The River of No Return

back to the coach; Eamon was lying on the ground, shot through the chest.
    Nick swung down from Boatswain and stood by him as he calmed, then looped the horse’s reins over the handle of the coach door. Only then did he look at Eamon.
    There he lay, dying, his hand fluttering like a butterfly over his chest, his eyes glimmering in the scanty moonlight.
    Nick stepped over him and into the coach. Julia was there, on the seat, unconscious, looking small and broken, on the seat. But she was breathing. Nick searched in her hair for the place where Eamon had coshed her. There. An alarming swelling.
    He cradled her head for a moment, hating the way it lolled, feeling for a pulse in her throat. It was strong and steady. For just a moment, he buried his head in her hair and breathed in her scent. She was going to be all right.
    He arranged her more comfortably on the seat, then climbed down from the coach.
    Eamon lay silently, staring up past Nick at the dark sky. Blood was pumping from between his fingers. Jemison, the coachman, and the team were silent, too; the only sound came from Boatswain, munching loudly on the long, sweet grass that grew by the side of the road.
    “I’m for it,” Eamon whispered after a moment.
    “Yes.” Nick said brusquely. “It looks that way.”
    “Now I will never know the secret. She knew what it was. She knew. . . .”
    “The Talisman is not for you, Eamon. You could never have used it.”
    “That Russian came, and then he left,” Eamon said, his voice gaining a little strength. “I followed—I knew he was going for Julia and she is mine. I went to the house of the old man’s mistress to find your direction. There was Julia, walking along. I am going to marry her, and she will tell—” He collapsed back, gasping and looking with incomprehension at the blood that flowed beneath his fingers.
    “You are dying,” Nick reminded him more gently. “You must tell me if there is anything you wish done, any final messages you need me to deliver.”
    But Eamon was choking, the blood oozing sluggishly from his wound. Nick stood aside and bowed his head; he did not want Eamon’s last sight to be the face of his killer.
    After Eamon’s final stuttering breath, Nick walked toward the team; Jemison still had his pistol held on the coachman. “He is dead,” Nick called. “It’s over.”
    But Jemison didn’t move. The team was as still as if they were carved from stone.
    The hair on Nick’s neck rose, and he raised his eyes slowly to the coachbox.
    The coachman was facing forward, but as Nick watched, he turned his head and shoulders, and that broad, white face hove into view like the sails of a ghost ship.
    It was Mr. Mibbs.
    * * *
    Nick raised his other pistol and fired, but the lead ball stopped six inches from Mibbs’s nose. It hung there for a moment, suspended in front of Mibbs’s expressionless face. Then he lifted a thick hand and plucked it from the air. He examined it, bit it, and tossed it back to Nick.
    Nick reached up and caught the bullet in his hand. It was half the size of the acorn and much heavier. He let it fall to the ground and stood weaponless and strangely calm as Mibbs climbed down from the coachbox.
    Mibbs was wearing a ridiculously overblown many-caped coachman’s cloak and a too-small, too-tall top hat. The color of the hat and cloak was hard to discern in the moonlight, but Nick thought it was probably a bright orange-yellow. The buttons were the size of saucers.
    “May I ask you,” Nick said, “for the direction of your tailor? You are invariably dressed in the most interesting of fashions.”
    Mibbs walked forward, staring at Nick. And Nick felt it again, the despair . . . he clung to the thought of Julia in the carriage, to the thought of the acorn in his pocket, but he could feel the power of Mibbs’s will like an undertow.
    “I am looking for a baby,” Mibbs said. He had a generic American accent, smooth and confident—almost friendly. Yet those eyes were pressing Nick back, and down. . . . Nick lost his concentration, blinked, and Mibbs drew close; he lifted a hand to touch Nick. . . .
    With a huge effort, Nick launched himself forward and tackled Mibbs, knocking him off his feet. They crashed to the ground, and the breath left Mibbs’s body with a harsh gasp; Nick felt that hot breath wash his face as he heard the carriage horses spring to life and Jemison shout, “Your money or your life!”
    Beneath him, Mibbs was writhing