CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The dead man had a horse. Head down against the rain, Swail approached the animal, calming it with soft, gently cooing sounds. Eyes wide and white with terror, it struggled to free itself from where the dead man had tied it to a tree, the repeated blasts of Swail’s Dragoon spooking it. Swail, however, well experienced with horses, their moods, their personalities, brought all of his considerable knowledge into play as he smoothed its mane, stroked its neck, and smiled as it slowly relaxed, nickering quietly.
Beneath the overhanging branches, the horse remained fairly dry. Swail rifled through the saddlebags, finding hard tack, a change of clothes, some powder and shot, and, at the very bottom, a piece of flint with its accompanying steel. Also were a couple of pieces
