Disquiet filled her. It seemed she would be ill, her stomach rolling, fingertips chilled. And the vision returned: The man smiles at her. Fringe. Dark. Falling.
“Marshal,” she said, her voice tight. “Marshal Stamford!” She jerked Phineas to a stop.
Stamford turned, smiling as he reined up his horse. Cra-ack! His lips formed a grimace, green eyes wide with surprise as he jolted forward, still in the saddle, but he held his right shoulder and clutched his horse’s neck, struggling for balance. His horse tossed its head and pranced. Ellen spurred Phineas forward, vaguely hearing Lutecia’s exhortation to take cover. She grabbed the sorrel’s headstall. Craack, came another shot. Phineas snorted. Ellen urged Stamford’s horse toward the tall serviceberry bushes beside the trail. Two shots came from Lutecia’s Pettingill.
“Get down!” Stamford growled at her. “It’s you he’s after!” The dark stain on his jacket spread as he took control of his horse and slid to the ground. With his left hand, he pulled his rifle from the scabbard.
Craack! Phineas jerked. Red blossomed across the big draft’s left ear and the horse whinnied a protest and bolted into the thickets.
“Run, Ellen! We’ll hold him down!” Lutecia called.