The room was packed with villagers happy to see visitors and hear the latest news and gossip. Rob Clark, stretching his legs, found two young boys under the table. It seemed to him that every inch of space was crammed with people. Some youngsters sat the edge of an unfinished staircase, legs hanging, eyes and ears wide open. One boy, after losing his balance, had literally hung from the rafters.
It was a party and a feast with the villagers bringing out what food they had. The town mayor and his son-in-law squeezed through the door, each carrying a keg of beer. Rob and his friends had food presented to them from all quarters. Now, after three winters in the seventeenth century, Rob understood how little food must remain in the village larders. When Dieter Wiesskamp reached for his pack, Rob whispered, "Can we give 'em everything except what we need to get home?" Dieter nodded and began emptying his pack. Sausages hit the tabletop and were followed by a sack of rutabagas and carrots.
When Dieter hauled out the two slabs of bacon Wilf Jones winced. With the bacon gone the group's rations were down to a couple of slabs of salt pork and a handful of sausages. Rob smiled back and mouthed 'Hearts and Minds' at Wilf. That got him a grimace in return. Reichard Blucher smiled from the far end of the table, obviously distracted by the two young women hovering over him.
Rob realized that Wilf had been right to insist that they not wear their militia uniforms or tell anyone what their real purpose was. This area was just regaining population and rebuilding the villages. These people had little reason to trust any military—both sides had pillaged them and burned their villages while foraging.
"We're a small party," Wilf had stated. "If we go up there in uniform we're more likely to wake up one morning with our throats slit than find the bandits Major Stieff wants us to look for. Best go as a simple group of horse traders checking out the market for our stock. Naturally we're interested in any rumors about robbers."
The previous fall a Grange-sponsored group came up here to help the villages with their harvest. Rob had come with them. The army platoon that came along to guard the machines had been forced to camp outside the villages. Even those of the soldiers who joined in the heavy labor had been greeted with silence and suspicion.
Rob reached into his pack and took out a Walkman radio. He brought out a pair of battery driven speakers and plugged them in. When Wilf nodded Rob turned the radio on and found the Voice of Luther radio station. The party went from raucous to solemn as he dialed in the broadcast. It was the Vespers service from Madgeburg cathedral. Scratchy and static-filled, as it was, the choir's "Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost" filled the room. Pastor Borstorf nodded thoughtfully; stroking his chin and mustache while the service rolled on. The miracle of hearing what was being said and sung in that distant city even quieted the children. When the Benediction and the last "Amen" had been said, the villagers slipped out into the cold to their houses and bed. Pastor Borstorf remained behind.
"Many thanks, Herren, many thanks for that. It was fifteen years ago when I last heard that choir. Perhaps, should this year's harvests be good, it may be that the village can afford such a machine. Of course, Herr Bishoff has his eyes on one of the new manure spreaders and so it may come to making a choice between the practical and the uplifting." With a sly grin the pastor added, "I may vote for the manure spreader myself to save my sermons being compared to those from the cathedral."
"Ah, but Pastor, you know it was little Hans that threw his sister's doll in the well and Old Klaus who drinks too much . . ." Dieter teased gently.
"Oh, yes! I know my flock well enough." Pastor Borstorf grew grave, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You go to Oberschwartzwald next, don't you?"
"Yes, that is our plan," Wilf replied as softly.
"Do not play your radio for them, especially not a Lutheran service," Borstorf whispered grimly.
"Are they papists, then? I'd not thought around here . . ." Wilf asked.
"Heretics! Would that they were only deluded papists. No, those left in Oberschwartzwald have corrupted Christ's teachings beyond even the papists' heresies. Beware your souls in such a place. At least the Good Lord has seen that those sons of Satan do not prosper. Would that He removed them from the face of the Earth. We would be well done with Groenwald and his thieving 'cousins.'"
"We've heard others complain about thieves . . . are the men from Oberschwartzwald the ones who have committed these thefts?" Wilf asked.
"They've stolen anything that wasn't chained down or held in hand. Three sows, a horse, and two cows in the last month have wondered off toward the Devil's village. Frau Weltz' freshly-washed blankets and the Donner's two casks of sauerkraut walked off with the animals. Others have lost tools. My own good ax went from the chapel entrance."
The pastor's pained look reminded Rob of how precious the stolen items were to the villagers. It prompted him to ask, "You said something about Herr Groenwald's cousins? I take it you think they are the thieves?"
"Young man, for centuries my family and the Groenwald family have known each other and yet none have ever heard of these cousins nor their supposed ancestors. Devils in disguise they may well be, visited on Groenwald for his heresy. Keep good watch at night."
The Grantville quartet exchanged glances. Rob felt a twinge of conscience. His first feeling had been one of glee. If these strangers in Oberschwartzwald were their bandits, he and his friends might be on their way home in a day or two.
Yesterday's snowstorm had turned to sleet around dusk. Just past midnight the wind slackened, the temperature dropped, and the sleet turned to ice. As the sun rose over the hills the village took the appearance of a landscape carved from ice. Sunbeams danced from icicle to icicle, shimmering brightly.
The beauty of the scene was lost to the men huddled around the small fire. The room that had been stuffy and over-warm last night now was frigid. The walls and roof had kept them dry but the wind found every crack.
"What curse follows us that the very weather turns against us?" murmured Reichard as he delicately added a small branch to the fire. "As cold as it is, it's well Christian didn't come with us. "
"Yeah, two weeks riding in snow and sleet after recovering from pneumonia isn't too smart," Rob agreed. He missed the lanky man and his acerbic wit.
"Come, now, Reichard. It isn't that bad. At least it isn't sleeting anymore," Wilf teased. "And look there, our young friend Rob seems as comfortable as can be."
Rob, shivering on the other side of the fire took one hand out of his pocket long enough to give Wilf a single-digit salute. "Yeah, just like I'm at home in front of my own fireplace. All that's missing is the popcorn and beer." Despite his up-time parka, fur lined pants, and heavy boots Rob was cold—down to the bone cold. He wondered again how the others managed. Wilf was wearing an old faded-blue parka neatly patched at the elbows and too long in the sleeves. The parka had once belonged to one of Rob's older brothers. Under the parka Wilf wore a wool shirt, wool pants and a pair of western style boots. His hands sported a pair of rabbit skin gloves. To Rob's eyes the oddest part of the older man's ensemble was the plaid wool scarf tied around his head. Dieter was similarly attired, save his parka was newer, bright orange, and fit him better. Reichard, as big as he was, hadn't found an up-time parka that fit him. Instead the man wore a sheepskin jacket that left Rob idly wondering how many sheep had died to make it. All of the men wore Stetsons. Somehow the sight made Rob think of a Saturday Night Live take-off on Bonanza. Wilf would be cast as Papa Cartwright, Dieter as the smooth-talking Adam, and Reichard, of course, as the oversized Hoss. That left Rob himself as Little Joe. The thought tickled him and he found himself laughing.
"Ah, now you prove my point. You are just as comfortable here as at home." Wilf grinned back at him.
"More so, I think," Dieter chimed in. "Here he doesn't have to listen to all the women chattering."
"Aye, or get dragged off to see the tailor 'just one more time'. Frau O'Reilly is a level headed, practical woman, or so I thought." Dieter shook his head mournfully. "Now, with your wedding at hand, she has gone as mad as the rest."
"Come now, Dieter." Wilf chuckled. "I'd say that 'tis Liz and JoAnn who are wildest about the wedding. Frau O'Reilly's daughters, too. If anyone gives Frau O'Reilly trouble it is her girls. Fraulein Lannie, she stays calm."
"Well, yes . . ." Rob replied. "Grandpa Ev has been running interference for us. He's declared his house a 'wedding free zone.' Even JoAnn shuts up when he reminds her that it's not her wedding. The trouble starts when they get to my house and run into their cousins . . ." He drifted off in memory, then heaved a sigh and grinned back at the other men. "Lannie and I have talked about eloping, except there's no Las Vegas to run to."
Rob tossed a burning branch back on the fire. The guys had it right; he'd come along because he couldn't deal with any more wedding plans, wedding talk, wedding decorations, or sly digs about the wedding night. A week after Christmas, Maggie O'Reilly moved into the housekeeper's quarters in Rob's house. She'd rented out her own house to Christian du Champ and his family. Rob had been in favor of the move as it meant that he got Mrs. O'Reilly's cooking for all his meals. However, he also got the three O'Reilly girls—and their enthusiasms over his upcoming wedding.
Over the last two years he'd had trouble getting used to being alone. Having the O'Reillys in the house helped and in less than month things would change again. He would officially be a part of a family. A large, noisy, boisterous, alive family.
"Yeah," Rob answered, keeping his eyes down so the others wouldn't see the hint of tears in his eyes. "Yeah, I came along to get away from all the wedding craziness. Besides, someone's got to keep you guys out of trouble." Ducking, Rob almost avoided Dieter's rolled up sleeping bag.
"We need to eat and get moving. Oberschwartzwald is just a couple of miles up the road. Even if there are no bandits it is the last village on our list," Reichard announced. He picked up the frying pan and offered it around. "From what the pastor said it sounds like our bandits might be in residence there."
"Aye, we'd better move or we'll freeze our asses off. Until last night Major Stieff's 'odd stories about bandits' from the villages out here appeared to be no more than noises in the night," Dieter commented while eagerly spearing a piece of meat from the pan.
"Well, the good major did say he didn't think there was much to them. Just that he wanted us to check them out. All that we've heard about in the other villages were a missing cow here, a couple of sacks of onions gone there, a horse that didn't come in from the pasture, and so on. But the pastor's concerns about Oberschwartzwald also make me think there is something more to the stories than random chance and the odd thief," came Wilf's calm reply. He, too, readily speared his share of meat from the pan.
"Don't forget the missing girl," Reichard said. "I don't think she just wandered off on her own to admire the snowdrifts. That scared boy two villages back said he saw four or five riders trying not to be noticed. These mysteriously appearing relatives could be deserters. The Good Lord knows there are enough of them wandering about. The tracks we saw the other day, they looked like five ridden horses and they were heading toward Oberschwartzwald." He extended the frying pan to Rob.
Rob flipped open his Buck knife and gingerly speared the smallest piece. Fried salt pork was one down-time food he didn't like.
"We'll check out the village, spend tonight under cover, and head home tomorrow. If we push and the weather holds we'll be back in Grantville by Wednesday." Reichard's share of the fried salt pork disappeared in two large bites and he continued, "We can report to Major Stieff and be done with our militia duty for another year." A broad grin split the big man's face.
The men exchanged puzzled looks. They were just coming into the village of Oberschwartzwald, past a pair of half-ruined barns. Ahead they could hear a man yelling.
"Sounds like someone is calling someone else a 'dirty little thief,'" commented Dieter.
"Aye, and I think I know that voice," Reichard said. "If it is him, he dies today." Suiting actions to words the big man reached down and pulled his rifle from its scabbard.
"Yes, and any of the mangy crew he runs with," Wilf added in agreement as he also readied his rifle. "That pastor last night had the right of it—devils in disguise."
"Who are you talking about? Do you think these are the thieves Major Stieff was worried about?" Rob asked in confusion. He reached under his coat for his own revolver.
"Stay out of the line of fire, Rob. This is old business—dangerous business," a grim-faced Wilf warned. "Not your business nor that of Grantville . . ."
"It's old mercenary business, Rob, with as bloody-handed a mercenary as you'd find. Made the Spaniard look like a saint." Even Dieter, usually smiling and laughing, had a grim look. "The tracks said five men."
"Don't assume that's all. This place may hold others. Spread out. We don't want to give anyone a massed target." Wilf grinned, his face looking wolf-like. "Against wheel locks or snaphances we've a good chance. Pray they've not gotten their hands on up-time weapons. Rob, your eyes are good, watch the upper stories and our backs. "
Rob nodded in agreement and started to turn his horse around. Art Deco, the Spanish stallion Rob was riding, quivered and refused to turn. Shoving his revolver into a coat pocket, he reached down to stroke the stallion's neck. "Easy, Deco, easy fellow."
The shouting was coming closer and now Rob could hear hoof beats on cobbles. Deco suddenly rocked back on his haunches and rose into a levade. Rob took both sets of reins in his hands, automatically separating curb and snaffle reins. He took a solid hold on the snaffle as Art Deco's forefeet landed and the horse arched his neck with a snort. "Hey, silly, ease off," he told the horse and again turned him; thankful that he had the pelham on the stallion instead of the plain snaffle he usually rode with. With the stallion this restive the curb would come in handy.
"Get a good hold, Rob. That's a warhorse. When the fight starts he'll be ready to move fast—very fast." Wilf started forward into the village square.
Rob managed to hold the stallion back until the rest of the group had cleared the road. He eased up on the bit. A pair of prancing steps brought horse and rider far enough forward to see what was happening.
In the open area a mounted man was chasing a small boy around the well. The child darted frantically back and forth while the horseman cursed and threatened to trample him. A couple of men standing in a doorway yelled bets back and forth on how long the boy would live after the 'captain' caught him. Two other men were restraining a woman against the wall of a house.
When Rob leaned forward to see better, the stallion grabbed the bit and leapt out, hitting a full gallop on the third stride. Without veering the warhorse ran at the other horseman. Rob sawed on the reins and finally managed to put Deco into a sliding stop, somehow ending up next to the child. Rob leaned down and scooped the boy up. He tried to spin the stallion away, thinking to dodge back the way he'd come. Instead, Deco spun to face the other horseman. Rob managed, barely, to stay on.
His game spoiled, the horseman spurred straight at Rob, his hand fighting with his bulky cloak to reach his saber. Deco leapt forward again, colliding with the other horse. The lighter mount went down.
The downed horseman screamed, "You bastard! You'll die a long, painful death for this!"
Rob recognized several shots from at least two up-time rifles and the boom of a wheel lock. His attention was focused on the horse under him. Deco didn't quiver with excitement now—he radiated rage. The stallion half-reared and smashed his hooves down at the fallen horseman. None of Rob's efforts to control him made it past Deco's pinned ears.
The stallion screamed, high-pitched and eerie, his head snaked forward and grabbed the downed man's face. The crack of splintering bone followed. The fallen horse struggled, blocking Deco from his prey and the stallion stepped back a pace.
Rob slid off and, still clutching the child, stumbled backward until a wall stopped him. He set the child down behind him and turned back to watch the monster that two minutes before had been his favorite horse.
Deco's backward steps gave the other horse room enough to stand and limp off. The rider lay unmoving, his face an unrecognizable mass of raw flesh and blood. Rob was certain that the man was dead. The stallion circled the body, his nose nearly touching it, sniffing and snorting. Then Deco squealed, reared again and brought both front hooves down on the body. Again and again the horse reared and brought those steel shod hooves down, trampling the body.
Movement on Rob's left resolved into a man with a sword and pistol. Rob ducked away from the sword and pulled his revolver from his pocket. He danced far enough away to bring the revolver up and fire a quick shot. The attacker hesitated, dropped his sword and pointed his pistol at Rob. Rob took aim and squeezed off another shot. The wheel-lock pistol in his attacker's hand wavered and dropped, followed by the man's body. Belatedly Rob remembered to check for other bandits.
Against the wall, where the woman had been held, two bodies lay crumpled. Another body convulsed in a doorway. Rob heard Reichard yell "Clear!" off to his right and Wilf's reply from the left. Dieter's voice seemed to come from the house with the open door. The man Rob had shot gave a sighing groan and was still. Blood was everywhere—a shocking red highlight to the brilliant white snow. After one last check for other bandits, Rob turned, dropped to his knees, and lost his breakfast.
"Are you hurt, lad?"
Rob looked up to find Reichard standing over him. "No, I'm okay. But Deco . . . God, Reichard, I've got to shoot him! He's gone nuts!"
"Ah, lad, no. He's a warhorse, doing what warhorses are taught to do. Now, if horses have souls I might worry that Deco is enjoying his revenge a bit too much." The element of satisfaction in Reichard's voice caught Rob's attention.
"Revenge?" Climbing to his feet, Rob made himself look again at the stallion and the bloody bundle of rags under the horse's hooves.
"Few of your horse's scars came from battle. That miserable excuse for a man . . ." He sneered, pointing to the body Deco was still pounding. ". . . put the rest there with spur and whip. Especially the whip." Reichard spat and continued. "I, for one, would say this is a fitting end to Captain von Schor."
"Aye, and he had no right to either the 'von' or the 'captain,'" Wilf said as he approached. A look of satisfaction spread across his face. "It was just the five of them. Old Jacob's still alive, for now at least. Dieter is with him so he may not last long. Joachem and Pigears had the boy's mother. They'll not bother anyone again."
Struggling to hold himself upright and steady, Rob mechanically reloaded his revolver. He looked around and saw a few heads peering out of doorways and windows. "I reckon we've saved the town from the outlaws, Marshall," he drawled in English.
Both Reichard and Wilf laughed. Most Saturday nights found the former mercenaries at Rob's house watching old movies. Westerns were their favorites. The movies were generally accompanied by cackles of laughter and loud exclamations of the number of ways various villains and heroes would have died in a real battle.
Wilf added thoughtfully, "Watch yourselves with the villagers. I don't think we've earned ourselves any welcome here. To them we are just another set of armed scum. Be careful of catching a knife in your backs."
"Or a shot from across the square," Reichard added.
"Maybe not. From the quick glance I got, the village's guns are all in the house these swine were using." Wilf grimaced. "I suppose we'll have to play nice and give them back."
That brought Rob's mind around again to the stallion snorting and pawing in front of them. "Wilf, I've got to put Deco down—before he turns on someone else."
"What? No, Rob, just wait. Once the horse is certain his torturer is well and truly dead, he'll calm down. No need to destroy such a magnificent warhorse. That bastard Schor taught him too well. And Schor knew it. That's why he sold Deco off. Now the horse has found his old master and taught him a lesson." Wilf's laugh was as satisfied as Reichard's had been earlier.
"Are we going to have any kind of legal hassles over killing these guys?" Rob asked. His head was still full of sounds and sights from the brief fight and his hands shook slightly. He carefully cleaned each part of his disassembled revolver. Beside him sat his rifle, ready and easily at hand.
Wilf had "played nice" and returned the villagers' guns to the villagers. But he had first separated powder and shot from the weapons and handed those over only after all the guns had been claimed. Rob fully understood the earlier warning about watching his back after that little exchange. The looks the villagers gave the Grantvillers made it clear that there would be no thanks. Wilf didn't think the villagers would openly attack them but everyone had weapons at hand just in case.
"I don't think so. Each of them were on the old Grantville 'Kill if found' list. I doubt that anyone from our present government will complain," Wilf replied as he patiently and thoroughly cleaned his rifle. "These black powder reloads work well save for the mess they leave."
"The ones who have to bury them might complain," Dieter joked. "The ground is still frozen." He was cleaning out several deep scratches and scrapes on the boy Rob had rescued. The boy's mother, Marta Altboters, sat holding him on her lap. Her bruised face was stolid but her blackened eyes darted from man to man.
Reichard sat to one side, his attention on the doorway and Rob's extra pump shotgun across his knees. "We've done the world a service this day by ridding it of those scum. Faw! Look at this place! I swear it looks like a pig was slaughtered in here."
"No, not a pig . . ." Marta sobbed softly. She looked around fearfully and clasped Mattias tightly.
"Come, now, Frau Altboters." Dieter smiled warmly at mother and child. "We'll not harm you. No need to hold your son so tight. He's been a good boy and not fussed or squirmed. I'm almost finished with him."
Wilf was looking at the young mother, an odd expression on his face. Reichard began to curse under his breath. Rob smiled at her, trying for "trust me" and fearing he looked instead like he was sneering. "None of us will harm you. You and your boy are safe with us. As safe as in your father's house." Her reaction surprised him.
"Safe as my father's house, eh! My father—" She spat into the fire. "—was the one who shoved me in here to keep you satisfied and away from the other women."
"Ah, that explains it. I thought he said something about sacrificing. He's made you the sacrifice. Your son, too, were we that sort of men." Wilf shook his head and frowned. "Whether you believe it or not we will not harm you or your son in any way, Frau. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I am Wilfram Jones, a reasonably respectable horse dealer from Grantville. The overly-large man concerned with the former tenants' housekeeping is Reichard Blucher. He is a partner of mine, as is Dieter Wiesskamp. Dieter acts as our surgeon as needed and is very good at it. Lastly, this young man is Robert Clark, horse breeder, trainer, and good friend. He has eyes and thoughts only for his betrothed back in Grantville."
"Aye, Rob's thoughts won't stray—he knows what his Lannie would do to him if they did!" Dieter jibed.
"Come on, Dieter!" Rob found himself blushing.
It might have been the blush or maybe the polite nods from each of the men that took the wild fright out of Marta's eyes. She looked down at her son and lightly fingered each bandage. Finally her head came up and she stared at the men. "What manner of men are you?"
"Not the likes of Schor and his gang," Wilf bit off. "You said something . . . I'm half-afraid of the answer . . . You said 'No, not a pig.'"
"A girl. About twelve or so. They brought her here a week ago. When they were done with her they had me take the body out."
Reichard spit out one last long and vehement curse. "Pigears liked them young. He died too fast. I should have ripped his balls off." Reichard eyed the woman. "They've been bashing you around, too, haven't they? Bastards!"
Marta nodded and sobbed out, "Yes. Father handed me over to them when the woman they brought with them disappeared."
"And your husband didn't object," Rob asked.
"How could he? He's been dead this last three years."
"The women disappeared as in 'under a convenient snowbank'?" Wilf asked. "Oh, woman, what kind of monster is your father to do such a thing?" His hand gently brushed her loose hair back, exposing a large, raw abrasion on her jaw. "These wounds need to be cleaned out or they will fester. Will you allow Dieter attend to them?"
She looked around at all of them then slowly nodded. Leaning down she whispered something to her son and he slid off her lap. Rob motioned the boy over. "Let's get something on you, Matthias, before you freeze." Rob reached into his pack and pulled out first a flannel shirt and then a tee shirt. Grinning he tossed the tee to Matthias. "Put this on." The boy smiled shyly back and pulled the tee-shirt over his head. The result brought smiles to other men as Matthias stood draped from neck to toes in the black shirt with gold lettering. "Here, wrap yourself up in this shirt and slide down inside my sleeping bag." Rob handed the flannel shirt to the boy.
Matthias wound the flannel shirt twice around himself and, with a few anxious looks at his mother, wiggled down into the sleeping bag. Seeing the boy settled down gave Rob a warm feeling and he turned back to cleaning his revolver. Wilf hummed to himself as he reassembled his rifle. With a final click he slipped the clip in place and carefully set the rifle aside. Rob looked up. He realized that the tension in the little house had lifted a bit.
"Frau Altboters, did von Schor or any of the others every talk about why they were here in Oberschwartzwald?" Wilf asked suddenly. "This village seems an unlikely place for them to spend any time."
"No, they didn't talk—they argued. Constantly. The one called Jacob was always complaining about staying here. The captain hit the one called Pigears over the head with a chunk of firewood once. He kept saying that they would stay until they had finished their job. Until the job was done they wouldn't get paid." Marta winced as Dieter swabbed out an abrasion.
"Ah, now that sounds like our late and unlamented acquaintances!" rumbled Reichard. "Money, or at least the chance for money, was all that mattered to that crew."
"Aye, but money for what? Who was paying? Mayhap we should have tried to keep old Jakob alive a bit longer," Wilf replied. "As is we have an answer to Major Stieff's puzzle. We know who and how many 'bandits' were causing trouble. However, I'm certain he'll want us to find the answer to this new puzzle."
Rob nodded. A thought struck him. "Frau, did you ever see or hear talk about their paymaster? How did he contact them?"
Marta Altboters sat silently for a few moments. Rob thought he saw fear cross her face. After a long look down at her sleeping son, she grasped Dieter's hand and pushed it away. "There was a man they spoke of. A man who met them outside of town, on the other side of the woodlot. When they came back from that meeting Schor had a satchel. He hid it behind the bed." There was a sly, defiant look on her face as she spoke the last. She looked around at all of them as if waiting for blows to fall.
"Oh! Clever woman! I bet that those swine never thought of you beyond their dinners and the bed! Stupid of them." Wilf bowed to Marta. "Gallant woman. Your trust in us is well founded." He looked around the room. "Rob," he commanded quietly, "take the shotgun and guard position."
Rob nearly tipped his stool over in his haste to comply. He thought he knew what was coming. Reichard grinned, arose, and handed over the shotgun.
"You worry about the door, we'll worry about keeping out of you line of fire," Reichard said, a wide grin on his face.
Rob in the chair, keeping the shotgun pointed at the door. The first time he'd gone horse-trading with Wilf and the others he'd considered a barred door and shutters sufficient safety precautions. Now he found comfort in Wilf's paranoia as expressed by the shotgun and the unobstructed line of fire. The shutters could be pried open from the outside but it would take time, make noise, and neither window was big enough for a man to slip through. As well, Reichard had driven nails through the shutters and it would take a sledgehammer or ax to open them. The chair he sat in was carefully placed. Should someone break down the door the intruder would find the shotgun on his unprotected side. Also, a gun stuck through either of the windows would be hard put to line up on the chair.
The table sat in front of the door, just close enough that a group of men trying to force their way through the door would be stopped by it. On one side the door's swing would be stopped by a large trunk, on the other side sat the shotgun and guard. Up in Poland the previous year there had been a band of men who had decided to relieve the horse traders of their gold. Five of the thieves died before getting off a single shot and the sixth managed only to put his shot into the thatching. There had been no further trouble with thieves on that trip.
"Shall I?" Reichard's voice rumbled as he stood beside the bed.
"Aye, pull it out and while you're at it get rid of those bloody blankets," Wilf directed. "Might as well chuck the mattress out, too. I'm not so fond of lice any more. Especially not lice who've been dining on Schor and his band."
Reichard grabbed the bed frame and pulled it away from the walls. He reached down and produced a leather satchel of the kind the Thurn and Taxis post riders used. It landed on the table with a solid thunk. Reichard turned back to the bed, and gathered the blankets and straw stuffed mattress into one large bundle. He carefully stepped around the table and waited while Wilf snuffed the candles and opened the door. A quick step outside, a heave and the filthy mess disappeared into the night. Another step, back this time, and Reichard was inside and the door closed. The bar dropped into place.
Wilf lit the candles, then grinned and drew the satchel toward him. "Mayhap now we'll see what Schor was up to." Papers spilled out, several letters and two large vellum rolls when he upended the satchel. There was a single clink announcing the presence of a large silver coin. Wilf held the coin up and showed it around. It was only half a coin with a jagged edge. Wilf set it aside and started scanning the letters.
"Reichard, as you've finished with the bed take over guard again. Most of these are in French." Wilf indicated the letters on the table. "Here, Rob, you read French. See what you make of this."
The exchange was quickly made and Rob sat again at the table. After squinting at the first letter in the candlelight he grabbed up his pack and unzipped a side pocket. The small battery-powered lamp lit up the interior of the house remarkably. Behind him he heard Marta gasp but his attention was on the letter. What he read made him reach for the rolls. "Maps, that's what this is about. Maps of the roads around here and on up toward Magdeburg" Rob unrolled one vellum and held it open. Wilf and Dieter crowded around.
"Maps with notes on roads, road conditions, fords, and military patrols." Wilf 's voice was tight.
"Here and here, notes about the villages—supplies of food, livestock numbers, details about the town militias, how many guns, how much gunpowder and shot . . . Just what a raiding party needs to move quickly." Dieter's face was grim. "Or is it to be more than a raiding party?"
Rob scanned two more of the letters. "I can't tell. Some kind of raiding party. That's my guess from the information asked for—the letters don't say. Nor do they give a time. From what you've said the fact that they are in French doesn't tell us anything, either."
"No," Wilf replied. "Schor read French but none of the others did so it could just be his way of keeping them ignorant. He wasn't the most trusting soul." Pausing, Wilf looked around the room. "I think that this package belongs on Major Stieff's desk as soon as possible. Moonrise should be late tonight but the road is clear. We'll leave before it's up. Two hours, men. Rest and eat."
"My son and I will go with you." Marta's voice was firm, her chin was up and from the look on her face she was expecting to fight for her decision.
Reichard chuckled. "The lass has more spine than her father. Certainly you can come along. I'll don't think any of us want to leave you to be 'sacrificed' again."
"Aye, Reichard," Wilf declared flatly. He looked at her for a moment and then nodded. "Right. By rights Schor and his band's horses are yours. They aren't much but selling them and their tack in Grantville will give you some money. There are several places you can stay—safe places." He stared into the candle flames for a moment and continued. "Reichard and I will ride with you. Dieter and Rob, you two will take the satchel along to Major Stieff as quickly as you safely can."
"You will not need to wait on us. I can ride as well as any man." The voice was proud but wavered a little at the end. Marta stood and began rummaging through a pile of clothing on a bench. She pulled out a man's shirt and a pair of long trousers that were obviously much too large.
"Frau Altboters, I have no doubt about that. The fact is that Dieter and Rob are light riders and have the two fastest horses amongst us. They will make the trip quicker and I confess that I'm getting too old for the kind of breakneck riding those two delight in. We four will follow at a slower pace. Rob, I'd like to keep your sleeping bag with me—for the boy and his mother." A smile played across Wilf's face as he looked down at the sleeping child.
"Sure, Wilf. There's an extra pair of jeans in my pack that should fit you, Frau Altboters, and some socks. My extra boots are probably too big . . ." Rob grabbed his pack and dug out the promised items. His mind was busily planning how to make the fastest time back to Grantville. A stray thought bubbled up and he glanced at Wilf. What was the man up to? Wilf was usually the one who set a fast pace. He glanced at Reichard and when their eyes met Reichard winked slowly and tilted his head toward Wilf. Wilf was speaking softly to Marta Altboters while helping her find a warm cloak.
"Well," muttered Rob under his breath, "this should be interesting. The man who is impervious to women's charms . . ."
"Looks to have found a winter rose," Reichard whispered softly.
Major Stieff settled back in his chair. The wondrous warmth of central heating rapidly thawed his frigid feet and hands. The mug of coffee and three of Frau O'Reilly's oatmeal cookies served to warm his insides as well. One of the other men seated in the room coughed and that brought Stieff back to the reason he'd ridden out to the Clark house.
"Don Francisco has your maps and letters. He's set his people puzzling over them. So far the conclusions are that your bandits might have been working for Turenne. Given the number of factions interested in military information in that area the number possible 'paymasters' is quite large. Still, I was asked to pass on thanks to you. First for removing Schor and his friends, second for recognizing that he must have had a compelling reason to stay in the Oberschwartzwald area, and third for bringing the maps and letters back so promptly." Stieff sipped his coffee and nibbled on a cookie, enjoying the moment.
"We accept Don Francisco's thanks," Wilf answered. "There's more, isn't there?"
"Ah, yes." Stieff smiled. "One of the up-time sayings I find so charming is 'No good deed goes unpunished.' It sums up life's little quirks so nicely."
"So, Major, what will be our punishment?" Reichard asked.
"Nothing specific at this time." Stieff paused. "However, I did get the impression that Don Francisco may have the odd job for you from time to time. Not," he added hastily, "before Rob's wedding. Definitely not."
"So Don Francisco is afraid of Fraulein Lannie's temper, too?" Dieter laughed.
"More likely of Herr Parker's. He would not like to see his granddaughter's big day spoiled."
Major Stieff decided to take his leave on that light note.