Soul Catcher by Michael C. White Page B

scoped the village with his spyglass. He thought perhaps one of the Negroes coming through Keene two nights before might have spotted them and brought word back that a group of soul catchers was approaching, and they'd had time to hide both of them in the woods. Maybe that was why the men carried guns.
    Around noon, they saw a young Negro boy leaving Timbucto, heading for the nearby village of North Elba with a basket of eggs to sell.
    "Wager he'll know where they're at," said Strofe.
    "Let's git him and make him talk," Preacher added, mounting his roan.
    "We ought to wait," Cain cautioned. He felt, sooner or later, if they were there, one or the other would show himself. If, on the other hand, the four slave catchers exposed themselves too soon and the entire village learned of their presence, it would make things all the more difficult.
    "You're 'scart a them niggers, too, Cain?" Preacher taunted. "Why, I'm surprised, big war hero like yourself."
    Cain stared up at him seated on his horse. Nothing would have pleased him as much as pulling the man from his saddle and throttling him. He didn't know how the man had come by the knowledge that he'd been in the war, that he'd received a medal. Maybe Eberly, who seemed to know everything about him, had told him. In any case, he wouldn't let the man see that the comment prickled him.
    "I'm not fool enough to get into a scrap if I don't have to," he replied coldly.
    "But a famous nigger hunter like yourself, I figured you to go marchin' right in here and pluck them runaways easy as pie," Preacher said sarcastically. He looked down at Cain and smiled his gat-toothed smile. "Then again, maybe all them drams you're asippin' has made you lily-livered."
    Cain gave him a stone-hard glare. "Whenever you're a mind to test me, Preacher, you go right ahead."
    "Think I'm scared a you, Cain?"
    "Would you two stop your damn squabblin'?" Strofe said. "I say we catch the boy and make him tell us where they're at."
    After several weeks in the saddle and the past two days of waiting and watching in the cold and rain, they'd grown anxious; they wanted to finish their business and leave this place behind. Even Cain. Finally, he conceded and they decided to follow the boy until he was safely away from the village. Strofe muzzled the dogs and put them on ropes to keep them from running off after the Negro. Then they mounted up and cautiously rode through the woods, keeping the boy in sight but maintaining their distance so as not to scare him into flight. At last, when they figured he was far enough away from the settlement, they split into two groups, one circling ahead of the boy and approaching him from the front, the other coming at him from the rear. Warily, the boy watched them approach, four white men on horses and a pair of hounds. He was wearing a wool coat, homespun trousers, and a pair of brogans much too big for his feet. When they reached the boy, Strofe asked about the two runaways.
    "One goes by Henry," he explained. "He's a right stout nigger. Missing an ear. The other's a high yeller gal name of Rosetta."
    The Negro stared up at him mutely, as if English was not his own language. He eyed their guns.
    "We know they're here," Strofe said. "So you might's well tell us and save yourself a whole heap a grief."
    Frowning, the Negro glanced down at his basket of eggs. Then he did an odd thing. He looked up and silently held the basket out to Strofe, as a kind of offering. Funny how when a man is offered something, no matter what it is, he tends to take it, and Strofe instinctively leaned down from his saddle and reached for the basket. Before he could take hold of it, though, the boy suddenly dropped it, spun around, and took to his heels, dashing between the horsemen before anyone could grab him. For a short distance, he ran along the muddy road leading back to the village. He was surprisingly fleet of foot, a natural runner, but it quickly must have dawned on him he was no match for men on