Pardners

by Roy F. Chandler

  Once, beavers had lived within aspens and willows where cane now flourished. Their stick houses and dams had long decayed, and their pond had bogged over, but a peculiar lack of growth left a narrow strip of little more than wild grass and weeds dividing the cane field almost in half.

  Alpha reached an overlook that exposed the natural division and sunk into a shooting stand he had used hunting deer within the same cane.

  He switched guns. Most of the field lay within one hundred yards, and the sub-machine gun could be the best weapon. If Christus attempted to cross the open strip, he would be visible for only an instant as a vaguely seen, swiftly darting figure. Alpha would have no time to aim. He would have to point and shoot. If Christus did not try to cross, Alpha had him trapped in only half the field—a handier area to examine and control.

  It would be point and spray, Byrne feared. A poor technique, disdained by riflemen, but pouring in fire could make hits where trying to see sights for a single flickering, hardly identifiable shot was even more uncertain. Byrne shifted himself comfortable and sharpened his eye.

  Christus came. He appeared as little more than a flash of movement. He was there, he slashed across the open, and he was gone—at least as swiftly as Alpha could squeeze the M3's long trigger pull.

  Byrne held where he believed his target would go. He sprayed a probable pattern allowing the automatic gun to run twenty or more rounds that sounded thunderous within the bowl of the cane field. Cane tore, leaves fell in clouds, bullets zipped into the earth.

  Silence reigned, and Alpha listened, watched, and waited. Eyes on the field, Byrne freed the partly spent magazine, flipped it and inserted the full magazine taped alongside.

  Christus had gotten through. Alpha supposed that he now had the ex-guerilla trapped in the second half of the cane field, but if unhit, Christus could, at any time, again risk the gauntlet of Byrne's guess-and-by-golly un-aimed fire to re-cross the deadly open strip.

  There was no sound. Byrne wondered if he had killed Christus, or did the former guerilla lie patiently waiting his own moment?

  Jesus Christus had been hit. He had been hit more than once. The big .45 bullets had bitten an arm and a leg. He felt a third wound in his back, but he could still move.

  Amazing! The gringo bastard had shot him as if he were a mad dog, but he lived, and he, Christus the warrior, would fight back. He knew where the bullets had come from—not exactly, perhaps, but close enough to have a chance.

  Christus gathered himself and gripped his Winchester in both hands. He sucked in air and stood. His eyes focused, and he saw his enemy well down behind earthen protection but still offering something to shoot at.

  Byrne, too, saw the specter rise. Alpha saw the shouldered rifle pointing his way, and Byrne's soul sagged under awareness of yet another amateurish mistake.

  A basic rule of sniping, applicable to any infantry war, was shoot and move. Do not be caught in the place you fired from. In his certainty of controlling the situation, Don Byrne had not moved. He had not looked away during reloading, but his M3 was held low and only half aligned.

  Jesus Christus aimed across his sights. He had the edge, and Byrne did the only thing possible. Don Byrne sunk behind the earth protection of his shooting stand and braced to take fire.

  Christus opened up. His target had disappeared before his first round, and with chagrin, Christus knew his bullets hammered only dirt and foliage.

  Byrne began acting more as he had been trained. He ducked and endured the blasts of Christus rifle that threw dirt and twigs over him, but he also slid sideward, and when the shooting died he was set to peer from another position.

  Had Christus emptied his rifle, or was he holding a final round waiting for the amateur he was fighting to stick his head up? If Alpha did not look, Christus could scrabble away. If he did risk a peek, Byrne might catch a rifle ball between the eyes. Christus was no recruit. He was smart and coyote-wily. Christus had done this before.

  How many rounds had Christus fired? Perhaps six? But how many did his rifle hold? Marlins and Winchesters had different magazine capacities, and at the moment, Alpha could not manage a bullet count. Hell, for that matter, he did not know which brand of rifle Christus was using.

  Byrne took a cautious look. Nothing showed. The cane tops swayed in normal breeze and nothing rustled. Christus had to still be right there in front of him, Alpha decided.

  What the hell. He pointed the M3 at Christus' last seen position and began emptying his gun. He wove a pattern in the direction Christus might have gone. He tore cane into shreds until the bolt fell on an empty chamber. Then he ducked and rolled away.

  Had he hit anything? Probably not, but that kind of shooting could be intimidating, and it might make Christus unwilling to again risk exchanging shots.

  Byrne was grateful that Bravo was not there to comment on his performance. So far, he had acted dumb and thoughtless. Still, he had to stay on the man. He had to shoot when he could and hope for the best. Unprofessional, but Alpha worked at it.

  Byrne moved away from the cane field and began working his way toward the farthest end. That should be where Christus would emerge—if he were not shot into rags and dead within the cane.

  Jesus Christus had emptied his rifle before hugging the ground in expectation of being shot dead. The bullets came like hail. They slugged the ground, and they ripped the cane. Then . . . ?

  Christus became aware of agony. He moved his head, and an explosion occurred behind his eyes. His fumbling fingers found blood on his head. He reasoned through it for long moments before he understood. He had been shot again, and he had lost consciousness. His eyes saw his left deltoid muscle almost torn from his body, and for the moment, he could not lift that arm, and the hand did not grasp with vigor.

  Yet, the head wound that still bled could be minor. He lived, and gentle movement allowed him to believe that he could again move and keep moving. A perverse euphoria enveloped him. Even machine guns could not stop Jesus Christus.

  So, he would now slide away to fight another day. He could not know where the deadly shooter would be waiting, but Christus knew where he would not be. The hunter-killer would not be where he had last fired from, and Christus had seen that place before he had dropped from emptying his rifle.

  Christus resumed his cautious worming through the cane. Only a hundred or so yards and he could slip into the forest. With luck, the hunter would not even see him escape the cane field. Then, a long and hard run over a ridge perhaps a mile distant. Even dazed and wounded, he would outrun pursuit—which would have to be cautious lest he make an unexpected stand.

  From the summit, he would descend into another watershed, another valley. He could slow, rest his wounds, and eventually leave Idaho forever.

  Well, he would leave at least for now. Christus owed Doctor Don Byrne, if that was who pursued him, and Jesus Christus paid such debts.

  Alpha almost missed Christus' escape from the cane field. Glassing carefully with his binoculars, movement at the edge of his field of view caught his attention. He swung on the motion and barely glimpsed the bloodied and muddied form of Jesus Christus disappearing into open timber more than six hundred yards away.

  Son of a bitch! The tricky bastard had done it again. While Alpha circled, Christus had slipped away by moving directly to where Byrne had once been.

  Byrne slung the M3 and gripped his scoped rifle. He made certain the scope power was turned way down. High power for less than really long shooting was a curse. At high magnification the field of view became too small to see swiftly and accurately even at medium ranges. In the open timber ahead, Alpha would do best with 4X. If he lost ground on Christus, he could, with a twist of fingers, increase his scope's power to 9X, and if that wasn't enough, Byrne swore he would give up and go hide in his mine before Christus shot him dead.

  Now Alpha ran. He attempted a miler's ground-eating stride to swiftly close the distance between himself and Christus. When he had the range down to decent sh
ooting, he would slow and trot as he had a thousand or so miles in his Ranger and airborne days.

  As he ran, Byrne visualized the terrain ahead. Christus planned on crossing a hog-backed ridge that blocked easy access to these, Byrne's familiar hunting grounds. Beyond that ridge, timber was thick with deadfalls that ran for miles. Byrne had to make his shot before Christus crossed that barrier ridge.

  Alpha's smile was grim and personal. He wondered if Christus knew exactly what he was facing as he neared the summit of his last obstacle? Byrne knew, and he increased his speed to make himself ready for a chance that he would surely need.

  — — —

  It had only been a long mile, but Jesus Christus believed his heart and lungs might explode before he reached the summit. Then, even as his hope had risen, he had staggered from timber into a clear-cut that made its naked way to the top and probably into the next valley. At least five hundred yards of bared earth, not yet reseeded with not a hint of cover or concealment, stared back at him.

  Christus pulled up to snatch a clear breath or two and determine that he had no other choice. Once, he had glimpsed the hunter coming, but the man had been far back and had barely left the cane field. Now? With his too many wounds, Christus could not run as he once had. The hunter could be closer.

  He listened, but he could not hear the hunter's approach. He sucked more air, and leaned into the climb. It was only hundreds of yards. He was Jesus Christus who had outwitted and beaten the best that the armies of Mexico and other states had sent against him. He drove himself as never before, and the ground passed beneath his clumsy and laboring feet. His lungs sawed, and when he could, he used his useful arm to grasp small bushes that had survived the logging and used them to haul himself further ahead.

  At the top the land steepened. Of course, it did—the gods plotted against him. Jesus chose a route through broken boulders and ripped earth to struggle the last few yards—to be across and safe from the seemingly relentless pursuer.

  — — —

  Byrne reached the edge of the clear-cut. Christus was there, climbing like a mountain goat, closing on the top, but still in open ground. Alpha judged that despite his best efforts, he had not closed the distance on Christus by a yard. The man was made of iron!

  Byrne chose a flat-topped stump. He dropped his pack and his rifle on it, set aside his M3, and settled himself to shoot.

  That was his plan. Performing the plan was not as simple. Sweat smeared his vision, and the salt of it stung his eyes. His heart pounded from the run, his chest rose and fell with breathing, and his hands were unsteady and sweaty.

  Alpha judged Christus' progress. He had a little time, but not much before the man disappeared over the summit. Byrne placed the scoped rifle on his pack. He would shoot Marine Corps style using the pack as a rest.

  Byrne sat as if using a bench rest. He adjusted his shooting position, determining that he nestled his stock weld solidly into his cheek. It was still not right, and Alpha shifted the rifle so that it bore without muscle pressure on the figure laboring up the last of the steeply sloping ridge.

  Byrne judged the shot at something more than five hundred yards and sharply uphill. The range was long, and he would hold low to counter the uphill. Riflemen knew that shooting up or down hill required a low hold. How low, came mostly with experience. In years past, Don Byrne had made those shots by the hundreds.

  Alpha cranked his scope to six power, a magnification that would not emphasize wobble and that would allow clear definition.

  There was no wind, and through his crosshairs the struggling Christus stood out as if photographed for mounting. On a rifle range, Alpha could place all of his shots within a three-inch circle—or less—at six hundred yards. This was not on the range, but Byrne intended to hold just as tight and shoot just as perfectly.

  Byrne entered his bubble. He saw nothing and thought about nothing except the target and his crosshairs. At about three pounds of trigger pressure his trigger would break and fire the rifle.

  Don Byrne had placed his crosshair low between his target's shoulders. He squeezed and the trigger broke as cleanly as a glass rod. The rifle bucked only mildly in recoil. Because of the over-barrel suppressor, there was little sound, but as if connected by a wire, the 175-grain Black Hills, Match Grade bullet sped on its deadly flight.

  — — —

  Jesus Christus exulted. He had made it. He saw the summit and twisted to perhaps catch a glimpse of his defeated and enraged pursuer.

  He was looking back when his body was sledged with pile driver force. He lost feeling and felt no pain, but he was aware that his body had begun sliding backward down the slope and that he was about to topple head first down the wrong side of the mountain.

  In that lonely but endless moment, Christus knew that he had lost and that death was about to claim him. His nerveless body toppled. His head struck hard enough for him to feel before a second tumbling fall left him right side up and flat against the slope he had so laboriously climbed.

  Jesus Christus was no longer interested in seeing the killer who had taken him. His vision had failed, and his mind was fogging. He barely felt a second bullet slug through his chest to drive all remaining life from what had once been Jesus Christus.

  A rifleman knows when he has shot true, and Byrne felt his bullet go home. The Rock rifle's small recoil allowed his sight to stay on target, and he saw the bullet's strike and Christus' physical collapse.

  He watched the dead man's lengthy fall with detached objectivity, and when his target came to a halt, Alpha again held solidly and put a finisher straight into Christus's boiler room.

  — — —

  It was over, but Don Byrne kept looking. Jesus Christus had been tough to kill, and despite all of the evidence, Alpha did not intend to be relaxing when his dead enemy rose to run again.

  Christus' rifle had fallen further than its owner, and Byrne saw that it was a common Winchester model 94—almost certainly in 30-30. When he came for Christus, he would police up the gun.

  Byrne finally turned away to rest against his stump and decide what came next.

  The day was late, and it would be dark before he made it to the mine. Bravo would be imagining worrisome things—and there was the shot-up scarecrow who had run from the cave.

  Where had he gone, and what were his intentions? For a panicky instant, Byrne wondered if that had been Christus, and the thug he had just shot had been . . . someone else? He buried that possibility. This one had been tough and special. He had killed Christus—period.

  Byrne struggled to his feet and gathered his gear. He spared Jesus Christus a single glance and left him for the night. Tomorrow he would bring the pickup around to work unfamiliar logging trails until he reached the top of the clear-cut. He would load what was left of Christus—and his rifle.

  Stiff and tired of it all, Alpha headed for home.

  Chapter 33

  While he talked, Byrne worked on Bravo. Shepard wanted to hear every detail down to what Alpha had thought when, how he had glassed the cane field, to why he had not moved after he had shot at Christus the first time.

  Bravo was clearly feeling better, and as he checked and re-bandaged his partner's wounds, Byrne saw no hints of infection or delayed healing. It was too soon to say that Bravo was in the clear, but Doctor Don Byrne believed Tommy Shepard was on the mend. No fever, no visible infection, good appetite, and powerful interest in what had gone on—all indicators of normal recovery. A lot of pain and limited movement, but what the hell? He had been shot, after all.

  Bravo had additional worries. "How am I going to explain not reporting to my sheriff, Donny? He's not going to take a note from my doctor as an excuse."

  Actually, Byrne had been thinking about just that.

  "What I am going to do is call my clinic and have them report to your sheriff that you are incapacitated and have undergone surgery. I will have them report that you are in recovery and anxious for the sheriff to know. They will explain tha
t you will be able to contact him within a day or two.

  "I'll get our sweetest talking nurse to do the explaining and have the sheriff call me on my cell phone if he needs more immediate details."

  "So, what am I supposed to have had surgery for, Doctor Byrne?"

  "Well, you will have a long and nasty scar to display, so we will just leave it at peritonitis—which means infection in your guts. A dangerous condition, Bravo. You are lucky to have survived."

  Bravo nodded approval. Then added, "We could claim lead poisoning. I'll bet I could pass a polygraph on that one."

  Shepard suggested, "Before you sack out, go down to the house and get us some real food. You could be in and out in a blink. That Scarecrow guy you didn't get won't be sitting on the porch waiting, and if I see another C-Ration that is older than I am I may roll over and give up the ghost."

  Alpha was adamant. "Like hell! That bozo is out there somewhere, and he had a shotgun. God, Bravo, he could be behind the next bush I pass. He could be in the mine tunnel right under us just waiting for the plug to lift.

  "When I go out, I'm going to ghost through the side entrance, and I am going to scout like an Apache before I get into the pickup and drive out of here like Barney Oldfield.

  "We want what is left of Christus back here where no one will stumble over him. By morning buzzards will begin circling, and while there is no reason for anyone to be on top of that hill to poke around, we need to clear the area, cover our tracks, and settle things down."

  Bravo asked, "Who is Barney Oldfield?"

  Alpha was weary to the bone and not in a mood to discuss. "We'll worry about the guy that's left after everything else is done, but you are right, Bravo. He is out there somewhere."

  Alpha scratched at his unshaven jaw. "From the glimpses I got of him hauling out of his hide, he is pretty well shot up. Maybe he is dead by now."

  Alpha thought more about it. "I ought to check with my clinic. He may have made it to civilization, and he would have been taken to my place."