1901 by Robert Conroy

was much heavier and more ill balanced than she expected, and she thought about leaving it. But then she grimly recalled that she’d been raped twice this day and had no inclination to have it occur again. She hadn’t the foggiest idea how to use the damn thing, but it was a fearsome-looking weapon, and the bayonet looked absolutely evil.
    She experimented for a moment and found she could handle it in one arm with a degree of ease. Then, clutching her tattered clothes to her with one hand and the rifle with the other, she headed out the door. She must get away from the flames she could now see advancing. She had taken but a few steps when she realized she hadn’t made arrangements with Father Connelly to bury Cormac. She looked back at the churning smoke and fire that seemed to be moving closer down the abandoned streets, and sadly realized that there would be no funeral, and that Father Connelly was doubtless prudently running away as well. Good-bye, dear Cormac, she thought. She would leave him behind along with the dimming memories of a father who’d brought them from Ireland to a new world that was supposed to be clean and safe. God damn the Germans.
    Patrick Mahan took steady aim at the man who held the knife to Katrina’s throat. Cautiously, carefully, he tried to gauge the situation and ignore the look of stark terror on Katrina’s face. How foolish they’d been to think that three men and a woman were safe once they’d cleared the mobs. Three bandits had leaped from the bushes and clubbed down the two servants, smashing their skulls, before anyone had a chance to react. In a motion that seemed to take forever, Patrick had reached for his revolver while kicking at the thug who grabbed at his leg. Finally the pistol came free and he shot the man in the face.
    But now they were at an impasse. He had the gun and they had Katrina.
    “Let her go,” he said with as much firmness as he could muster.
    “Fuck you!” said the man with the knife. “Give Charley there the gun and you both can leave.”
    Patrick almost smiled at the incongruity of the request. Give them the gun? Trust them? Not bloody damn likely. He turned the revolver on Charley, who was inching toward the horses. Had Katrina packed another gun in the bags? Patrick didn’t think so, but he was uncertain.
    He gestured to Charley. “Take whatever you want and let the girl go. Then you can leave.”
    The man with the knife laughed. “You got it all wrong. We’re taking what we want and the girl. If you’re lucky, you’ll find her later when we’re through fucking her and release her. And don’t wave that goddamn gun around like you’re actually gonna shoot. You won’t take a chance on hitting the bitch.”
    The knife man was right. But if Patrick let them leave, then all he could do was follow them and try to get a clear shot before they got too far away. Charley had the horses and was now rummaging through the saddlebags. Shit, Patrick thought, if they ride off and leave me on foot, I’ll never be able to follow, and God help Katrina. He could see by the look on her face as her eyes followed the byplay that she was aware of this as well.
    Until the moment the bandits had attacked, the trip from New York had been relatively uneventful. Once they had crossed the Harlem River, it had been almost a pleasant ride in the country with Katrina and the two servants. He had found the young woman—she was younger than he—to be both pleasant and intelligent. In point of fact, she was extremely intelligent. Almost better, he discovered she had a wicked sense of humor. He enjoyed her company, however strange the current circumstances.
    Now she stood a good chance of dying a violent, degrading, and painful death if he couldn’t come up with some way of resolving this brutal dilemma.
    “Hey,” yelled Charley, “lookit this shit. Pretty boy is a sojer. Lookit the uniforms.”
    The knife man looked at the blue uniform held up by Charley. “That true,