Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(88)

Hastily, he loosed the rope’s knot at her waist, then at his own. “I sure as hell hope some of your circus experiences will serve you now.”

Puzzled, she stared up at him.

He tied a strong enough lasso to take down a bull. With that, he swung the rope as he would any lariat and released it to capture his target – a lightning-struck tree on the river’s far side, where most people with any brain matter would not be willing to make a crossing.

He missed. Damn’t. Time was wasting.

He reined in the rope, its lasso bobbing against the rushing water. Once again, he twirled the lasso over his head to release it as the momentum swung the loop forward. Bingo. The lasso looped the tree high up its trunk. He followed through, grabbing the rope’s slack and drawing it tight against his hip, which would have to do, since there was nowhere to anchor it on their side’s shale shoreline.

“All right, you first. Grab hold.”

The ends of her mouth dipped. “I’m not so good a swimmer.”

“Then don’t let go of the rope. It’s not like you’re walking a circus tightrope. When you get to the far side, it’ll be a bit of a drop, what with the rocky outcrop below. Swing and aim for that yonder mossy patch.”

She gulped, but she gamely latched hold of the rope, at that point eye level. She spared him one parting glance, and he forced a grin. “May you be lucky, Sunshine!”

She grinned back. Then, knees jacked up, she began a hand over hand crossing that sloped upwards. Getting midway across the thunderous river took a good three minutes. Three long, arm-muscle straining minutes. And all the while the baying of the dogs grew louder.

Suddenly, her arms, bent at the elbows, gave way, and her body sagged. Perilously, she dangled just inches above the thrashing water. Her other shoe dropped into the river and bobbed from sight in the dawn-lit foam. Her clenched fingers held fast.

She managed to release one hand and quickly shoot it forward along the rope he yanked taut. Inch by heart-throbbing inch, she caterpillared her way. Her journey’s last half took much longer than they had left timewise before their pursuers would arrive.

He did not realize he had been breathing so shallowly until she reached the far side, swung, and heaved herself onto the cushioning thatch of moss.

Now it was his turn. Admittedly more dangerous, as he would be wading, hauling on the rope with each precarious step. Turbulent water flooded his boots, making each next step herculean. Well, that was smart, Duke. Forgetting to remove your boots.

A small boulder afforded him momentary respite from the swirling water. Within mere yards of safety, he heard behind the victorious shouts of the trackers and canines’ ferocious barking. Shit! He risked a glance over his shoulder.

Four Nazi handlers struggled to hold the leashes of their straining dogs. Frothing, they were eager to dash into the water.

Jackboots planted in a firing stance, an officer stood in their midst. He sported an eyepatch. That had to be Klauffen. At his shoulder, he braced a Mauser, its sight homed in on Duke, his red cable-knit sweater a perfect bull’s eye.

A split-second decision. Death by a bullet – or – let go of the rope and be brain-bashed against one of the boulders.

Above the roar of the rapids resounded the firing of a bullet. Stunned – he felt nothing! A blink of an eyelid later, he was equally stunned to watch Klauffen topple over the three-foot bluff like a statue with a crack through its granite forehead.

Wasting not a second in questioning, Duke swung his attention back to the shore ahead – and Romy, shivering in the crisp dawn air. Derringer still upraised, she had an unrepentant smile on her sprite’s face. “Two out of two Angels,” she hollered. “Not a bad day’s work.”

He could not imagine why he had ever sought respectability, because it was a sham compared to reliability, compared to someone who had another’s back. Swinging ashore, he said, “The danger isn’t over, Annie Oakley.”

“What?”

He didn’t have time to explain who Annie Oakley was. Before more shots could ring out, he hustled her forward into the concealment of the trees. “Those mastiffs could still find a way to circle round to this side and pick up our scent.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed, “We wash it off, Duke.”

“Nope,” he said, tugging off with effort one of his boots and dumped the water from it. “Dripping water from our bodies contains our skin cells.”

She blinked. Gulped her fear. “Oh.”

He emptied the other boot before replying with a grim smile, “Time to hot foot it again – this time to Brandenburg.”





§ CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR §




The cold front had blown through, leaving only a chill in the autumn air.

Half way through their flight, Duke took one look at Romy’s bare feet – bruised and scratched – and snarled with what she could only interpret as impotent rage; but the look he turned on her was one of unexpected gentleness.

Chafing one cold foot between his warming palms, he grinned lecherously. “Lucky me – you’re going to ride me again, Sunshine.”

She beamed. “This ‘hot-footing it’ of yours has it points.”

He swung her up across his shoulders, piggybacking her. “What now?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.