by Tom Abrahams
She wiped a cold sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm and pressed her eyes closer to the opening in the treehouse wall. The tall grass was rippling against the breeze, the oaks swaying. Leaves twirled to the ground with every gust.
The skies were clear. The early morning fog was gone. Her pulse was racing. She could feel it in her chest and as she breathed. Lola cursed Battle for leaving her behind, for leaving her alone. She didn’t like being left alone.
Her husband left her alone with their son, Sawyer, when he got himself killed. He’d promised to come back. He was only going to look for water. They were low and maybe had a couple of days left in their Shreveport efficiency.
“We can go together,” she’d suggested. “We should stay together.
He’d refused. He didn’t know exactly where he’d find water or what he’d have to do to obtain it. He didn’t want Sawyer with him, and they couldn’t leave him alone in the apartment.
He’d left with a kiss on her lips and a tousle of Sawyer’s red hair. “I’ll be back,” he’d promised.
Four hours later he’d kept his promise. He came back with two gallons of water and a stab wound under his left arm. He’d never explained how he got the water or the fatal wound.
He’d died on the floor of the apartment, his wife and son watching him take his final breath and exhaling it with a rattle.
Now, sitting in a treehouse alone, she feared her solitude even more. Somebody was coming for her. She narrowed her eyes and focused south, toward the main gate. In the distance, she could see something or someone. There was movement. The oak branches blocked much of the view between the treehouse and the highway.
She tightened her grip on the shotgun and scanned the horizon as best she could. She was lying on her stomach, her elbows bracing the weapon. Lola checked her position and scooted backward into the treehouse a few inches. She didn’t want the muzzle sticking too far out through the opening.
She heard the snorting again. It was definitely horses. Somebody was at the front gate, and it probably wasn’t Battle. He would have bounded into the property by now.
There were men talking. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but picked up at least three voices.
***
“This is it,” Queho said.
The men hopped off their horses and tied them to a cattle fence along the edge of the highway.
“You sure?” one of the grunts questioned.
“Yep,” Queho said and pointed to clumps of dark brown manure dotting the grass around them. “This is it. There’s a bunch of horse crap right here and the grass is trampled. Our guys were here.”
Another grunt reached for the Browning strapped to his saddle. “What do we do?”
Queho looked at him incredulously and hocked a loogie into the grass. “You serious? We attack. Load up everything you got.”
The grunt imitated Queho and spat onto the ground. “Are we taking the woman alive?”
“Depends on what kinda fight she gives us.” Queho shrugged. He looked up into the blue October sky. There were a few high wispy clouds speeding along. An intermittent breeze swirled around them as they prepped. A couple of black birds circled above.
Queho bent over, leaning on the fence for support, and adjusted the boot on his bad foot. His ankle was sore and felt swollen from the ride. He tested his weight on it, winced, and then bit the inside of his cheek to counteract the pain. He’d suffered through worse.
“Let’s go.” He nodded to the four surviving grunts. “I want this done. I want to be back home in Abilene by sundown.”
The five marched through the opening in the perimeter fence and trudged through the grass.
Queho had his shotgun at his belly, sweeping it from left to right. He had six-shooters on both hips and a double-edged bowie knife tucked into his belt.
He had two men on either side of him. They worked the ground in the same manner, checking each step, careful not to get stuck in the sucking muck left behind by the previous night’s heavy rain.
As they moved closer, weaving between the oak trees large and small, Queho could see the buildings. To the left was a treehouse. Behind that was a large barn. Straight ahead was a house. To the right was a large garage. There was no sign of anyone, no obvious movement.
The closer they got to the fence, the air filled with a pungent, sour odor. Queho recognized it. It was unmistakable. It was the odor of death. He slowed his approach to the interior fence line. The black birds were directly overhead; there were three of them now.
Above the top wisps of grass, he could see what looked like a hand. Maybe it was a bare foot. He couldn’t tell at first. The closer he got, the more apparent it was a hand.
He stood above the corpse and saw there were two men there. They were heaped together in death. Both of them were a purplish color, stiffened, and unrecognizable. Not that Queho would have known their names anyhow. But they looked more like ghouls than men. He could tell the birds were already working on the bodies. Only the cool weather prevented the odor from being worse.
Queho gritted his teeth. Two more men dead at the hands of this man named Battle was too much. Anger rose from deep within his gut, searing his throat as he screamed at the top of his lungs every foul word his mother had taught him.
The birds flapped and crowed and circled away from their meal. Queho’s cries reverberated, falling flat against the breeze.
***
Lola jumped at the outburst from the man below, worried at first she’d blown her cover. Thankfully, none of the men looked her way.
From her perch, she thought she knew the angry one. He wore a brown hat, which separated him from most of the Cartel. She knew only some of the leaders called “bosses” wore the brown hats. Though she couldn’t clearly see his face, she recognized his limp. He had a bad foot. He was among the more ruthless of the bosses. She’d seen him beat his own men for amusement. He’d hit her once. His shirt had a crease along the sleeve. He hadn’t liked it, so he’d backhanded her at the front counter of the laundromat. She couldn’t remember his name.
Lola touched her cheek, recalling the sting of it, and narrowed her focus through the single sight. She couldn’t hit him from this distance. He was still outside the fence.
She counted the men huddled around the dead bodies of the men killed the night before. There were five of them. Only one boss, the rest were grunts.
Lola wiped her hands on the hip of her sweatpants one at a time. Her mouth felt dry. Her pulse quickened. She worked hard to breathe in and out slowly through her nose.
Five men. All of them armed. She’d need to choose her moment. If she attacked too soon, it could be fatal. If she attacked too late, it might not be fatal enough.
She ran her hand through her red hair, mixing in the sweat from her palms and forehead. She peeked through the opening in the pine boards and shifted the aim of the shotgun. The crippled one with the hat pointed at the interior fence, guiding his men through the gate. They slowly trudged through the opening one at a time.
The brown hat rubbed his chin, scratched his neck, and then looked to his left. His gaze shifted upward and stopped directly at the treehouse. He was looking right at Lola. Her pulse told her he was looking through her.
He stayed outside of the fence line and worked his way west, closer to her. His eyes and his shotgun pointed at the treehouse.
Lola held still, careful not to move at all. She didn’t even train the shotgun downward to match his movement. Sweat dribbled into her eyes. Her nose itched. She wiggled it, knowing she couldn’t scratch it. The more she wiggled it, the worse the sensation became.
He moved to within fifteen yards of the treehouse, his eyes narrowly focused on her position. Lola licked her lips. She was ready to jerk the shotgun down and fire off a volley of shots. Her finger moved to the trigger. She blew the itch from her nose.
“Boss!” one of the grunts called from the driveway, drawing the brown hat’s attention away from Lola.
She exhaled and watched him limp away from her. Two of the men were to the right of the driveway, closer to the garage. The other two were on the drive itself.
One of them pointed at the ground in front of him with his Browning. “Ain’t that Rud?”
“Where?” Queho picked up his pace through the open gate until he joined the pair of grunts. The other two grunts worked their way back to Queho and joined the group.
One of them pointed again. “There.”
“Yeah,” Queho said. “That’s him.” He tipped the hat back on his head and rubbed his face before he chuckled. “This is a sick dude we got here. Surprised he ain’t workin’ for us.”
“That looks like a booby trap or something, right?” said one grunt.
“It is,” said Queho. “We gotta be careful. There could be more of them. You need to move slow or you’re gonna get caught in a hole like Rud here.”
“He looks messed up,” said the other grunt.
“’Cause he is,” said the boss. “Like I said, be careful.” He nodded with his chin forward, as if to point out the invisible traps.
Lola held her position. She scratched her nose and wiped another stream of sweat from her face.
***
Battle slowed his horse to a full stop about one hundred yards from his front fence. He knew the Cartel was already there. He could see their horses fixed to the posts.
“I don’t want them hearing us,” he told Pico. “We get off here.”
Battle jumped off first and helped Pico down. “Remember,” he told his unrestrained prisoner, “they killed you. I didn’t. You need to trust me.”
“You gonna give me a gun?” Pico asked.
“No. I don’t trust you yet.”
“That don’t seem fair,” Pico argued. “You need my help, but you gonna bring me into a gunfight with nothing to defend myself?”
Battle tipped his hat. “I’ll defend you.”
Battle walked the Appaloosa to the eastern edge of his fence and tied up the horse. He whispered thank you into its ear and pulled his shotgun from the saddle scabbard. He checked his waist for McDunnough. All was good.
He stood against the fence, his fingers curled around the barbed wire, and listened. The only sound was the breeze whistling through the oaks.
He waved for Pico to join him, and they walked through the fence opening. The mud wasn’t as thick as when they’d left earlier in the day, but it made moving with speed a tricky proposition. If Battle’s boots weren’t sucked into it, they were sliding on top of it.
“Be careful once we get to the interior fence,” he warned Pico, who was a step behind him to his right. “Between the driveway and the treehouse, there are a half dozen traps. They’ll break your ankle.”
Pico shook his head. “You don’t play.”
Battle moved a step at a time closer to the interior fence, pushing his way through the grass. The trees obscured a clear shot to the house, but he could see the tops of the roofs.
To the left he caught sight of the treehouse and decided to approach from that side of the property. He crouched low and picked his way west to the edge of his land before cutting back north toward the interior fence.
As he drew close, he stopped and dropped to a knee. Pico followed Battle’s lead and hid in the grass. They were virtually invisible from their position, though Battle could see the treehouse clearly. He searched the thin openings in the slats until he saw a hint of a muzzle poking through the southeast corner of the pine walls. Lola was there.
She was alive!
The sensation of relief and the resulting exhale surprised Battle. He shook himself back to focus and poked his head up above the grass. He saw a group of men to the right. They were at the edge of the driveway near where he’d killed the man whose hat he now wore.
Without thinking, Battle stood up and yelled out to the men while racing back toward them at the fence line. He had the Browning pulled to his eye as he bolted, trying to keep his footing in the mud.
None of the men saw him until he’d reached the fence and he called out to them. “You shouldn’t have come here. This is my land. I didn’t invite you.”
The men turned in unison, swinging their shotguns in his direction. As they spun around, Battle could see there were five of them. He was maybe thirty yards away, well inside the weapon’s effective range. He picked the one on the left and pulled the trigger.
Crack!
The shot exploded from the Browning and hit the grunt in the throat. He grabbed at the spray, his blood spewing through his fingers. Battle dropped to a knee and moved his aim to the right.
Crack!
The second blast struck the target in his shoulder. He moved just as Battle pulled the trigger, growling with pain and dropping his shotgun. His arm went limp when another blast hit him in the chest. He crumpled to the ground, his head slapping the driveway with a thud.
Battle moved his aim again, knowing he had one shot left in the Browning. The remaining three men had reacted now; they were separating. He couldn’t keep all of them within his range of sight.
One of them made a fast approach straight at Battle, running to the right of the dead boss trapped in the hole. Battle pulled the trigger on his last shot.
Crack!
The target screamed, a guttural, unearthly sound echoing uncomfortably in the cool air, and Battle thought he’d hit him. But he hadn’t.
His shot sailed over the man’s head as he fell knee deep into one of the remaining dozen traps. Battle knew it as soon as the man called out in a warbled voice.
“Help!” he cried. “I’m stuck. I think my leg’s broke. Help!”
Battle dropped the Browning, pulled his Sig Sauer, stood, and fired two shots into the man’s forehead. He slumped forward. His crying stopped.
Crack! Zip! Crack! Zip!
A pair of shotgun blasts powered past Battle from his right, some of the pellets catching his side when he turned to react. He resisted the urge to grab at the sting and dove to the ground. There were two left, and they were close.
Battle scrambled to reload the Browning, but couldn’t find it in the grass. He rolled over onto his back, gripping McDunnough with both hands. He was a sitting duck. He knew it. The best he could hope for was taking them out as they pumped him full of shotshell.
***
On his back, he couldn’t see anything beyond the grass and the sky above him. He sensed the tangled branches of a younger oak to his right. The fence, he knew, was to his left. A cold sweat bloomed on his forehead. If he risked getting to his feet, he’d get his head blown off.
He slowly inched backward in the mud and grass, using his heels to slide along on his backside. The pain in his side was intensifying as if he’d been stung by a swarm of wasps. It made it increasingly difficult to move, demanding his focus and attention. He stopped pushing with his heels and sucked in a deep breath. He lay still and listened.
Nearby, maybe a few feet from him, there were footsteps. One of the men was walking slowly toward him, his boots sticking and pulling from the mud, his legs were brushing against the grass.
Battle thought the man was coming from his right. Or was it the left. No. It was the—
Crack! Crack!
The twin shots shocked Battle. He shuddered and then winced against the burning ache in his side. He heard the low moan and raspy breath of a dying man in the grass to his right.
“Battle!” It was Lola. “Battle! Are you there?”
He started to raise his arm, but stopped. He knew there had to be one man left. And where was Pico? He couldn’t trust Pico yet. He stayed flat on the ground.
“I’m alive,” he called out. He was only fifteen feet or so from the fence. The treehouse was another twenty feet beyond that.
“There’s one left,” she called back. “He’s in the house. And there’s the one you brought with you.”
“Salomon Pico?”
“He’s in the house too.”
Battle w
asn’t sure he heard her correctly. “What?”
“He’s in the house. Both of them. They bolted for the house when you killed those first three guys.”
Battle rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself to his feet. He moved to the fence, trying to ignore the thick heat on his right side. He looked up at Lola peeking through the slats.
“You stay up there,” he said. “I’m going to get them.”
Battle found the Browning he’d tossed to the ground and started reloading it as he walked along the fence line toward the open gate at the driveway. He was walking straight toward the house, scanning the windows for signs of life, when the front door swung open. He hadn’t finished with the Browning.
A worn-looking man with a limp emerged from the house. He was wearing a hat. He had his shotgun aimed at Battle’s head as he shortened the distance between them.
Battle realized he’d lost his hat, and his weapon wasn’t loaded and ready to fire. The cripple had the drop on him.
“So you’re Mad Max,” the cripple called, his bad foot almost dragging behind him. “You’re Battle. Is that it? Battle?” Half of his face was hidden behind the Browning.
“Yeah,” Battle said.
“And this is your land, you say?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell the woman in the treehouse to get down here or I blow your head off right now.”
Battle raised his hands over his head, one of them holding the partially loaded shotgun. McDunnough was tucked into his back. If he could only—
The brown-hatted cripple snapped, “Drop the weapon and get the woman to come here. I ain’t up for games.”
Battle lowered his arms and tossed the Browning onto the ground. “Lola,” he called. “C’mon down.”
“Good boy,” said the man. “Now, I reckon you killed a lot of my men. That so?”
Battle shrugged. To his left, Lola was scrambling from the treehouse. The brown hat called over to her without taking his eyes or his aim from Battle.
