The Last Guardian Read Online Free PDF Page A

Exhausted,Beth continued to nurse the boy, going without sleep and sitting by his bedside, dabbing at the sores with a damp cloth. The child had pulled through, and within two weeks the sores had vanished.
    Without the strength of Sean McAdam the family had pushed on through snow and ice, through spring floods, and once across a narrow cliff trail under threat of avalanche. Beth had twice driven wolves from the six oxen, shooting one great beast dead with a single shot from Sean’s double-barreled flintlock. Samuel’s pride in his mother’s achievement was colossal.
    Five days earlier he had found another source for pride when two brigands had accosted them on the road—sour-looking men, bearded and eagle-eyed. Beth had laid down the reins and took up the flintlock pistol.
    “Now, you scum-tars don’t look too bright to me, so I’ll speak slow. Give me the road or by God, I’ll send your pitiful souls straight to hell!”
    And they had. One had even swept his hat from his head in an elaborate bow as she passed.
    Beth smiled at the memory now, then returned her gaze to the wheel. Two problems faced her: finding a length of wood to use as a lever and figuring out how to do both jobs—levering and fitting the wheel—herself.
    Mary brought her some soup; it was thin but nourishing. Samuel made her a cup of herb tea; there was too much sugar in it, but she thanked him with a bright smile and ruffled his hair. “You’re a pair of good kids,” she said. “For a pair of snapper-guts, that is!”
    “Ma! Riders comin’!” cried Mary, and Beth stood and drew the flintlock from her wide belt. She eared back the hammers and hid the weapon in the fold of her long woolen skirt. Her blue eyes narrowed as she took in the six men, and she swallowed hard, determined to show no fear.
    “Wait in the wagon,” she told the children. “Do itnow!” They scrambled up the tailboard and hid behind the chest.
    Beth walked forward, her eyes moving from man to man, seeking the leader. He rode at the center of the group, a tall, thin-faced rider with short-cropped gray hair and a red scar running from brow to chin. Beth smiled up at him. “Will you not step down, sir?” she asked. The men chuckled, but she ignored them, keeping her eyes fixed to Scarface.
    “Oh, we’ll step down right enough,” he said. “I’d step down into hell for a woman with a body like yours.” Lifting his leg over the saddle pommel, he slid to the ground and advanced on her. Taking a swift step forward, she curled her left arm up over his shoulder, drawing him down to a passionate kiss. At the same time, her right hand slid up between them and the cold barrels of the flintlock pressed into his groin. Beth moved her head so that her mouth was close to his ear.
    “What you are feeling, pig breath, is a gun,” she whispered. “Now tell your men to change the wheel on the wagon. And touch nothing in it.”
    “Ain’t ya gonna share her, Harry?” called one rider.
    For a moment Scarface toyed with the idea of making a grab for the pistol, but he glanced down into Beth’s steely blue eyes and changed his mind.
    “We’ll talk about it later, Quint,” he said. “First, you boys change that wheel.”
    “Change … we didn’t ride in here to change no damned wheel!” roared Quint.
    “Do it!” hissed Scarface. “Or I’ll rip your guts out.”
    The men swung down from their mounts and set to work, four of them taking the weight of the wagon and the fifth, Quint, hammering loose the wheel pin and manhandling the broken wheel free. Beth walked Scarface to the edge of the camp, where she ordered him to sit on a round boulder. She sat to the right of him, leaving hisbody between her and the working men; out of sight, the flintlock remained pressed to his ribs.
    “You’re a smart bitch,” said Scarface, “and—except for that big nose—a pretty one. Would you really shoot me?”
    “Sooner than spit,” she assured him. “Now, when those men have