Long Hunt (9781101559208) Read Online Free Page B

violence. Swinging a candlestick that was twin to the one with which Reese had pounded Molly’s skull, the intruder, whoever and whatever he was, dropped John Reese like a sack of dirt and pummeled his head repeatedly.
    And Molly, regaining partial consciousness, saw and heard it all, albeit in muddled fashion. The flash of the brass candlestick as it caught a reflected gleam from the simmering coals on the nearby grate, up and down, up and down . . . the thud and crush of metal pounding flesh and skull . . . the terrible hiss of John Reese’s last breath of life . . .
    Then it was done. John Reese was dead. Molly was mutilated but alive, filled with horror and pain as she discovered what had been done to her, having seen her severed tongue lying on the floor near her father’s lifeless hand, an ugly thing she could not readily identify in the dim light. The mysterious one who had intervened to save her life knelt beside her, talking softly and gently, telling her he would take her away, and that her father could never follow or hurt her again. He was gone forever, and she was safe.
    The young girl did not know the one who had saved her. And as she groped at her painful, bloodied mouth, she did not care. She cared only about what had been done to her. And the fact that her father could do no such terrible things to her again.
    According to her famous narrative, Molly Reese’s memory failed her at that point. The next thing she was aware of was being away from her home, the body of her father left behind and never seen by her again. Molly came to herself on a rough cot in a dark and dingy room, an unshaven and watery-eyed man leaning over her and wiping blood from her face. His breath smelled of strong rum. He had something like a cloth sack pulled over his head for some reason, but the front was at the moment rolled up so his face was visible from chin to brow.
    â€œWell, there you are, m’lady,” he said. “The bleeding is stopped now. You’re going to feel a goodly amount of pain for days to come, and much hunger because there’ll be no feeding you until you’ve healed at least a little . . . but you will heal, and you will live. Life will go on and you’ll get past this terrible violence that has been done to you.”
    The impulse was to answer the man, but when she tried to talk she could form no words and the effort brought a shuddering burst of pain. All she could do was groan. The man leaning over her shook his head.
    â€œDon’t try to speak, m’lady. ’Twill only frustrate you and bring you fresh hurt and bleeding. Just lie quiet and let yourself begin to heal.”
    She nodded, but nodding hurt, too. Her vision shimmered and she felt weak and faint, collapsing back onto her dirty pillow. She closed her eyes and knew nothing more for quite some time.
    So declared the famous broadside narrative.
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    Ott Dixon growled, “You’ve talked your talk and announced your come-to-Jesus meeting, preacher. Now go.”
    Abner Bledsoe actually managed a smile at his uncongenial host. Dixon did not smile back.
    Bledsoe performed the unexpected friendly gesture of approaching Dixon with his hand extended. Dixon stared down at it as if Bledsoe had just tried to hand him a smelly fish carcass. For a moment, Potts wondered if Dixon might strike the preacher with his fist. No such thing happened.
    â€œI’ll not shake your hand, knowing you think of me as less than fit as a man, but I’ll offer you a drink of good rum,” Dixon said. “That’s as Christian an offer as I’m able to make the likes of you, hypocrite.”
    â€œI imbibe very seldom of the kill devil,” Abner Bledsoe replied pompously. “If a man must wade into Satan’s pool, let him dip his toe only into the shallows.”
    â€œBosh and bilge water!” Dixon blustered. “Off with you, babbler! Don’t you come around here again,