Summer of Promise Read Free Page B

No one did. Not like this. As the coach continued to lurch, Abigail heard the sounds of a whip cracking and a desperate shout. She tightened her grip on Mrs. Dunn. Though she might not be able to help the driver, she could keep the friendly widow away from the window and danger.
    “Gif me the Gelt, ” the bandit shouted, his heavy accent telling Abigail that German was his native language. As the lieutenant muttered something under his breath, his tone left no doubt that that something was uncomplimentary. “Gif me the Gelt ,” the man repeated.
    It was the lieutenant who responded, never taking his eyes off the would-be robber. “There is no money, and you won’t get anything else.”
    “Don’t pay him no mind,” the man on the palomino told his companion. “He’s only one, and we’re two.” Though unschooled, this man’s voice bore no accent.
    “Halt, I say,” the German ordered. “Halt or I vill shoot.” He punctuated his threat with a shot into the air. “That vas a varning. The next one vill not be.”
    When Mrs. Dunn started to speak, Abigail clasped a hand over her mouth. Nothing she could say, nothing any of them could say, would help. Everything depended on Lieutenant Bowles. Help him. Abigail sent a silent prayer heavenward. Though she had followed the lieutenant’s instruction and moved away from the window, she had a clear view of the two outlaws. The one with the heavy accent lowered his rifle until it was once again pointed at the driver. He was closer now, the sight of his rifle causing her stomach to roil.
    “Halt!” the bandit yelled. “I vant the Gelt ,” he shouted, his voice so filled with malevolence that Abigail knew he would not hesitate to kill.
    “Help!” Panic colored the driver’s voice as he pleaded, “Help me.”
    There was only one possible recourse. Abigail knew that, even as the prospect sickened her. If the lieutenant didn’t act now, the driver would be dead. It was a clear choice: kill or watch a man—perhaps more than one—be killed.
    As the lieutenant squeezed the trigger, the deafening sound of the revolver filled the coach. “Oh no!” Mrs. Fitzgerald slumped forward in a swoon.
    “Stop!” Mrs. Dunn shrieked as she fought to escape from Abigail’s grip. “The Lord says ‘thou shalt not kill.’”
    But the lieutenant had not killed, Abigail realized with a sense of incredulity. Somehow, though she had not thought it possible, he had only wounded the bandit enough that the man dropped his rifle and was clutching his hand.
    “Let’s go.” The other bandit reined his horse and spun around, racing away from the stagecoach, not even glancing back to see whether his wounded companion was behind him. The German, doubled over in pain, followed more slowly.
    The danger was past. The Lord had answered her prayers. There had been no killing. Not today. Abigail felt the tension drain from her, leaving her as limp as a wilted stalk of celery. As Mr. Fitzgerald waved Abigail’s smelling salts under his wife’s nose, Abigail released her grip on Mrs. Dunn and turned toward the lieutenant, who was now looking at the other passengers as if assessing their condition. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
    “Just doing my job, miss.” His voice was as calm as if he foiled robberies every day of the week. Perhaps he did. The lieutenant leaned out the window again and addressed the driver. “You can stop now. I doubt they’ll be back, but I’ll ride next to you, just in case.”
    “What about us?” Mrs. Dunn demanded. She had retrieved her reticule and clutched it as if it held her most prized possessions, not simply a handkerchief and a vial of smelling salts. “I reckon we need protection too.”
    Though the lieutenant’s lips twitched, his voice was serious as he said, “You’ll be safe, ma’am, but you might feel better if you pulled down the shades and sat in the middle of the coach.”
    Now that