Hi, everyone. I'm posting a little early today. It's starting to storm here and given how frequently I lose power, I wanted to get this done.

Thank you all!

Chapter 43

Porthos pulled his horse to a stop and looked into the distance. He could see several riders in the yard of Emry and Eve's farm but he couldn't see the details of what was happening. His heart clenched as he thought about the men he and Athos had been running from. The men who had used the cover of chaos to inflict fear. He thought about the gang that was terrorizing the locals and quietly wondered who it was they were about to face; the men who had hidden within the folds of the local gang or the gang itself.

Aramis reached for his long glass, slipped it from its bag, and extended it. He stood up in his stirrups, flared his nostrils, and said, "Ready your muskets." He pointed toward a plat of ground surrounded with enough cover to hide the horses and provide him a vantage point. "They're in trouble."

"What's goin' on?" Porthos asked. He guided his horse toward the site, but kept a continuous look in the farm's direction.

"A woman is being attacked." Aramis urged his horse across the road and through the brush. The big black tossed his head and then galloped to the destination after receiving a solid nudge to his sides.

D'Artagnan followed. He held his arm close to his chest, but he could feel the dull ache from abused muscles, tendons, and tissue. He quickly dismounted, tied his horse, and then pulled his musket.

Aramis loaded his weapon and then cradled it in the curve of his arm. He positioned himself between two trees and could faintly hear the woman's cries; the screams of children, the pleading of a man, and the chuckles and laughter from others. Their voices traveled on the breeze and took with it the pride and innocence of those being terrified. He looked to his right when Porthos rested his loaded musket against the tree. If he was careful, Aramis could fire each of the weapons and hit his intended targets. His hope was to force the attackers to flee without identifying who was firing at them.

They all turned suddenly when they heard the clanging of wagons, stampeding horses, and clamoring of clubs in unison with angry shouts.

"What in the 'ell?" Porthos said. He turned and looked in the direction they had come from and watched the people of Allier charge toward Emry and Eve's farm. They waved their arms, clubs, and weapons. Men rode horses more accustomed to field work than battle. Their rough trots had several men struggling to stay seated as they bounced and endeavored to maintain their balance. Others stood in the back of open-bed wagons, while the drivers slapped the long reins on the rumps of the draft horses. Porthos recognized Olaf, who stood in his wagon on the toe box, the long reins swaying against the team of horses. He shouted, pointed his finger, and looked at those riding beside him.

It was a poor attempt at an attack, but the men fired their weapons toward the farm, hitting only the occasional unfortunate bird, a few trees, and the dirt road. Firing from horseback was a skill that took years of practice and was difficult for the most talented of musketeers. Thankfully, only a couple of riders attempted the feat, none of which were successful.

"They're makin' their presence known," Porthos said, and then nodded when Aramis handed him his long glass. He looked toward the farm and said, "I don't see Athos—"

"If he's smart, he stayed hidden," d'Artagnan said and then winced when Porthos looked at him with a scowl.

"He can't see… where would 'e be lookin' to 'ide?"

"He's a musketeer," Aramis said, and sighted his weapon. "Athos would never hide."

D'Artagnan winced and then rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't thinking."

"You'd better take a shot, Aramis," Porthos said and returned his gaze toward the gang and looked through the long glass once more. "Once that," he motioned with his chin toward Olaf and his horde, "perplexin' makeshift band of angry villagers gets by us, that gang is likely to run," he said and watched Aramis position his musket.

"Ready the pistols," Aramis said, and then blew gently on the fuse.

D'Artagnan handed Porthos his musket.

"Stay down," Porthos said and looked at d'Artagnan. "Help Aramis load the muskets after 'e fires."

D'Artagnan nodded. He still had the use of his hands, and it made loading the weapons awkward, but he managed while he sat beside Aramis. "I wish the wind were blowing—"

Aramis huffed. "They'll be looking in the direction of the sun," he said, "they'll never see us." He choked back a chuckle. "Besides, they'll be looking at that blunder headed their way."

"Maybe they finally got mad enough to do something about them," D'Artagnan said and cocked an eyebrow.

"Maybe," Porthos said with a wince. He looked through the spyglass and stepped forward. He could see the men in the yard, Emry and his family, and then he caught a faint look at Athos, who was pulled to his feet and shoved backward. "Take your shot, Aramis, or I will."

"What's happening?" d'Artagnan asked. There was something in Porthos' posture and his tone that had him turning and looking toward the farmhouse. He squinted, but couldn't see the details.

"Fire, Aramis!" Porthos snapped.

Aramis pulled the trigger.