Guns of Liberty Read Free Page A

and a moment later the British major emerged from the stable and swung astride his own gray steed.
    Daniel walked his bay a few steps forward to corner Josiah Meeks against the wall of the stable.
    “What is this?” Meeks asked, frowning.
    “An answer to my question, Englishman. How do I save my father from the hangman’s noose?”
    “Ah. Simple. A life for a life. You must kill a man.”
    “Who?”
    Meeks smiled, but there was little humor in his single, baleful eye. “George Washington.”

Chapter One
    May 10, 1775
    “S TAND AND DELIVER, OR die in your tracks!” the tallest of the three highwaymen exclaimed. The black hood he wore muffled his voice; the black cloak concealed his long-limbed frame. Two more hooded figures, one to either side, held their saddle pistols at the ready.
    “It would be a shame to splatter that pretty face and yellow hair o’yours all over the hickories,” a small, thickset thief added.
    The third highwayman, a slim, red-eyed ruffian, sat silent, allowing his two companions to speak while his unwavering gaze swept the young woman’s pretty form from her slender white ankles at the hem of her cotton dress to her rounded hips and bosom. Curls the color of autumn meadows, yellow-gold in the waning of the year, poked out from beneath the tricorn hat she wore. Kate Bufkin was as fetching as moonlight on the Delaware River.
    Young Kate endured the rascal’s lascivious appraisal and refused to be frightened into submission, though she was alone, twenty-two miles out from Philadelphia along the Trenton Road. Five miles ahead lay home and hearth, the safety of the inn she ran with her brother. It was noon and she’d been traveling since sunup, driving her four-wheeled wagon along the heavily rutted road. She was tired and thirsty. Her back ached; her homespun cotton dress was no longer blue but gritty with dust. And the eight large crates of Irish Brown Reds in the wagon had kept up a continuous complaint, squawking and flapping their wings every time the wagon jolted.
    In short, Miss Kate Bufkin was in no mood to be trifled with—especially by the likes of these highwaymen.
    “You’ll be stepping off that chicken wagon, there’s a good miss.” The small, thickset man brought himself around to the side of the wagon.
    The third man broke his silence. He did not intend to share the favors of such a comely tavern wench with anyone. “Back off, Chaney,” he warned, closing in on the other side, leaving only their leader to obstruct her passage.
    Kate gathered the lines in her left hand, caught up the whip in her right. With a flick of her wrist she laid open Chaney’s shoulder, then lashed out at the hooded man to her right and caught him along the neck.
    He yelped and fired his gun. The sudden explosion startled the team. The mares bolted forward as the leader of the three highwaymen, his black cloak flapping, made a mad dash out of harm’s way. He raised his pistol and fired. Kate flinched, sucked in a lungful of powder smoke, and wondered how the man could have missed.
    She did not intend to give him another chance. She cracked her whip across the rumps of her mares and urged them to even greater effort. In a matter of seconds she had raced past the thieves. The wagon lurched to one side, clipped a tree trunk someone had only partly dragged out of the road. The chickens renewed their protests at such ill treatment.
    The highwaymen brought their horses under control and gave chase. Another pistol shot sounded as Kate glanced over her shoulder and saw the highwaymen a couple of hundred feet back. They’d easily catch her; she was pulling too great a load. She gave a momentary thought to lightening the wagon. But there was no time. Besides, she was loath to part with any of her property without a fight.
    Kate reached under the bench seat and brought the blunderbuss secreted there up beside her on the bench seat.
    The Trenton Road followed the Delaware River as it wound through the