The River of No Return

walking somewhere, running from someone . . . who was it? Eamon? She didn’t think so . . . someone was chasing her, someone scary . . . Her head was spinning now, and she was swirling down into a whirlpool of darkness . . . swirling . . . but at the center of the whirlpool there was a little pointy-nosed face, surrounded by quills . . . a hedgehog. It opened its mouth and it said, in Grandfather’s voice: “Pretend.”
    * * *
    Boatswain was not a young horse, and Nick was not as fit as he had been in Spain, the last time life’s rich pageant had called for him to ride for hours across open countryside. As for Jemison, his piebald horse could not be kept to the gallop for more than a few minutes at a time. So here they were, three hours later, posting decorously along instead of galloping ventre à terre to the rescue. But Eamon was driving a blown team—Monsieur LeCrue had said that they were already covered in sweat when they set out, and Eamon would find it hard to change horses in the middle of the night. That blown team was hauling an old carriage, one coachman, one young lady, and one big, heavy, crazed earl.
    Ah. Nick and Jemison reined in. Just ahead, a coach was pulled over to the side of the otherwise deserted road. Nick couldn’t see the team, but there seemed to be two people standing outside the equipage . . . he watched, narrowing his eyes. It was a wretched dark night, and in spite of the moon he couldn’t make out very much.
    The bigger figure was lifting the smaller figure back into the coach. That had to be them. Nick smiled. The little one had been on her feet, so she was alive. But then the big one had lifted her. Perhaps Eamon had drugged her, the scoundrel. It would be hard to ride off with a drugged woman over his saddle. After a moment’s whispered conversation, Nick and Jemison decided that if the team wasn’t completely blown, they could dump Eamon by the roadside and steal the whole rig.
    They checked their pistols as they let the coach lumber back into the road. Then they watched.
    The coach set out at a good clip, so Eamon must have managed to find a new team somewhere.
    “We’ll steal it, then,” Nick said. “You ride ahead and hold them up; I’ll follow behind and get Eamon out.”
    Jemison was standing in the stirrups, stretching out his legs. “Bloody hell, my arse hurts! How did we ride back and forth across Spain so easily?”
    Nick grinned. “Are your pistols ready?”
    “Yes.” Jemison settled again in the saddle and chirruped to his horse. It was a flashy animal, with big black handprints on a white ground; hardly a highwayman’s horse. But . . . they had to make do with what they had. He watched as the animal walked over to the grassy edge of the road, then trotted along silently, slowly gaining ground on the lumbering coach.
    When Jemison drew level with their quarry, Nick set out after him. He saw Jemison rein his horse, saw him raise the pistol; he didn’t shout to make the team stop, but the team did stop, and Nick spurred up to the door. He knocked loudly on it. “Eamon! Show yourself!”
    Eamon stuck his head out of the window, his mouth gaping open.
    “Beautiful night,” Nick said. “Now get out of the coach and leave Julia behind.”
    Eamon’s eyes protruded eggily from his head. “The devil I will!” He ducked back inside, shouting, “Drive on!”
    But the coachman did not drive on. Nick glanced up ahead and saw that Jemison still had his pistol trained on the unfortunate man. He knocked again on the door. “Eamon! Come out now. We are two armed men. . . .”
    The door burst open, sending Boatswain rearing. Nick held to the reins with one hand and grabbed for a pistol with the other. Eamon was scrambling out of the coach, a pair of pistols waving wildly in his fists. “Leave me!” he screamed. “Leave me or by God I’ll kill you!”
    Boatswain dropped back down onto all four hooves and capered, Nick holding him tightly and cocking the gun. He watched in disbelief as Eamon raised a pistol and aimed it directly at Nick’s head.
    “Leave me!”
    Nick kicked Boatswain; the horse leapt forward as Eamon’s pistol exploded. Nick heard the bullet whiz past his ear; he turned in the saddle, cocking his pistol and aiming at Eamon, just as Eamon raised his other pistol.
    The guns fired simultaneously, the sparks flying. Boatswain squealed and Nick felt the horse’s panic, but he pulled him in a tight circle and rode