All the second day it was like that, riding slow, roping wagons out of the mud, and so was the third. But they were still making fair time, according to McCain and his map and his English hunter watch. The only trouble was when an old man, an old man with a white beard and red eyes and rheumatism, tried to desert, and McCain wanted to shoot him. Lassiter didn’t care much what happened to the old man, but he didn’t see that killing the old bastard would do all that much extra to maintain discipline.
The old man had been carrying an old Springfield musket. Giving in to Lassiter, laughing about it, McCain said the old man could keep his life. “Give your weapon to someone who can use it,” he told the old man. “Then go and help the cooks. If you try anything else I’ll kill you myself.”
To Lassiter he said, “It’s a shame, but you’ll never make a real soldier.”
“I hope not,” Lassiter answered. “And thanks for the compliment.”
McCain, for the moment, was in great spirits. He smiled like a rat about to bite a baby. “How did you ever get so mean?”
Lassiter thought that was funny, coming from a man like Pierce McCain. “Some of it came natural, Mac. The rest I got from dealing with men like you.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” McCain said.
When Lassiter rode out later to relieve Bannerman, the gunman said there was nothing to report. No sign of any hostile activity—nothing. “If it’s an as easy as this, I think I’m going to enjoy the rebellion,” Bannerman said.
“It isn’t over yet,” Lassiter said. “Cameron’s militia won’t just lie down and roll over.”
But he had to admit that McCain was closer to making it work than ever before. The Dominion Government was three thousand miles away in Ottawa, and if the fighting went on long enough they might figure British Columbia wasn’t worth all the trouble. That’s what McCain figured, but then the Irishman was crazy. It took a crazy man to start something like this. Maybe—just maybe—he would carry it off. Because he was nearly out of it, Lassiter was more interested than if he intended to stay. Grinning, he wondered what McCain would do if he did manage to grab the whole province. Declare war on the United States? Anything was possible with McCain.
They climbed over some low hills and there finally was Ringo Junction about ten miles away at the end of a long wide valley. Lassiter stayed with the scouts and sent one of the men back to warn McCain and the main column. Glassing the town from the shelter of a pine grove, Lassiter didn’t see anything that bothered him. Even with the powerful binoculars the distance was still too great to be sure. He told the rest of the scouts to wait for the rest of the column to catch up, then he rode out alone, not into the valley but along the blind side of the long west ridge. In closer, he glassed the town again.
While he watched, a freight train pulled out of the depot. It was so quiet in the valley that even from five miles away he could hear the chuffing of the locomotive. Another train stood in a siding. It was short, three cars, and he watched the engineer and the fireman lounging in the cab. The locomotive looked too powerful to be pulling only three cars. Once it got rolling it would travel fast. That would be the train the militia used.
The militia barracks were near the depot; put together in a hurry, the raw lumber gleamed white in the cold sunshine. If McCain’s diversionary action didn’t work, they had come a long way for nothing. And there was nowhere else to go.
Lassiter rode back and reported to McCain. After listening to final orders, the diversionary party started north toward the next rail town. They were to move fast, hit the town, draw the militia away from Ringo Junction, then dynamite the tracks behind the train.
“We’ll move in twenty minutes after the train leaves,” McCain told Lassiter. “You go in first with the mounted men. You won’t have to tell me if anything goes wrong. I’ll be watching through the spyglasses. If nothing happens the rest of the column will follow on the double.”
“What’s the matter?” Lassiter said sourly. “Why not a cavalry charge? With you out in front.”
Lassiter led the horsemen back along the ridge, told them to dismount about three miles from town. That was close enough for the moment. As soon as the militiamen came piling out of the barracks and boarded the train they would start to move in.
About three hours later it happened. A steam whistle split the silence and the whistle on the locomotive joined in. “Mount up,” Lassiter said. He didn’t say, “Move out” until the train was loaded and starting to move.
After that they came in fast, sticking to the blind side of the ridge as long as they could. Lassiter glassed the town again. After the first wave of excitement died down, the few people in the streets drifted back into houses and stores. Soon they were close enough not to need the glasses and Lassiter split the party and sent Bannerman around to hit the depot from the other side.
The ten militiamen left to guard the depot tried to make a fight of it, but they didn’t have a chance. Lassiter and his party had to come in straight, so he told the men to walk their horses until they were spotted. They got closer and closer.
The first yell was Bannerman’s signal to attack from the other side. The yelling started too late to do any good. Hit from both sides, the militiamen broke and ran. They tried to run, but they didn’t get very far. Some of them tried to give up, but there was no time for that.
“Kill the wounded,” Lassiter told Bannerman. “Then round up the townspeople and lock them in the barracks.”
Chapter Ten
While the German and another man filled the canvas mail sacks with sand, Lassiter climbed up the ladder of the water tower and hauled up the Maxim gun with a rope. After that he hauled up what was left of the ammunition. He checked the gun carefully, swinging the barrel, tilting and depressing it. He yelled down at Ritter, telling him to hurry it up.
Sweating, Lassiter pulled up the sand-filled bags, the rope biting into his hands. Ritter climbed up, and they kicked and punched the sandbags into position around the gun. They hadn’t quite finished when the train whistle sounded down the track.
“Feed in the belt,” Lassiter told the German. The feed-belt clicked into place, and Lassiter moved the barrel of the gun between the opening in the emplacement. It looked all right.
McCain and the Indian came out of the station agent’s office and looked up at Lassiter. Lassiter took off his hat and waved back. McCain and Colmar stayed where they were, waiting. Lassiter aimed the gun at them for practice. There was a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in those two sacks the Indian had slung over his left shoulder. Not long after the train pulled in with the guns all that money would be in Grainger P. Dowling’s papery hands.
The train whistle sounded again, and the rails passing through the depot hummed as the freight got closer. Lassiter looked around, making a final check. His own men were spotted here and there, behind piles of railroad ties, tool sheds, flat on their bellies on top of buildings. McCain’s infantrymen were easier to spot because after all the drilling and some fighting they were still amateurs.
Ringo Junction was quiet except for the humming of the rails, the chuffing of the slow-moving freight in the distance. Now the steady clanking of the driving rods on the locomotive drowned out the humming of the rails, and then the train came under the bridge, steam and smoke shrouding the locomotive. The front of the locomotive poked through the smoke, and steel screamed against steel as the engineer applied the brakes.
Suddenly the men who should have stayed hidden began to cheer, not Lassiter s men, the goddamned citizen soldiers. “Oh, Christ!” Lassiter groaned. The dumb pitiful amateur sons of bitches! Some of them stuck their heads up and waved. Lassiter felt like blasting the fools back into cover. No matter what happened after today, whether the goddamned rebellion went badly or well, he was going to get the hell away from there. He had his money, some of it anyway, and south was the only direction he wanted to go.
The train stopped, clouds of scalding steam gushing from under the locomotive. M
cCain and the Indian stepped back, shielding their eyes. On top of the tower Lassiter heard the Irishman cursing the engineer.
Lassiter held his finger on the trigger, the barrel just above McCain and the Indian. Then, with a crashing sounds that shook the length of the train, the doors of the boxcars slid open, all at one time, and Maxim guns began to chatter, the flame jetting from the muzzles dull-bright in the drifting steam. Lassiter fired the first manual shot that set the recoil system working. McCain and the Indian were flat on the wooden platform, and he put a long burst over their heads, blasting the boxcar closest to them. The gun in that car stopped winking at him, then started again.
With bullets chewing up the planks under their feet, McCain and Colmar made a break for it. Lassiter fired back at the first boxcar, then raked the entire length of the train, trying to draw fire from the running men. A hail of bullets crashed against the sandbags. The German held the feed-belt steady, reaching into the ammunition box for a fresh belt when the first one was nearing the end. The men were firing back, and two of the three Maxims on the train turned away from Lassiter to cover the blue-clad militiamen dropping off the train on both sides. The militiamen came pouring out, some of them dropping as the ragged rebel fire tore into them. They kept coming out of the boxcars, taking the fire, pushing through it.
There were hundreds of them. Lassiter couldn’t even figure how many there were. Three hundred, five hundred—well trained, well armed, running, then kneeling to shoot the bolt-action repeaters. Lassiter put another burst into the first boxcar and swung the gun toward the attacking militiamen. The gunner in the boxcar forced him to duck his head.
Looking down from the side, he saw McCain and the Indian running behind a long line of piled-up shipping crates, toward the station master s house. Two running militiamen rounded the line of boxes and dropped to their knees. There was no way to turn the gun. Lassiter grabbed up the Winchester and killed the two militiamen with two quick shots. Five more militiamen came around the line of boxes. Levering fast, firing fast, Lassiter emptied the magazine into the group, killing two, scattering the rest.
Now McCain and Colmar were inside the house and returning the fire. Lassiter got back behind the gun. The gunner in the boxcar was firing like a madman. Belt after belt fed through the gun, chewing up the sandbags, tearing the side of the water tower to pieces. The last of the attackers were jumping from the train. Lassiter fired a short burst at the first boxcar, swung the barrel and shot four or five militiamen before their feet hit the ground.
A huge man with red hair, waving a revolver, jumped down after the last of the men. Lassiter knew Colonel Simon Cameron when he saw him. There wasn’t time to swing the gun. The gunner in the first boxcar was keeping him too busy. “Keep them coming, Fritz,’’ he warned the German feeding the gun. “Got to knock out that first gun.”
The trigger pulled back under the pressure of his finger, and a line of bullets poured down from the tower. The Maxim in the boxcar stopped firing, but rifle bullets sang close to his head. He heard Cameron yelling at the other gunners to get the Maxims off the train. A bullet touched the brim of Lassiter’s hat. A touch as light as a feather. Another bullet touched the hat brim in the same place. He held the gun steady on the first boxcar. The gunner there had guts. For maybe five seconds the gun flashed and chattered and they dueled with machine guns. There was a scream, and the gun stopped firing. The man feeding the gun tried to fire it. Lassiter poured another half belt into the boxcar. There was no firing after that.
Cameron was down on one knee, aiming and firing at anything he could. Cameron was good with a pistol. He fired and a man dropped off the side of a freight shed. Behind Cameron, the gunners had the Maxims off the train, and were running, staggering under the weight of the guns while the assistant gunners carried boxes of ammunition.
Cameron was yelling for one of his officers. While he yelled he broke open the British-model Webley revolver and the ejector spilled the cartridge cases on to the station platform. Cameron was quick, expert. So was Lassiter. He stitched a line of bullets across Cameron’s wide belly. With ten or fifteen .303 caliber bullets tearing Cameron in two, there was no need to shoot again. Thinking of the night in the warden’s office, Lassiter let loose another short burst. Right after he did it, he cursed himself for taking it personal. While he was wasting bullets, the gunners were gaining time.
The officer Cameron wanted crawled under the train from the other side. A light touch on the trigger crumpled him like a rag doll. By now the fight was spread all over the railroad yards. The men were fighting well, but the militia had the weapons and the training, and they pushed forward steadily, taking their losses. Cameron was dead, but that didn’t mean a thing. Even without officers the militia couldn’t be stopped now.
Lassiter’s Irregulars, Bannerman in command, had fallen back from the center of the depot to a stone roundhouse at the edge of the yards. The other men were falling back, too, not in any order, and the militia pushed them back faster and farther than they meant to go. Lassiter gave them what cover he could, but soon the fight was running out past the freight yards, into the town, and one of the Maxims from the train—both were emplaced behind piles of railroad ties—was pouring lead into the water tower as hard as the gunner could squeeze the trigger, while the second gun, turned the other way, was laying down heavy fire on the roundhouse.
Lassiter felt the old German’s hand on his shoulder. Ritter had linked on the last belt of ammunition, and he pointed to the empty ammunition box and made a face. He made a face and then a rifle bullet fired from behind tore open the back of his head and came out through his old man’s grin. The dead man fell forward and knocked over the gun. Lassiter didn’t try to set it right. He wheeled and drew his belt-gun and pegged a long shot at a militiaman who had climbed a freight shed. The militiaman should have been able to kill Lassiter—he had a rifle, and the distance was wrong for a handgun—but he was in a hurry. Lassiter’s quick shot missed. He fired again and the militiaman missed and so did he. The militiaman jerked the bolt back for another shot as Lassiter, steadying the .45 with both hands, knowing he was dead if the fool aimed right, shot twice. The muzzle of the rifle flamed, but the man was dead when his finger jerked back on the trigger. The rifle clattered down the sloping roof, dropped off the edge, and the man rolled after it, heavy as a blue sack full of fresh-killed meat. Lassiter knew they couldn’t get him if he stayed low—the tower was too high—but now other militiamen were climbing the back of the freight shed, and the six-gun wasn’t worth a damn when they got to the peak of the roof and started firing together. The sand-filled mailbags in front of him were coming apart under the relentless fire from the Maxim gun.
Pulling at the gun, Lassiter dragged it from the firing slot between the sandbags. The belt tangled and he had to straighten it with one hand while he cursed and kicked the tripod into position. Two militiamen put head and shoulders across the vee of the freight shed roof. He touched the trigger and sparks flew from the galvanized iron of the roof. He swung the gun, sweeping the barrel from one end of the roof to the other, right along the peak, knocking the two men back the other way. Another head showed itself and ducked back. Right after that, right after he let up on the trigger-squeeze, four rifles poked across the peak of the roof. Two of them managed to fire single shots before he put a moving line of bullets where their faces were. The faces went out of sight, some of them screaming briefly, and he lowered the muzzle of the gun and fired through the metal roof below the peak. The bullets hitting the roof sounded like a hundred men hammering together on a sheet of tin.
Lassiter looked at the feed-belt resting on the flat of his left hand. It was almost run through, with maybe fifty bullets left. He cursed himself for wanting another four men to show their faces. It was time to get out of there—time and past time. There was no time to reload the Winchester. He grabbed it and started down the ladder. A bullet shattered itself on the iron rung where his right hand had been a small part of a se
cond before, and tiny pieces of hot lead stung his forehead, and brought thin moving worms of blood. The next bullet splintered the cedar planking, and he dropped the rest of the way to the ground.
The drop was long and knocked him on his face and saved his life. He fell sideways at the base of the tower and rolled, and he was still rolling when he drew the belt gun and shot at the militia officer waiting with cocked revolver for him to stop rolling. The militia officer was young, red-faced and yellow-whiskered, and the bullet took him high in the chest, not a killing shot. He looked like a bright bank teller called to arms, good enough with a gun but not a killer, a man enjoying himself and not expecting to die. The sudden hole in his chest surprised him. Before Lassiter stopped rolling he surprised the officer again—he killed him with a bullet in the brain.
The bullet-riddled water tower was on one side of a long line of shipping crates, piled double and too high to climb over, too closely stacked, with the station master’s house on the other. The fight had run past the house and the shooting was all on the other side, from the defenders and the attacking militia. Lassiter wondered about the Irishman and the Indian, Colmar. The militia had swept around behind the house—they hadn’t gone that way. The militia wasn’t attacking from the front because of Lassiter and the gun on the tower. It would take them maybe another minute to realize that the gun on the tower wasn’t firing, that the gun firing at it had been turned and was now firing at the roundhouse.
Lassiter, running and loading the Winchester at the same time, made a dash for the house. He made it most of the way before somebody shot at him from inside the house. He went down, rolling and cursing, telling the son of a bitch who shot at him who he was. The shooting stopped and he made the porch, the respectable station masters porch with the glider and the cane furniture. The door was closed. It broke under the driving weight of his shoulder. The lock broke first and next the hinges—and the door slammed against the floor with Lassiter on top of it.
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