Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [83]
Once or twice, one or the other of the farmers glanced in his direction, but he was reasonably sure he couldn’t be seen at this distance. And he was upwind, so the dogs would not be likely to pick up his presence.
They talked for a few minutes. The guy with the shotgun did most of the talking. He picked something off the ground. The converter. He talked some more. Took something else from his captive. Probably the gooseberry. Eventually, he tossed both units toward Shel, who let them drop.
And they apparently told him he could go. Shel picked up the equipment, turned, and began walking away. The two farmers watched for a minute or two before taking the dogs and starting back toward the farmhouse.
Dave stayed down until they were safely inside. The dogs peeled off into the barn. Then he reset the converter, instructing it to take him forward five minutes. And deposit him, if he had his distances worked out correctly, about fifty yards in front of Shel.
“WE’VE got to work out a better way of doing this,” said Shel. “How’s your leg?”
“Okay. I’ve been to the hospital.” He kept an eye on the barn. No sign of the animals.
There was a dirt road directly ahead. And a marker, a gray rock, painted with the words PRIVATE PROPERTY.
Somebody was approaching on horseback. Guys laughing and talking. Three horsemen came around a curve.
The lead rider had a tangled beard. He must have been eighty, a guy who was all elbows and knees. When he saw Dave and Shel, he reined in beside them. “You fellas okay?”
“Yes,” said Shel. “Thanks. We’re fine.”
“You look lost.” The other two, one white, one black, nodded to each other. Sure do. Out in the middle of nowhere, no means of transportation, problem here somewhere. “Where you boys headed?”
“Bordentown.”
“Well, you’re there. But it’s a long walk into town. You want a ride?”
Dave wasn’t sure he knew how to climb onto the back of a horse. “Sure,” said Shel.
Shel, Dave knew, had ridden camels in Egypt while traveling with his father. If you could climb onto a camel, he thought, you could climb onto a horse easily enough. But Dave had never been on one in his life. One of the riders saw his discomfort, smiled, and offered a hand.
Shel prudently waited until Dave was safely on board before climbing up himself. Twenty minutes later, they dismounted in front of a pleasant green-and-white house on the edge of town. They knocked but got no answer.
“Let’s go forward a few hours,” said Shel. “Give them time to get home.”
“They might be in the next county,” said Dave. “Two weeks would be better.”
Dave left, and Shel pressed the button. Nothing happened.
He tried again. This time it worked.
A woman answered the door. “We’d heard,” said Shel, “that Thomas Paine was staying here. Is that by any chance correct?”
She frowned. “Who are you, please?”
A young man appeared behind her. “I heard my name. Were you looking for me?”
“Mr. Paine,” said Shel. “We’re headed for Pennsylvania to join General Washington’s army.”
Dave winced. He wished Shel would calm down a bit.
“We heard you were here as we were passing through,” Shel continued, “and we hoped you wouldn’t find it an imposition if we stopped to express our appreciation. For what you’ve done. For the cause.”
Dave hadn’t been aware that Shel was planning to concoct the story, but he was getting used to his fabrications. It was Selma again.
They were standing on the porch of Joseph Kirkbride’s home, in the early evening of Thursday, October 9. Paine looked embarrassed by the adulation, but Shel was enjoying himself. “I suspect the day will come,” he continued, “when you will be remembered as the voice of the Revolution.”
Paine was lean, informal, relaxed. Dave, expecting a firebrand, was surprised. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “I appreciate your going out of your way to come here. And I need not say how pleased I am that you’re going to join General