horses at your quarters, sir, and I've packed what is necessary except for your weapons."
"You are armed?"
"Oh, yes, sir! I know Mr. Horst, and White as well, but unless I am mistaken, there will be others involved. White has a man working for him named Tim Oats, a very rough man, sir."
Dorian Chantry listened to the clop-clop of the carriage horse's hooves, his meeting with Frances only a dim memory. His uncle, Finian Chantry, was sending him out to protect a young lady from such as Felix Horst! Suddenly he was very proud. Uncle Finian must think well of him, after all, for this was no job for a child.
His thoughts skipped back a few years. He remembered the coolness of Felix Horst in the courtroom. Once their eyes had met across the crowded room. He still remembered the contempt in Horst's eyes, and flushed at the memory.
"If we ride hard, sir, we can overtake them at Chambersburg. It is a night stop for the stage, and they will start late the next morning."
"If nothing happens until then."
"There's a brief stop at Elizabeth Town, and then they cross the Susquehanna a bit later."
"What will Horst do?"
"I don't know, sir, but he will be careful. He is known to the law now and would get no sympathy from the courts. He will choose his time."
"Would he kill her?"
"Yes, sir. He would. He has killed before ... and, sir? He knows the country we are going into. He used to operate along the Natchez Trace."
"What about Oats?"
"A thug, sir. A very strong man. He was a pugilist for a time. He's been a gambler, a shoulder striker, a thoroughly bad man, sir."
"I've boxed some myself."
Archie glanced at him, then asked, "Have you ever fought, sir? I mean really fought?"
"I could handle them all at school. Don't worry. I can take care of myself."
"No doubt, sir, but the kind of fighting Tim Oats has done is not like you would do at college. It is quite different, sir."
Dorian was irritated. Of course it was different, but at school there had been some good fighters, and their training had been of the best. What chance would a common pugilist have against one of them? He said it aloud.
"Begging your pardon, sir, a man such as Oats would whip them all in one evening and never work up a sweat. There is no comparison between an amateur and a professional. And Oats is pretty good. I have seen him fight. I saw him go forty-two rounds with the Yorkshire Swiper."
" Forty-two rounds?"
The most he had ever done was five rounds - sparring sessions, at that. Sometimes they got pretty heated, but forty-two rounds? By London prize-ring rules a knockdown ended a round, although a fighter could be thrown down or could slip. Even so, forty-two rounds was a lot. It could scarcely be less than an hour, probably more.
Of course, there had been that fight he had with the hostler who was abusing a horse. How long did they fight? It must have been at least thirty minutes, and he had given the hostler, supposedly a tough man, a good beating.
They rode swiftly, clattering down lanes, thundering over bridges. At Elizabeth Town, only a few miles out, they made inquiries. Yes, such a girl had been aboard the stage. Five-feet-two, reddish hair, cute as a button.
The description irritated him. "Cute" by whose standards? Harry Standish had raved about her when he came back to the table. "If they grow them like that in the mountains," he had said, "I've been living in the wrong place!" But then, Harry was easily impressed.
They changed horses in Middletown and rode swiftly on. Chambersburg was not far ahead. At Chambersburg they arrived as the stage was loading. "No, sir," the driver said, "I ain't seen her since we pulled in.
Dorian pocketed the sack of money and after a quick handclasp went out. The powerful black man, Archie, awaited him. "I have our horses at your quarters, sir, and I've packed what is necessary except for your weapons."
"You are armed?"
"Oh, yes, sir! I know Mr. Horst, and White as well, but unless I am mistaken, there will be others involved. White has a man working for him named Tim Oats, a very rough man, sir."
Dorian Chantry listened to the clop-clop of the carriage horse's hooves, his meeting with Frances only a dim memory. His uncle, Finian Chantry, was sending him out to protect a young lady from such as Felix Horst! Suddenly he was very proud. Uncle Finian must think well of him, after all, for this was no job for a child.
His thoughts skipped back a few years. He remembered the coolness of Felix Horst in the courtroom. Once their eyes had met across the crowded room. He still remembered the contempt in Horst's eyes, and flushed at the memory.
"If we ride hard, sir, we can overtake them at Chambersburg. It is a night stop for the stage, and they will start late the next morning."
"If nothing happens until then."
"There's a brief stop at Elizabeth Town, and then they cross the Susquehanna a bit later."
"What will Horst do?"
"I don't know, sir, but he will be careful. He is known to the law now and would get no sympathy from the courts. He will choose his time."
"Would he kill her?"
"Yes, sir. He would. He has killed before ... and, sir? He knows the country we are going into. He used to operate along the Natchez Trace."
"What about Oats?"
"A thug, sir. A very strong man. He was a pugilist for a time. He's been a gambler, a shoulder striker, a thoroughly bad man, sir."
"I've boxed some myself."
Archie glanced at him, then asked, "Have you ever fought, sir? I mean really fought?"
"I could handle them all at school. Don't worry. I can take care of myself."
"No doubt, sir, but the kind of fighting Tim Oats has done is not like you would do at college. It is quite different, sir."
Dorian was irritated. Of course it was different, but at school there had been some good fighters, and their training had been of the best. What chance would a common pugilist have against one of them? He said it aloud.
"Begging your pardon, sir, a man such as Oats would whip them all in one evening and never work up a sweat. There is no comparison between an amateur and a professional. And Oats is pretty good. I have seen him fight. I saw him go forty-two rounds with the Yorkshire Swiper."
" Forty-two rounds?"
The most he had ever done was five rounds - sparring sessions, at that. Sometimes they got pretty heated, but forty-two rounds? By London prize-ring rules a knockdown ended a round, although a fighter could be thrown down or could slip. Even so, forty-two rounds was a lot. It could scarcely be less than an hour, probably more.
Of course, there had been that fight he had with the hostler who was abusing a horse. How long did they fight? It must have been at least thirty minutes, and he had given the hostler, supposedly a tough man, a good beating.
They rode swiftly, clattering down lanes, thundering over bridges. At Elizabeth Town, only a few miles out, they made inquiries. Yes, such a girl had been aboard the stage. Five-feet-two, reddish hair, cute as a button.
The description irritated him. "Cute" by whose standards? Harry Standish had raved about her when he came back to the table. "If they grow them like that in the mountains," he had said, "I've been living in the wrong place!" But then, Harry was easily impressed.
They changed horses in Middletown and rode swiftly on. Chambersburg was not far ahead. At Chambersburg they arrived as the stage was loading. "No, sir," the driver said, "I ain't seen her since we pulled in.
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