He had to think. And quickly. What he had heard was definitely a pistol-shot, which meant that the accuracy of any second shot would not be great. It also meant that the shooter had not been very far away, perhaps no more than ten or fifteen yards. If there were just one would-be assassin, it would take thirty seconds for his weapon to be reloaded, provided he did not have more than one pistol primed and ready. The light snow was still falling, further obscuring vision and aim. Soundlessly, Marc slid behind the bole of the tree beside him and sat up warily. At first he heard nothing: no voices behind him in the direction of the road and the coach—where was everybody?—and no rasp of the assassin’s breathing as he closed in for the kill. With a sinking feeling, Marc realized that he was helpless against further attack. He could barely walk, let alone run and dodge. He had no strength even if he could somehow surprise the assailant and try to wrest the pistol away from him. He thought briefly of simply calling out for help, but decided against this because such a cry would instantly alert the gunman as to his whereabouts, and the deed could well be over before anyone at the coach could locate him.
