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Brodie huffed. These two were acting like a clip of the Three Stooges, and as the show developed the third stooge came to the front line. Two guns strapped to his belt.
“Who are you supposed to be? Clint Eastwood?” Ace asked Gerry.
“In your dreams.” Gerry shot a glance my way, “Who’s he?”
“The doctor,” Brodie said.
“He knows which way our crafty Scot has gone,” Ace added.
“Yeah? So do I. Saw the mark riding north on the Emmitsburg road. Got a girl with him.”
I bit my bottom lip. They were riding toward Mead’s camp.
“Why didn’t you follow them?” Brodie asked Gerry.
“They’re heading toward the battle. I’m not going anywhere near Cemetery Ridge this time of day. Getting shot is not in my contract. I’m the intel guy.”
Gerry hadn’t changed much.
“Guess who else is here?” Ace asked Gerry as if they were guests at a cocktail party.
“Your momma?”
Ace rolled his eyes. “Mortas, sporting an adult vibe and looking very devilish with his salt and pepper hair.”
“And he’s towing Toches with him,” Brodie added.
“What should we do with ’im?” Ace asked, nodding a head in my direction.
“I’m taking him with us. He’s seen the Scot and he might be of use if one of us catches a bullet,” Brodie said.
“It won’t be me. I’ll be at the tavern.” Gerry gave a wave as he walked away. “Let me know when you’ve apprehended the nasty Scotsman.”
“What are the chances of ’im getting shot today?” Ace watched Gerry walk away.
“Chances are good,” I said. “Of it actually happening…we couldn’t be so lucky.”
“Hey, I like this wanker,” Brodie chuckled. “Let’s ride.”
Chapter 22
Brodie sent Ace to follow Mortas. Discreetly. The Ace I knew didn’t do discreet, and I wished him luck as he left us.
As Brodie and I rode toward Lee’s camp, we passed hordes of men making ready for battle. Some dozed in the warm sunshine, others sewed their names inside their jackets.
The machine gun cannonade ceased fire, and the calm before the storm settled among the men. Some of the men watched curiously as we passed, their weary faces touched with a tint of pink from the prior days’ march in the summer sun.
I scrutinized each soldier in search of Sam. His lanky frame and tuft of white hair didn’t present itself. As we left the soldiers and cut across to Lee’s camp, I made small talk with Brodie.
“I take it you’re some sort of bounty hunter?”
“Sure.”
Brodie wasn’t much on small talk.
“The man you’re after, is he a spy?”
“No, he’s a criminal.”
