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Six or Seven |  |
“Six? They couldn't muster any more?” I'm impatient and anxious and I can get a little snappish when I get that way.
Whitehorse looks at me and grunts. “Case you hadn't noticed, this ain't Bastion. Most o' these folk are miners or craftsman, and it ain't like they can afford to spare too many o' their young men to the law. Anyways, there's seven.”
I blink. “I count six, Whitehorse.”
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “There's one over there, just beyond that row o' bushes.”
“Where?”
“Right there,” he says impatiently, pointing. “Hold on . . . where'd he get to? Aw, shit.”
We don't have to say it; we know what happened and we're both running in that direction as fast as we can. I get there first—Whitehorse hobbles up a few moments later—and see exactly what I expected to: a man in uniform, face down on the ground, a dark, wet spot in the earth just beneath his throat. I kneel down and turn the man over to see if there's anything I can do, but his throat's been cleanly slit and he's lost way too much blood. It's likely he was dead when he hit the ground.
“Damnit.” That's twice he's gotten away from us, and twice more he's killed. I estimate the body count's up around fifteen or sixteen now, and that means that no matter how passionately I speak on his behalf at his hearing, he'll be hung. If Whitehorse doesn't shoot him first.
