A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [175]
Lizzie walked into the clearing and Jay followed, holding his rifle to the back of her head.
Mack stared, paralyzed. He could see that Jay’s rifle was cocked. If Jay even stumbled, the gun would blow her head off. Mack turned away from Lennox and moved toward Jay. He was still possessed by savagery. “You’ve only got one shot,” he snarled at Jay. “If you shoot Lizzie, I’ll kill you.”
“Then perhaps I should shoot you,” Jay said.
“Yes,” Mack said madly, moving toward him. “Shoot me.”
Jay swung the rifle.
Mack felt a wild jubilation: the gun was no longer pointed at Lizzie. He walked steadily toward Jay.
Jay took careful aim at Mack.
There was a strange noise, and suddenly a narrow cylinder of wood was sticking out of Jay’s cheek.
Jay screamed in pain and dropped the rifle. It went off with a bang and the ball flew past Mack’s head.
Jay had been shot in the face with an arrow.
Mack felt his knees go weak.
The noise came again, and a second arrow pierced Jay’s neck.
He fell to the ground.
Into the clearing came Fish Boy, his friend, and Peg, followed by five or six Indian men, all carrying bows.
Mack began to shake with relief. He guessed that when Jay captured Fish Boy, the other Indian had gone for help. The rescue party must have met up with the runaway horses. He did not know what had happened to Dobbs, but one of the Indians was wearing Dobbs’s boots.
Lizzie stood over Jay, staring at him, her hand covering her mouth. Mack went over and put his arms around her. He looked down at the man on the ground. Blood was pouring from his mouth. The arrow had opened a vein in his neck.
“He’s dying,” Lizzie said shakily.
Mack nodded.
Fish Boy pointed at Lennox, who was still kneeling. The other Indians seized him, threw him flat and held him down. There was some conversation between Fish Boy and the oldest of the others. Fish Boy kept showing his fingers. They looked as if the nails had been pulled out, and Mack guessed that was how Lennox had tortured the boy.
The older Indian drew a hatchet from his belt. With a swift, powerful motion he cut off Lennox’s right hand at the wrist.
Mack said: “By Jesus.”
Blood gushed from the stump and Lennox fainted.
The man picked up the severed hand and, with a formal air, presented it to Fish Boy.
He took it solemnly. Then he turned around and hurled it away. It flew up into the air and over the trees, to fall somewhere in the woods.
There was a murmur of approval from the Indians.
“A hand for a hand,” Mack said quietly.
“God forgive them,” said Lizzie.
But they had not finished. They picked up the bleeding Lennox and placed him under a tree. They tied a rope to his ankle, looped the rope over a bough of the tree, and raised him until he was hanging upside-down. Blood pumped from his severed wrist and pooled on the ground beneath him. The Indians stood around, looking at the grisly sight. It seemed they were going to watch Lennox die. They reminded Mack of the crowd at a London hanging.
Peg came up to them and said; “We ought to do something about the Indian boy’s fingers.”
Lizzie looked away from her dying husband.
Peg said: “Have you got something to bandage his hand?”
Lizzie blinked and nodded. “I’ve got some ointment, and a handkerchief we can use for a bandage. I’ll see to it.”
“No,” Peg said firmly. “Let me do it.”
“If you wish.” Lizzie found a jar of ointment and a silk handkerchief and gave them to Peg.
Peg detached Fish Boy from the group around the tree. Although she did not speak his language, she seemed to be able to communicate with him. She led him down to the stream and began to bathe his wounds.
“Mack,”