Over the Darkened Landscape - By Derryl Murphy Page 0,72

what seemed an agonizingly slow fall towards Robert, finally falling across the circle and obliterating several of the wards.

It was broken! He jumped and ran across the boundary, careful to step on the wood as he crossed over, watched as Dumont awoke and groggily reached for his knife. He jumped the last few feet with arms outstretched, and grabbed Dumont’s head, wrenching the man to the ground. Dumont, awake now, swung his blade in a desperate flash, but Robert had his makeshift rope around Dumont’s throat, pulling as tight as he could as he dodged the knife.

Dumont flung his head back now, anxious to make contact, but Robert danced to the side, still holding the rope tight. As the knife came up for another swing Robert kicked at it, knocked it skittering across the dirt floor. Then, with a grunt accompanied by a weak cough from Dumont, he pulled the Métis man off his feet and slammed his skull against the stone base of the wall.

Dumont lay still, blood seeping from beneath his unruly hair, but still breathing. A raw angry ring peeked out from beneath his beard, bruises turning blue from red even as Robert watched. Robert leaned over, catching his breath, noticed that his hand was bleeding; the knife must have scored.

But that could be worried about later. He had to get going now. It made no sense to arrest Dumont and take him to America, not with either one of them in such bad condition. But he couldn’t very well kill Dumont, either, not in cold blood while he laid there injured. He was no one’s executioner.

Dumont would stay unconscious for a while, he decided. Long enough to not worry about having to use magic here to keep him in place, but rather lay some simpler spells of confusion along the way. He grabbed the supplies, left Dumont his knife, a little water, and two small pieces of venison.

Then he saddled up the horse he had ridden on and sent the other two running. It was time to ride south now. And pray he ran into no one else.

Over the Darkened Landscape

The train whistle blew three times, a harsh sound that sat me up and made me perk up my ears. Mac turned over in the rolling darkness, the only sound now the steady clickety-clack of wheels on the steel tracks.

He put his hand on my back and let it rest there for a moment. “Anything wrong?” His voice was groggy and his lips smacked loudly as he searched for spit for a too-dry mouth.

I shook my head and then nosed at his arm. Mac lifted it away and I licked his palm twice, then rolled up against him and fell asleep to the easy, pleasant sensation of Mac’s fingers scratching me behind the ears and underneath my collar.

Next morning there was a quiet rap on the door and then it opened. Simon, our car’s attendant, stepped in carrying a pot of coffee. “Good morning, Mr. King,” he sang, cheerful as ever. “I trust your sleep went well.” He opened the blinds to a pale blue sky and a never-ending march of trees as we wended our way through the northern woods.

He poured a cup for Mac, who was now up and blinking away the gumminess of sleep. After Mac took the cup Simon leaned down and scratched me under the chin. “And how’s Pat this bright and cheery morning?” he asked in his best baby talk voice. I could put up with that, though, because he produced a napkin from his pocket and slowly unfolded it, revealing a scrumptious piece of bacon staining its pristine white surface.

I stood on the bed and shook myself in excitement, the smell almost a feast in and of itself. Simon dangled the strip of bacon above my nose, and after a couple more moments of olfactory ecstasy, I wolfed it down.

“You spoil that dog, Simon,” said Mac. His eyes shone with mischief as he said this, and in response I sat on his pillow and noisily licked my rear.

“Oh, no, Mr. King,” protested Simon as he folded the napkin and tucked it back into his pocket. “Pat is a wonderful dog, and besides, any pet of the greatest detective of our age deserves a little spoiling.”

With these last words he gestured at the large tag that hung from the handle of Mac’s largest suitcase. I can’t read, of course, but the words on the tag were as well known to