The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [213]
The Browns had lost interest in Roger, and were staring at Gallegher in sheer bewilderment.
“What did he say?” Mrs. Brown whispered to her sister-in-law. The older lady shook her head, lips drawn in like a pursestring.
“Mr. Morton is alive and well,” Roger translated for them. He coughed. “Fortunately for you,” he said to the male Browns, with as much menace as he could contrive to put into his voice. He turned to Gallegher, who had now come into the room and was leaning against the doorjamb, musket in hand and looking distinctly entertained.
“Is everyone else all right, then, Henry?”
Gallegher shrugged.
“They crap-bags hivny holed anyone, but they gie’d your saddlebag rare laldy wae a load o’ bird shot. Sir,” he added as an afterthought, teeth showing in a brief flash through his beard.
“The bag with the whisky?” Roger demanded.
“Get awa!” Gallegher bugged his eyes in horror, then grinned in reassurance. “Nah, t’other.”
“Och, well.” Roger waved a hand dismissively. “That’s only my spare breeks, isn’t it?”
This philosophical response drew laughter and hoots of support from the men crammed in the doorway, which heartened Roger enough to round on the smaller Brown.
“And what d’ye have against Isaiah Morton?” he demanded.
“He’s dishonored my daughter,” Mr. Brown replied promptly, having recovered his composure. He glared at Roger, beard twitching with anger. “I told him I’d see him dead at her feet, if ever he dared show his wretched countenance within ten miles of Brownsville—and damn my eyes if the grass-livered spittle-snake hasn’t the face to ride right up to my door!”
Mr. Richard Brown turned to Gallegher.
“You mean to tell me we both missed the bastard?”
Gallegher shrugged apologetically.
“Aye. Sorry.”
The younger Miss Brown had been following this exchange, mouth hanging slightly open.
“They missed?” she asked, hope lighting her reddened eyes. “Isaiah’s still alive?”
“Not for long,” her uncle assured her grimly. He reached down to pick up his fowling piece, and all the female Browns burst out in a chorus of renewed screeches, as the guns of the militia at the door all raised simultaneously, trained on Brown. He very slowly put the gun back down.
Roger glanced at Fergus, who lifted one brow and gave the slightest of shrugs. Up to him.
The Browns had drawn together, the two brothers glaring at him, the women huddled behind them, sniffling and murmuring. Militiamen poked their heads curiously through the windows, all staring at Roger, waiting for direction.
And just what was he to tell them? Morton was a member of the militia, and therefore—he assumed—entitled to its protection. Roger couldn’t very well turn him over to the Browns, no matter what he’d done—always assuming he could be caught. On the other hand, Roger was charged with enlisting the Browns and the rest of the able-bodied men in Brownsville, and extracting at least a week’s supplies from them as well; they didn’t look as though such a suggestion would be well received at this point.
He had the galling conviction that Jamie Fraser would have known immediately how best to resolve this diplomatic crisis. He personally hadn’t a clue.
He did, at least, have a delaying tactic. Sighing, he lowered the pistol, and reached for the pouch at his waist.
“Henry, fetch in the saddlebag with the whisky, aye? And Mr. Brown, perhaps ye will allow me to purchase some food, and a barrel of your beer, for my men’s refreshment.”
And with luck, by the time it was all drunk, Jamie Fraser would be here.
29
ONE-THIRD OF A GOAT
IT WASN’T QUITE OVER, after all. It was well past dark by the time we had finished everything at the Beardsley farm, tidied