March 21, 1756, 8:47 PM, Appalachian Mountains.
Branches, bushes and trees flew by on the amazingly stable video display. The man’s labored breath was exceptionally clear. You could almost hear his heart pounding out of his chest. Occasionally, an upside-down glimpse of his face came into view, he appeared to be quite young, perhaps 30, but had a look in his eyes, the eyes of an old man. A wise old man. The video oddly seemed to be recording from a camera mounted on a chain around the neck. His dirty complexion and half-inch beard growth gave hint that he had dwelled in these woods for days. The perspiration on his face and tenseness of his forehead and jaw reflected his fear — and determination. He had several scratches on his face, mostly from running through the heavy brush. Looking down, his right hand was bloody, as was his left side, where a small hole pierced his buckskin jacket at the bottom of his ribcage.
“Not… gonna… make… it!” he panted with difficultly as he stopped to gather his senses — and breath. He ducked behind a tree, concealing his breathing as much as possible. No more than 50 feet away, atop a horse so black it appeared to be a void in the already dim light, dressed in black trousers and a bright red shirt and cape was his nemesis, Bergamiser — or Bignose as he liked to call him, because of his huge red honker.
“I know you’re out there, Taylor,” the man called as he turned the horse in circles, looking each way carefully. “I know I winged you, too. Just give me the box and we’ll get ya patched up.” He tapped his gun, which was lying across his legs, impatiently. He heard a crack of a twig in the opposite direction, turned his horse and sped off in pursuit.
Taylor breathed what seemed like an hour’s worth of breath and sighed, “Thank God he’s as bad at tracking as he is at physics,” he giggled painfully. “And thank God for the trees, or the moonlight would have given me away.”
He pressed his hand against his side and pulled it away, wincing, and stared at the bright red blood on his fingers. He grunted and then continued on, hoping to reach his destination before his body failed.
Twenty minutes later Bergamiser slowed to barely a trot, then a walk. He was about to give up the chase. He was angry and it was getting cold when he saw a large lump in the path ahead.
Taylor watched as Bignose climbed down from his mare and walked over to him. His eyes closed before the man reached him. He was face down, apparently clutching something to his body. Bergamiser carefully pushed Taylor over onto his back with his foot, full of anticipation at recovering his prize — finally. Taylor had died with a grin on his face, and Bignose’s face twisted with fear when he saw that Taylor was holding a parchment between his hands that read, in shaky handwriting: “NO TIME FOR YOU! HA HA! J.T.”
Branches, bushes and trees flew by on the amazingly stable video display. The man’s labored breath was exceptionally clear. You could almost hear his heart pounding out of his chest. Occasionally, an upside-down glimpse of his face came into view, he appeared to be quite young, perhaps 30, but had a look in his eyes, the eyes of an old man. A wise old man. The video oddly seemed to be recording from a camera mounted on a chain around the neck. His dirty complexion and half-inch beard growth gave hint that he had dwelled in these woods for days. The perspiration on his face and tenseness of his forehead and jaw reflected his fear — and determination. He had several scratches on his face, mostly from running through the heavy brush. Looking down, his right hand was bloody, as was his left side, where a small hole pierced his buckskin jacket at the bottom of his ribcage.
“Not… gonna… make… it!” he panted with difficultly as he stopped to gather his senses — and breath. He ducked behind a tree, concealing his breathing as much as possible. No more than 50 feet away, atop a horse so black it appeared to be a void in the already dim light, dressed in black trousers and a bright red shirt and cape was his nemesis, Bergamiser — or Bignose as he liked to call him, because of his huge red honker.
“I know you’re out there, Taylor,” the man called as he turned the horse in circles, looking each way carefully. “I know I winged you, too. Just give me the box and we’ll get ya patched up.” He tapped his gun, which was lying across his legs, impatiently. He heard a crack of a twig in the opposite direction, turned his horse and sped off in pursuit.
Taylor breathed what seemed like an hour’s worth of breath and sighed, “Thank God he’s as bad at tracking as he is at physics,” he giggled painfully. “And thank God for the trees, or the moonlight would have given me away.”
He pressed his hand against his side and pulled it away, wincing, and stared at the bright red blood on his fingers. He grunted and then continued on, hoping to reach his destination before his body failed.
Twenty minutes later Bergamiser slowed to barely a trot, then a walk. He was about to give up the chase. He was angry and it was getting cold when he saw a large lump in the path ahead.
Taylor watched as Bignose climbed down from his mare and walked over to him. His eyes closed before the man reached him. He was face down, apparently clutching something to his body. Bergamiser carefully pushed Taylor over onto his back with his foot, full of anticipation at recovering his prize — finally. Taylor had died with a grin on his face, and Bignose’s face twisted with fear when he saw that Taylor was holding a parchment between his hands that read, in shaky handwriting: “NO TIME FOR YOU! HA HA! J.T.”