There she stopped, holding the blackened steel blade, and waited.
Two hours later, a mounted slave patrol found her standing motionless in the dirt. Three white men on horseback reined in their mounts, staring at the blood-soaked girl in stunned silence.
Curtis, one of the riders, dismounted slowly, drawing his pistol.
“Girl,” he called out cautiously. “What happened? Whose blood is that?”
Sarah looked at him, her voice entirely flat and devoid of fear.
“I killed Marcus Thornwood,” she said. “He needed killing. I regret nothing, except that I could only do it once.”
Curtis stared at her. “You killed Mr. Thornwood?”
“Yes,” Sarah answered. “He is up in his study. What is left of him.”
“What do you mean, ‘what is left of him’?” Curtis demanded, his voice cracking.
Sarah offered no further explanation. She simply stood her ground, waiting.
Curtis ordered one of his men to ride up to the house and investigate while he kept his firearm trained on the girl. Twenty minutes later, the patrolman returned on a lathered horse, his face grey. He swung down, staggered to the verge of the road, and retched violently into the weeds.
“Lord God,” the man gasped when he could draw breath. “It’s true. He’s dead. But what she done to him… I ain’t never seen… you can’t even tell it was a man.”
