by Mic Roland
“Here, this’ll keep your pants up too,” Martin muttered. He then hurried to the median rock that Charles crouched behind.
“Gut shot on that other one,” said Charles. “Don’t know how bad. Got his gun. Tied his hands with my belt. He’s swearing a blue streak, but he’s too shook to fight.”
“This one is out of it too,” Martin said. “Disarmed him and tied him up.”
Shots continued to pop randomly from both the median rocks and the trucks. The convoy was stopped in a hopeless crossfire. Backing up four horse trailers under fire was out of the question.
“We need to take out those guys up front,” said Martin, “Got to clear that obstruction before the guys up on the bluff get reinforcements.”
Charles nodded. “We gotta get everybody off the X.”
The two of them scrambled over a low area in the median rocks. In an ad hoc version of bounds, they took turns standing out of the scrubby brambles to provide cover and see where the other two bandits were. They advanced up along the cut rock face.
When Martin finally saw the two other median bandits, they also saw him. They turned and opened fire. Martin leaned against the rocks, trying to lie as flat as he could. There was not as much outcrop as he wished. Hits on rocks sent dusty fragments into his neck and ear. It stung, but not terribly.
“Arthur,” Martin called into his walkie-talkie. “Cover fire on the two up front.”
Martin heard several shots echo from the other side of the median rocks. The fire at Martin and Charles stopped. One hoodlum returned fire to the trucks. The other watched Martin and Charles for an opportunity to shoot.
Charles pointed to a hunk of rock in the tall grass. It was the size of a bowling ball bag “You go low. I’ll go high,” Charles said. Martin nodded.
“Go!” Charles shouted.
Martin dropped and rolled to get behind the bowling bag rock. He propped the carbine on his free arm beside the rock. The hoodlum fired low, at Martin. A spray of dirt and grass flew up. Charles stepped out of the brush. Both hoodlums saw Charles and turned to fire. Martin squeezed off a quick shot. Nothing changed. He must have missed. He squeezed off two, three, more, not letting the barrel settle much between shots. The hoodlums ducked back. Charles fired as he moved.
One hoodlum slumped against the rocks. The second jumped over the rocks and ran. Arthur or one of the others in the front, must have hit him. He dropped his gun, continued running for another dozen yards, eventually crumbling onto the road.
Martin ran up to the leaning hoodlum, front sight on his face. The young man stared at Martin with wide eyes. He tossed his pistol into the grass and held his uninjured hand up. Martin quickly patted him down, finding only an empty magazine and a small box of rounds. The man had been hit in the arm and thigh. Both shots went straight through. He was hurt, but not badly enough to knock him down. Martin motioned for the man to lay in the grass, which he did.
Martin radioed. “Two up front are down.” He knelt to dig around in the grass with one hand to find the hoodlum’s pistol. It was another one of those 70s guns.
“Cut the spike strips!” Arthur shouted.
Martin peered over the rocks. Stretched across all three lanes were eight-foot boards, two-by-twos, with long nails pounded through them on three sides. The boards were tied together with nylon rope. The hoodlums had planned to immobilize the convoy with flat tires, but Arthur or Edith spotted it in time to pull up short.
“Watch that guy,” Martin said to Charles. Martin reached in his pocket for the fixed blade he took from Hoodie Two. “Cover fire. I’m going to cut the ropes,” he radioed. More shots cracked and popped up from the trucks to the boulder.
Martin ran out, wary eyes on the bluff. As he grabbed the rope to cut it, he realized the whole assembly was not tied down. He could drag it all aside faster. He grabbed the rope between two of the boards and ran toward the bluff, dragging a spiky tail behind him. Charles came around the rocks.
“We’re clear,” said Arthur. “Let’s roll. Keep up some cover fire.”
The Laramie roared past Martin. As it passed, he could see only Arthur and Edith through the bullet-holed windshield. The two smaller trucks formed a line behind. The Silverado veered into the breakdown lane. Its windshield was pocked with several bullet holes too. Margaret was riding shotgun. She seemed unhurt. Their eyes met for just a moment, but it was long enough. Even that brief glance was an energy drink to his soul. He did not want her to come along if there was going to be any danger. They said they did not expect any danger.
“Jump in!” Tyler radioed.
Martin ran after the trailer. Charles grabbed the open door of the trailer and swung himself in. He held an arm out to help Martin in. A few shots popped from the boulder. Hits landed on the pavement a dozen yards away. Martin jumped in, propelled by Charles’ boost, but his feet slipped in the loose hay. He landed flat on his back. It knocked the wind out of him.
“Are you in?” Tyler asked.
Martin had a hard time getting enough breath to squeak a yes into his walkie-talkie.
“Awwright!” Tyler shouted. “Hold on. We’ve got some catching up to do.” The Silverado clattered loudly as it accelerated. Loose hay and debris slid out the back of the trailer before Charles got the doors closed. The cows scrabbled for footing, but did not fall.
Charles helped Martin up off the floor. “You alright?” Martin could only nod. “Good. Maybe you should sit down for a bit.” Charles kept an eye out of the rear door slats.
“Looks like you got hit.” Charles pointed at Martin’s neck.
“Martin felt his neck. It did not hurt, but he had blood on his hand.
When Martin regained his breath, he radioed, “Tail gunners okay. How is everyone else?” He wondered how Margaret really was. He hoped she kept her head down. Susan was in the lead vehicle. Was she okay? She carried no weapons, so certainly should not have been exposed for anything.
“Me and Edith are okay. Eric’s in second truck. Susan is tending to Landers in our back seat. He’s hit in the arm and back.”
Martin felt a warm rush of relief to hear that Susan was okay. He wondered what happened to Landers.
“Big Dumpling okay,” said Tyler. “Me too,” said Margaret in the background.
Martin was pleased that she sounded confident, not worried or scared. Margaret was a sturdy one.
“Dumpling three,” crackled the radio. “Cuts from flying glass, but okay. Low on ammo, though.”
Ammo? Martin checked his carbine. His magazine was empty. Had he been trying to fire an empty gun? He could not remember. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, but also in a nanosecond. He pulled himself up to standing. His ready-bag sat against the wall, near the door, in cow poop. At least the poop kept it from sliding out of the trailer. Cow poop makes a peculiar silver lining. Sometimes silver linings can be like that. He dug out another magazine. He tried to push it in, but seemed to have little control over his hands. Pirate hooks would have been more useful. Eventually, he got the magazine positioned well enough to push it in until it clicked. From his bag, he pulled out a bandana to hold on his neck.
“Time for a change,” radioed Arthur. “Hold it tight and follow me.”
The trailer shifted right then took a long left off the exit. Martin held onto the slats with one hand. His breathing sped up. His fingers tightened around the grip of the carbine. Was there another ambush waiting for them? The convoy raced down the empty highways.
“If he’s going the way I think he is,” said Charles, “We’ll be going past Indian Lakes in a bit. Better get back to our posts and keep an eye out.”
The pace slowed to a less frantic speed as the convoy turned onto the smaller roads.
“Look sharp again,” said Arthur. “Going by the Lakes now.”
Martin scanned the brown foliage as it rushed by. He was intent to spot anything amiss. A glimpse of blue amid the brown caught his eye.
“I see one!” Martin shouted. “I’ll
get him!” He shouldered the carbine and sighted.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Charles clapped a hand on Martin’s shoulder. The move startled him out of his aim. “You don’t have to shoot everything that moves. That guy’s just watching us: not doing anything. You gotta know when to turn it off, man.”
Charles’ words came like a bucket of ice water. They were off the X. Martin watched the man in the brush as he got smaller in the distance. He was not doing anything but watching: probably nothing more than curious at the sight of four horse trailers going by. He could be a father, or a husband, or simply a guy out looking for beechnuts.
Martin took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. He suddenly felt very cold.
Chapter 15: Cauloff’s Farm
By the time Tyler’s Sierra pulled into the Cauloff farm — the last of the four trucks — the small crowd of townsfolk was running low on enthusiasm. The last applause was more obligatory than eager. The first reluctant cow being coaxed off a trailer captured everyone’s attention. As soon as the trailer stopped, Martin jumped out and ran to the Sierra. He flung open the passenger door.
“We made it!” He held his arms open wide. “You’re okay! This is great!”
Margaret jumped down with a big smile on her face and arms wide. “Martin!” Her smile suddenly dropped away. “Ugh! You smell like manure.” Her arms dropped. She kept her distance.
Martin looked down at his clothes. Bits of hay stuck to him. He did have poop on his boots. He brushed off the hay. “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. I kinda slipped in there and…But never mind that. You’re okay! Thank God for that. That was totally insane back there. And look at Tyler’s truck. It’s a miracle that neither of you were hit. Oh, I would never have asked you to come along if I thought anything like this…”
“It’s okay, Martin. Nobody expected that. We stayed down a lot.”
Martin moved in, for a thankful embrace, but Margaret held his arms, keeping a few inches of air between them. “Please, I don’t want to smell like manure. You know how I feel about that. Still, I am so glad you’re okay. You were taking some huge risks out there, mister. What have I told you about damaging my husband?” She smiled.
“To not to,” Martin said, imitating Mater. Quoting Pixar movies they watched with the kids were almost a shared hobby, even years after the kids had grown and moved away. They could almost recite the entire script from Cars, Toy Story and others.
“At least you were falling with style,” she said. They shared a smile. “A stinky style, but still…”
Margaret looked over Martin’s shoulder and gasped. “What happened to her? There’s blood all over her!”
Martin turned to see that one of the cows being taken out of the trailer ahead of them had blood on her back, running down her side. Margaret rushed over, looking closely at the wound. Her hands moved around the area, not quite touching the cow’s wet hide.
“Mr. Cauloff!” she shouted. “Over here!”
Red Cauloff hurried as much as stiff joints would allow. “Oh my,” he exclaimed. He gingerly felt around the bloody hide. As he got nearer to the top of the cow’s back, she flinched and moaned.
“Hey, you,” he shouted to a man near the trailer door. “Go up to the house and fetch a bucket of warm water…and some towels.” The man ran to the house. Red had one of those authoritative voices.
“Bullet wound,” Red said to himself. “It doesn’t seem too deep, though.”
Martin looked inside the trailer. A jagged hole pierced the roof. “Looks like a shot hit the trailer, then hit the cow,” he said.
“Hmm.” Red gently probed the wound with bare fingers. He pulled out a little lead fragment. “The metal roof must have started the bullet breaking up. Slowed it down a bunch too. This looks like a buckshot wound, but this here’s a hunk of a bullet. We’ll have to get her cleaned out.”
The man returned with the bucket of water and towels. Red turned to Margaret. “I’ve got some medical stuff in my truck over there. Would you fetch me those? Red nylon bag.” Margaret hurried off. Red dabbed around the wound with wet towels.
“She doesn’t seem too bad off,” Red said. “Let’s get her out of the cold.” He told the man with the bucket to help him coax the cow into the barn. Margaret followed them with the red bag.
The bullet hole in the trailer reminded Martin of the holed front end of the Laramie. Susan. Where was she? Martin stood tall, looking around. The dark red truck sat off to the left, behind the black Ford. Martin hurried over.
He stopped for a moment, surveying the many bullet holes in the windshield. The hood was up and Arthur tinkering over the engine. Martin opened the back door.
Susan was bent over Landers, who was turned away and leaning against the far door so Susan could adjust the bandage on his back. When she turned to see who opened the door, she gasped.
“Martin?” she squeaked. She leapt from the back seat, nearly knocking Martin over with a flying hug. “Oh, you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” she said into his shoulder.
Landers turned slowly and gave Martin a wry look, as if to say, ‘house guest, eh?’
Martin could feel a blush coming on. He gently pulled Susan away to stand her at a respectable arm’s length.
“I you heard on the radio,” she continued. “You were out where they were shooting. I was so afraid that I’d lose…Oh no! Look at your neck…and your ear. You’re hurt! Let me get some…”
“No, no. I’ll be fine. It’s just a few little scrapes from the rocks. They’ll be okay. The important question is: how are you?”
“Oh, Martin, I was never so scared in all my life…”
He smiled. “I thought you said you weren’t going to say that anymore,” he said softly.
She chuckled, sniffed, and wiped away the start of a tear. “Yeah. I guess I did. Still. It was awful. I have never been that scared before. They told me to lay down in the backseat floor. You bet I did too. I didn’t see anything. I heard all the shooting: bullets hitting the truck. Look at it! Swiss cheese!”
Martin did not think the truck looked like Swiss cheese, but this was not the time to mince metaphors.
“Yup,” said Arthur, coming around from the front of the truck. “Took a few rounds. One of ‘em smacked the block and some fragment nicked my radiator hose. It was probably the same round that took out my headlight. Lost coolant slow and steady. The engine was starting to run hot near the last there. Still, all in all, we got off easy.”
“That was getting off easy?” Susan argued.
“Well, okay, maybe not ‘easy-peasy,’ but those hoodlum types didn’t seem intent on random destruction. They’d have shot out all the glass and tires and such in pretty short order. I fancy they planned to just get rid of us and take the trucks and maybe the cows too, if they had any idea what was in the trailers. They probably didn’t. But I noticed they weren’t shooting to disable the vehicles so much as just to keep us down.”
“The two guys in back were probably supposed to…” Martin glanced at Susan’s worried face. “…deal with us more directly.”
“That’s kinda what I figured too,” said Arthur. “Good thing you boys were in the back there. Glad you took care of the two in front when you did. There was no way we were going to take out those guys up on the bluff. It was only a matter of time before more of their kind showed up to help ‘em.”
Arthur clapped his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Good work on the bandits up front, and clearing the strips.”
Martin felt embarrassed. He was not sure he actually did much to the two hoodlums up front. All of his shots might have missed. He may have been clicking away with an empty gun, for all he knew. “It was more Charles than me,” he said.
“Ah,” said Arthur. “I’ll have to go thank Charles too.”
“So, what happened to you?” Martin asked Landers.
“Oh, we were trying to keep fire on the boys up on the ridge, but while I was reloading, they got a shot off. It hit the back corner of th
e cab. Must have deflected it my way. Hit me in the back of this arm, then across the small of my back.”
“It doesn’t look too bad,” Susan added. “A hunk of his arm is kinda torn up, and it looks like a nasty cut across his back. Arthur gave me his first aid kit to help stop the bleeding.”
Landers continued. “I think Eric saw me go down and rushed over to help. They decided to cross-ship me to the Laramie where Miss Susan here could patch me up. You’ve got quite the…house guest…there, Martin.”
“Arthur was telling me what to do,” Susan protested. “I didn’t always know what he was talking about. I’m no nurse. I was telling Mr. Landers about trying to patch you up, Martin, during our walk up here. That’s as much experience as I had being a nurse.”
“She was all kinds of chatty about your adventures getting back to Cheshire,” said Landers with a wink.
