Sword of Vengeance Read Online Free

leatherbound Bible, and a quill and ink had been left on the table, no doubt by the room’s owner, but shoved to one side to make room for the treasure pack.
    “Spoken for, indeed … but talking was the farthest thing from my mind.” Tibbs sighed, a wicked grin on his face.
    “Half drowned and still as horny as a goat.” Kit chuckled and then sucked in his breath as his wound sent a sharp protest from his head to his shoulder blades.
    “Goats? Yes, we have goats,” a brown-robed priest said from the doorway. He had brought another bowl of soup.
    Father Ramon Saucedo at sixty moved with the grace and energy of a man twenty years younger. His skin was as dark as that of the Creek Indians he served, the color of old bark. Indeed, the lines and wrinkles that creased his features gave his skin not only a barklike color but the texture of some aged forest monarch that had survived wind and rain and fire. His hair was stringy, silver and unkempt, but his mustache and goatee, also silver, were neatly trimmed. And if he had lost the beauty of his youth (once women had called him handsome and contested with one another to catch his eye), he had replaced such a transitory appeal with an air of wisdom and dignity that shone from his features as brightly as the Florida sunlight.
    “Good morning, my friends,” the priest said. His sandals shuffled softly over the packed earth floor of the single-roomed cabin. “It has been a while since I have spoken English. I am Padre Ramon Saucedo. You understand me, yes?”
    He handed the bowl of soup to Kit, who nodded his thanks and chanced a sip. It was salty, and chunks of fish and scallops floated in this broth. He found the sample to his liking.
    Father Ramon pulled over a three-legged stool and sat down. “You washed ashore on the island. Barely a strip of sand and beach grass. I go there to cast my nets. Maria and Esteban found you and brought me to you. Which was fortunate for you both.” The padre toyed with the wooden cross dangling from a leather string around his neck. “My humble house is a palace compared to the prison Sergeant Morales would offer you at the garrison in St. Augustine.”
    “Prison?” Kit said. He set the wooden bowl aside and introduced himself and Bill Tibbs and then continued with his initial question. “Why prison?”
    “There has been much trouble of late. Yankees from the north have come across the border and declared all of Florida a republic, free of Spanish rule. But the mission Indians have been well treated. Our colonists are of Spanish descent. We do not wish to break ties with our mother country, so we fight. The soldiers have hunted these Yankees down and killed or imprisoned most of them.”
    “Be we are … uh, traders,” Tibbs blurted out. “We’ve nothing to do with any of this. A storm wrecked our ship, or we would never have troubled you.”
    “I believe you,” the padre said, leaning forward. “But then my heart is filled with peace toward all men.” Father Ramon kissed the cross he wore. “Sergeant Morales is a soldier, a man of war. If he discovers you, then …” The padre shook his head. The implication was quite clear: Their fates would be sealed.
    “Do not worry,” the padre spoke reassuringly. “I am no friend of Sergeant Morales. You are safe here. He seldom comes to visit. I have promised him the wrath of God if he touches one of my flock again.” The priest seemed momentarily lost in thought, and he looked back to the barefoot Indian woman standing in the doorway. In a matter of weeks Sara would be having Morales’s child. The woman disappeared into the sunlight; she was none of his guests’ concern. He returned his attention to the matter at hand. “I will not reveal your presence here. But you cannot remain long. You will be in danger until you cross the border.”
    “How far away are we from Georgia?” Tibbs asked.
    “Two days by horse.”
    “Good,” Tibbs exclaimed. “We can make it. We’ll rest