Then, as quickly as he had come, Wolf was gone. He slipped back through the crowd, into the door of the tailor shop. Seconds later, Joseph Carroll was there, one side of his gray farmer's tunic turning brown-black from the blood that soaked it. "Come on!" Carroll snapped, running for the back.
"What about the others?"
"Gone," said the old man shortly. "All of them." He dashed out the door of the tailor shop into the back and Wolf followed him.
"Daimya!" Wolf shouted.
"She's waiting for us in the foothills."
The sound of the crowd and the blasting of hand guns was loud behind them as they began their dash across the checkered fields. For a few moments, nothing followed. Then Wolf heard a faint shout behind them, and a huge gout of dirt erupted from the field beside him, almost knocking him down.
He regained his balance and started to run low, crouched and zig-zagging while the tiny explosive pellets pocked the field around him. It seemed an eternity before they had crossed the field, but he knew it was not more than a couple of minutes.
Joseph Carroll was ahead of him, already beginning to tear through the scrub growth of the foothills, making his way up. Just as he entered the undergrowth, Wolf saw the old man joined by a smaller, slighter figure.
There was a roar in his ears, and he fell, a searing pain across his back. Numbly, he realized he'd been hit, but somehow it didn't seem important. He picked himself up and followed Carroll into the scrub. Soon he was out of sight of their pursuers, though the explosions of their weapons still followed them with uncanny accuracy.
He caught up with the old man and his daughter in a small clearing. Carroll lay with his head cradled in Daimya's lap, gasping for breath.
"We've got to go on," Wolf said. "Come on, I'll help."
"You're hurt!" the girl said.
"Not badly. Come on, we've got to get your father out of here!"
T............