1632

Mackay's flush deepened. Mike knew that the Scotsman's teeth made him nervous in the presence of American women. For this day and age, Alex's teeth weren't in bad shape. But by American standards, they were something of an eyesore.

Mackay's preoccupation caused him to lapse into the dialect of his youth. " 've thought on it," he muttered. "I'll no mind t'pain."

The last statement was flat, firm. Mike didn't doubt him for an instant. Men of Mackay's time had standards of pain acceptance that veered just as widely from those of Americans as their dental condition. "Anesthetic," to a man like Mackay, meant half a bottle of wine-and glad to get it.

Behind his lips, Mike could see Mackay's tongue running over his teeth. " 'Tis no the pain. S'the expense. I dinna ken if I can afford it."

Frank made a faint snorting sound. More of a sniff, perhaps. "Hell, don't worry about that, Alex. Your credit'll be good with him."

"Credit?" Mackay's eyes widened. "Credit? I don't even know t'man!"

"I do," stated Frank. "He's my brother-in-law. Henry G. Sims, DDS." Jackson nodded toward the sniper. "Julie's father, as it happens. And he don't think any better of little old Chip-shit than I do. As it happens."

The binoculars went back up to his eyes. "So go see him, why don't you?"

"Good idea," concurred Mike. He gave Mackay a friendly slap on the shoulder. "Good idea."

***

As Gretchen was about to leave the shack, a young boy came rushing in. She recognized him-one of Mathilde's two younger brothers.

"Max Jungers is outside!" hissed the boy. He leaned over, his face anxious and intense. Gretchen saw the difficulty with which he was controlling his impulse to point.

Her eyes flitted to Mathilde. Mathilde's own face was tight with apprehension.

"Shit! I thought he'd decided to leave us alone."

"Who is Max Jungers?" asked Gretchen.

The words came out in a quiet, tumbling rush, from all of the women at once. When they were done, Gretchen nodded. Local tough. Hooligan. Thief. Cutpurse. Would-be pimp.

"The usual," she muttered. "He has bothered you?"

The women nodded. Mathilde's little brother was staring at her with open eyes. "I think-" he squeaked. Then, clearing his throat: "I think he's not here for that." The boy hesitated, as if abashed. "I think-"

Gretchen chuckled. The sound was as humorless as a razor blade. "Me?"

The boy nodded. The gesture was quick, frightened.

Gretchen rose from her chair. "Well, then. I should go speak to him. Since he came all this way to see me."

Three seconds later, she was striding out of the shack. The women watched her go, gaping. There they squatted, for a moment, before the reality registered. Like a little mob, they rushed to the door and stared out.

Max Jungers, sure enough. He had apparently been lurking at the corner. Now, seeing Gretchen coming down the narrow street, he smiled and ambled toward her across the cobblestones. His hand was resting loosely on the hilt of a dirk scabbarded to his waist.

"Shit!" exclaimed Mathilde again. "There's going to be trouble!"

Her cousin Inga nodded sadly. "It's too bad. I liked Gretchen."

Mathilde stared at her. "Are you mad? Don't you understand yet?"

***

"Four hundred yards!" snapped Karen. Before the last word was spoken, Julie's Remington erupted. Less than a second later, the most flamboyantly caparisoned mercenary "leader" was hammered out of his saddle. Julie was using her match ammunition. The 173-grain boat-tail round punched right through the front of his cuirass and took a goodly piece of his heart with it through the backplate.

Julie was not particularly tall for an American girl-five and a half feet-but she weighed a hundred and forty pounds. The shapeliness of her somewhat stocky figure was due entirely to muscle. She absorbed the recoil with no difficulty at all. A quick, practiced, easy motion jacked another round into the chamber.

"Target area six!" snapped Karen. "Three hundred fifty yards! Hat-green feather!"

Julie was standing, to give herself maximum ease of movement. At that range, she was not worried about accuracy. It took her not more than three seconds to bring the next target into her scope.

Crack! The head beneath a green-feathered hat spilled blood and brains. The horseman slumped sidewise out of the saddle.

"Fuck," grunted Julie. "Missed!"

Mackay's eyes were like saucers. Mike was amused-and half-appalled. "She was aiming for what James calls the 'sniper's triangle'-both eyes down to the breastbone," he explained. "That shot was a little high."

Karen: "Area three! Three hundred fifty again! Big old floppy hat!"

Crack! A cavalryman was driven out of his saddle onto the rump of his horse. A red stain appeared on his cloth coat, just above the belt buckle. Behind him, a much larger pool of blood spilled down his mount's tail.