by Edson, J. T.
The words were brought to an abrupt end by the crash of a shot and a hissing pop as the Oldsmobile’s right front tire was punctured by a bullet.
After changing the magazines, Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter had adopted a prone position behind the tree and peered cautiously around it. One glance was all he had needed to tell him that his suspicions had been correct. There was a hole stained with blood in the khaki shirt worn by the tall young man with the automatic pistol and his trousers were not of the uniform pattern.
Another point had become equally obvious. Calling on the men to surrender would be unlikely to produce results. If they had all been in a group and he was much closer, the threat of his Colt might have induced compliance. At that distance, with the bearded cuss moving away from his companions, there was no way of keeping them all covered. Nor would his handgun have such a menacing effect upon men who were about fifty yards away. So he would have to content himself with the much more risky task of trying to keep them pinned down until help arrived.
Brad had been conducting his examination from the left side of the trunk. Before putting his scheme into operation, he rolled over until he was at the right. By doing so, he put the trunk between himself and the three men who had remained at the Oldsmobile. Instead of facing their weapons, he now had only the bearded hombre beyond his M.G. who had a clear shot at him. That was important. Unlike when he had captured the gang of burglars in Gusher City, the circular trunk of the post oak did not lend itself to the ‘barricade stance’.
Finding that Montojo was not looking his way, Brad eased the Colt forward. He grasped the butt in both hands and rested his wrists on the top of a root which bulged above the surface of the ground. Making sure of his aim, he tightened his right forefinger. Sending the first bullet at the Oldsmobile, he changed his point of sighting. Ignoring the startled exclamations which reached his ears, he lined on the right front wheel of the M.G. Touching off his second shot, he knew instinctively—even without the confirmation given by his ears—that he had held just as true as with the first. Raising his gaze, he found that the bearded man was snapping a butt-stocked automatic pistol shoulder-wards. Even as Brad began to roll back to the shelter of the trunk, the weapon went off. Not, however, in a series of single shots, but with a stuttering burst like a machine gun would produce. Brad saw dirt erupting as the bullets struck into the ground drawing ever nearer. Thrown up soil pattered against his back, but he had attained his goal without being hit.
At the first shot, Cervera, Herrera and Ulloa swung around with their weapons moving into positions of readiness. While they could guess where the bullet had come from, the big Texan was hidden. Much the same thought struck every one of them. Their ‘Victim’ might be concealed from their weapons, but they were exposed to his. Even as Herrera opened his mouth to suggest that they rushed the Texan, Cervera turned and dived across the Oldsmobile’s bonnet. At the same moment, letting out a yelp of fright, Ulloa swung on his heel to dart around the rear of the vehicle. Finding himself to be the only one in front of the car, Herrera sprinted after Ulloa.
‘Did you get him, Juan?’ Cervera asked, as he landed in a kneeling posture.
‘I might have,’ Montojo answered, watching the post oak along the cocking slide of his Stechkin.
Completing his rolling motion, Brad peered around the left side of the trunk. Discovering that all the three men had taken cover behind the Oldsmobile, he lined the Colt and punctured its right rear tire. He saw Herrera and Ulloa’s heads rising and twisted to the right before either could line his Schmeisser. Having once more placed the thickness of the trunk between himself and his enemies, he eased himself upright to lean his back against it. His every instinct warned him that the men would try to dislodge him and he wanted much more freedom of movement than was permitted by the prone position. What was more, he accepted that—despite the great personal risk involved—he must provoke them into continuing shooting. Only by doing so could he ensure that Somerville would hear it.
Easing himself to the right side of the trunk, Brad extended his head just far enough to see the M.G. The bearded man was standing behind it, looking towards his companions and holding his weapon ready to continue firing. Studying the weapon, Brad decided that his first assumption had been correct. It was only a pistol and not a sub-machine gun. Yet it had fired automatically instead of requiring its trigger to be squeezed for each individual shot.
Brad’s extensive reading upon the subject of firearms supplied him with the answer. The weapon was a Russian Stechkin, one of the few true machine pistols to have been manufactured. Capable of selective full- or semi-automatic fire, it could empty its twenty-round staggered box magazine at a cyclic rate of 750 rounds per minute. However, even with the butt-stock attached, its potential for accuracy on full-automatic fire would not be great at fifty yards.
On the other hand, the magazine of the Schmeisser held up to thirty-two bullets and, although its cyclic rate of fire was lower than the Stechkin’s—between 450 and 540 r.p.m.—it was accurate up to about two hundred and fifty yards. That made the two held by the men behind the Oldsmobile a far greater threat than the Stechkin. In fact, the same applied to the last of the quartet’s heavy automatic if he could utilize it to its full potential. It had looked like a Colt Government Model and Brad was all too aware of what a deadly weapon one of them could be in skilled hands. [xxxi]
‘Like hell you got him!’ Herrera snarled, as the second tire was deflated by another bullet. However, by the time he had risen high enough to make use of his Schmeisser, the big Texan was no longer in sight. He glared at Cervera in cold anger and spat out, ‘You’ve got us into a damned fine mess!’
‘Who is he?’ Cervera asked, cheeks reddening and anger twisting at his face.
‘What difference does it make who he is?’ Herrera demanded. ‘He’s got us pinned down here and we can’t move. Damn you, Cervera, if you hadn’t insisted on coming—’
Having assessed the potential of the quartet’s weapons, Brad chose that moment to draw Montojo’s fire. Unwilling to kill the bearded man in what would amount to cold-blood and knowing that he could not spare too long to take a careful aim, the big blond pointed the Colt one handed and fired a single shot. The result proved to be even better than he had anticipated.
Watching and listening to the angry words of his companions, Montojo was startled by the eerie crack of the bullet passing close to his head. Inadvertently, he jerked at the Stechkin’s trigger. Before he could relax the pressure of his forefinger, the remaining rounds from the magazines were set off and the lead flew harmlessly into the tops of the trees. He ducked down holding an empty weapon.
Transferring the Colt to his left hand, Brad moved towards the opposite side of the tree. He was not given an opportunity to use the automatic, he saw Herrera’s Schmeisser lining towards him and retreated. Bullets drummed into the trunk, but even the ones which ripped through its bark at the side did not touch him.
‘Did you get him, Lorenzo?’ Ulloa asked, straightening up and staring at the tree.
‘I don’t think so,’ Herrera confessed, then swung his gaze towards the cause of their difficulties. ‘All right, big leader of men, what do we do about him?’
‘He’s only one man and there are four of us,’ Cervera gritted back. ‘We ought to be able to take him.’
‘Why don’t you tell us how ?’ Herrera demanded. ‘There’s fifty yards of open ground for us to cover and he’s a damned good shoot.’
‘Why don’t you and I give Pascual and Juan covering fire?’ Ulloa suggested. ‘We could stop him shooting—?’
‘He’d move away, keeping the tree between you and him,’ Cervera objected.
Throwing a contemptuous look at Cervera, Herrera opened the left rear door. Reaching in, he lifted out the haversack which was lying on the floor in front of his seat.
‘It’s too far to throw a hand grenade,’ Cervera warned, watching the older man unfastening the top of the haversack.
&n
bsp; ‘I know it,’ Herrera snorted and started to take out the smoke grenades. ‘This’s what we’ll use.’
‘What have you in mind?’ Cervera inquired, his face and tone showing hatred.
‘There’s not much breeze, but what there is is blowing from us to him,’ Herrera answered. ‘So we’ll throw the four grenades as far as we can and close enough to get a solid mass of smoke. Then Juan and Antonio will go around the edges of it—’
‘Why us?’ Ulloa asked worriedly.
‘Our leader and I’ll be going straight through,’ Herrera continued. ‘If we time it right, we’ll all arrive together on the other side and he won’t know which of us to take first.’
‘He’ll get one of us,’ Ulloa commenced.
‘Maybe,’ Cervera interrupted, dropping his gaze so that the other two could not see the calculating expression which came to his face. ‘But it’s better than letting him keep us here. We can’t do anything about moving on until he’s dead.’
‘That’s true,’ Ulloa muttered, throwing an uneasy glance at the tree.
‘I’ll take one to Juan,’ Cervera offered, tucking the Obregon into his waistband and picking up two of the smoke grenades.
‘Make sure that he knows what we’re going to do,’ Herrera warned, feeling puzzled by the younger man’s acceptance of the scheme.
‘I’ll do that and tell you when we’re ready,’ Cervera promised and darted to where Montojo was kneeling and changing the Stechkin’s magazine for a fully loaded one out of the ammunition carrier on his belt.
‘There’s no sign of him, Lorenzo,’ Ulloa warned, scanning the woodland nervously and inadvertently causing Cervera to take his eyes from the other two men. ‘Do you think we’ve scared him off?’
‘I hope so, but I wouldn’t count on it,’ Herrera answered, then he lowered his voice. ‘One thing I do know. We can’t get this heap moving—and that convertible will only carry two of us.’
‘You mean—?’ Ulloa gasped, starting to turn his head.
‘Don’t look at them!’ Herrera commanded. ‘I think we can make out as well—even better—without them. Don’t you?’
‘Well—’ Ulloa replied hesitantly and saw a frown crease the older man’s brow. ‘Of course I do, Lorenzo.’
‘Then we’ll do something about it as soon as the gringo’s dead,’ Herrera declared and raised his voice. ‘Are you ready, fellers?’
‘Let me have the Stechkin and you take my Obregon,’ Cervera had requested quietly, after explaining the plan to Montojo.
‘Why?’ the bearded man growled, but also held his voice down.
‘Because I’ll be going straight at him,’ Cervera explained. ‘And so that I’ve got something which will make sure only enough of us survive to travel in the convertible.’
‘You mean—?’ Montojo hissed, saying the two words almost at the same instant that Ulloa was uttering them.
‘We can get along better without that old bastard, or Antonio,’ Cervera elaborated, darting a glance to make sure that the men in question could not hear what he was saying. Then he took the Obregon from his waist-band. ‘If we can’t sell the H, we can always take it to the Embassy and say we saved it to bring it back to them. That will get us political asylum and we can stay there until it’s safe for us to go back to Mexico.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Montojo enthused, accepting the weapon. ‘I’m with you.’
‘Bueno, amigo, I knew you would be,’ Cervera declared, then he looked around and answered Herrera. ‘We’re ready.’
‘We’ll let Antonio throw first,’ Herrera suggested, guessing that the effeminate Ulloa would achieve the least distance. ‘Try to land yours about six foot apart.’
‘Sure,’ Cervera answered shortly. ‘Go to it, Antonio.’
Inserting his left thumb through the ring of the grenade’s arming pin, having set down the Schmeisser, Ulloa made ready to throw. He withdrew the pin, but his right hand held down the activating lever. Glancing at his companions to make sure that they were ready and had duplicated his actions, he lobbed the grenade as hard as he could over the roof of the Oldsmobile. Watching it land about thirty yards away, the other three pitched their grenades in its vicinity.
Behind the tree, Brad had been awaiting the next development. Having returned the Colt to his right hand, he had looked around the left side of the tree until Cervera had gone to join Montojo. Wondering why he had done so, the big blond had moved to the other side of the trunk. He guessed that something was being planned and was trying to decide what it might be when the two men behind the M.G. had thrown the grenades. Identifying the missiles correctly, he knew that the attack he had been expecting would soon be commencing.
On being released, the lever on each grenade had sprung upwards to liberate the striker which impacted on the primer and detonated the four-second fuse. Burning down, the fuse ignited the starter mixture and this in turn set fire to the main charge. As the volume of white smoke increased, it blew the seals from the emission holes and started to gush out.
In thirty seconds, the four separate clouds of smoke had started to merge and Brad could no longer see the cars. Deciding that the quartet would soon come rushing through the swirling mass, he left his place of concealment to pass around the bushes at the left side of the tree. Striding out swiftly, he carried the Colt dangling by his right thigh. It was his intention to dart around the fringe of the smoke while the Mexicans were passing through it to attack him. Then he would run across to the cars and take cover behind them. If he knew anything about the quartet’s kind, it was unlikely that any of them would be willing to allow one of his companions to stay behind and guard the vehicles while he himself was carrying out such a dangerous task. So the big blond believed that, once he had gone by the smoke, there would be nobody to oppose him. By the time the Mexicans had realized what he had done, he would be behind the cars and in control of their transport. They would find dislodging him a difficult proposition.
Even as Brad stepped forward from the bushes, he saw a figure pass around the edge of the smoke. It was the tall, lean man with the Afro hair-style and he was holding the Schmeisser in both hands in front of his chest.
Waiting until the smoke’s volume had increased sufficiently for their purpose, Herrera signaled the others to move forward. Watching to make sure that the others were carrying out their parts of the plan, they left the concealment of the cars and hurried across the open ground. Showing some reluctance, Ulloa moved away from Herrera and Montojo swung at an angle to take him around the other end of the cloud.
Filling his lungs with air, Herrera flickered a glance at Cervera who was standing some twelve feet away. Meeting the older man’s eyes, Cervera nodded and stepped forward. He hesitated for a moment, to make sure that Herrera was duplicating his actions, then advanced.
Satisfied that Cervera meant to play his part in the action, Herrera also moved forward. Once the smoke concealed him, he slowed his pace. He intended to wait until the shooting started before making his appearance and, anyway, it was necessary to move his feet slowly for he could see little other than the swirling white cloud. Nor could he hear anything but the hissing as the grenades continued to emit their contents.
Suddenly two shots rang out from Herrera’s left front!
Not the rattle of a Schmeisser, but the deeper roars of a heavy hand gun!
They were followed by the high pitched scream of a man in pain!
Shock and alarm bit into Ulloa on finding himself face to face with the big Texan, especially at such close quarters. Like all his companions, Ulloa was trained in the tactics of the ‘urban guerilla’—shooting from ambush, planting or mailing bombs—rather than real fighting against a man in a position to strike back. So he was frozen into immobility at a moment when, to survive, his reactions ought to have been working faster than ever before.
The same did not apply to Brad.
Although just as surprised, the big blond reacted instinctively. Tucking his right elbow
tight against his side, he went like lightning into the back-tilted posture of the ‘speed rock’. Even as Ulloa was trying to turn the barrel of the Schmeisser forward, the Colt roared twice in very rapid succession. Pain blasted through the Mexican as the bullets ripped into his chest. He screamed and went over backwards with his weapon flying unfired from his hands.
There was a shot from Brad’s right and he heard the sound of the bullet passing. Swiveling around as he brought the automatic upwards into the ‘Weaver stance’ hold, he noticed a vague shape in the swirling smoke cloud. Working like lightning, his brain delivered a warning. His attacker was using a heavy caliber handgun, which meant that whoever was coming through the smoke held a weapon capable of fully automatic fire. Instantly, that portion of the big blond’s thought processes which had been conditioned by the lessons learned from combat shooting analyzed the situation and came up with an answer.
The man in the smoke was the more dangerous of his assailants, even though he had not yet opened fire.
Brad’s only hope of survival was to deal with him, gambling on the other failing to make a hit with the handgun before he could do so.
Squeezing the trigger repeatedly as he swung the Colt around, Brad angled the lead at an arc through the smoke. On his fourth shot, he heard what started as a cry of pain and ended in a burst of coughing. Two more empty cases flicked into the air, but the figure had disappeared into the smoke. Another bullet came from the second attacker and passed so close that the big blond felt the wind of it on the back of his neck.
When Brad’s bullets had started to churn through the smoke, Herrera had realized his danger. Before he could do anything about it, something which felt like a hot iron raked across his left shoulder. The injury was only slight, but he could not prevent himself from yelping. Doing so caused his lungs to draw in smoke and tears filled his eyes.
Turning, he blundered back in the way from which he had come. He was returning to his death.
As soon as the smoke had hidden him from Herrera’s view, Cervera had retreated from it. Holding the Stechkin ready for use, he continued to back away and listened to the shooting. Seeing Ulloa go down, he felt no grief. His only emotion was that there would be one less to deal with after the big blond had been killed. Then he heard coughing and saw Herrera staggering through the smoke. Beyond it, the guns continued to roar, but Cervera ignored them. His attention was on the stocky man and he knew that he would never have a better opportunity to carry out his scheme. Half-blinded by tears, Herrera was carrying the Schmeisser by its pistol grip. Its barrel was pointing at the ground and his left hand clutched at his shoulder. Raising and lining the Stechkin, Cervera sent three shots into the other man’s chest: Reeling under the impacts, Herrera shrieked in a combination of rage and agony. Then he tried to bring the Schmeisser into operation. Alarmed by the sight, Cervera fired again. It was a longer burst and ten bullets riddled the stricken man’s torso. Dropping his weapon, Herrera twirled around helplessly and stumbled an involuntary step or two before falling out of sight into the smoke.
