Mountain Man (Book 5): Final Stand [Last Ditch]

by Jones, Nathan

What Has To Be Done

  It turned out that, ah, “unofficially requisitioning” food in a camp full of starving people was more than a little challenging.

  Normally, Skyler would've laughed off such concerns. He was fully confident in his ability to survive in the mountains long term, hunting, fishing, trapping, and foraging for what he needed. Especially since feeding yourself was almost laughably easy to do at this time of year, if you knew what you were doing.

  But the situation wasn't in any way normal. He was going out skirmishing, which meant he was going to be constantly on the move, seeking targets to hit or running away from pursuit. There wouldn't be much time for looking for food in the middle of all that.

  Even if he made the time, a snare would be a clue Sangue could use to discover his location, and needless to say shooting game would bring every enemy soldier within earshot running his way. As for fishing, there weren't many good spots for that in the area, unless he wanted to head up to Joes Valley Reservoir where bloodies were swarming thick as flies. Anyway, fishing was usually too time consuming.

  Foraging for edible plants, maybe even bugs, he could and should do, when the opportunity presented itself, to supplement his food stores. But even that took time he probably wouldn't have, and anyway would be a distraction from his purpose keeping Sangue away from Camptown.

  Skyler needed food, enough to last him weeks.

  Unfortunately, he couldn't get any from his family. There just wasn't any food he could take that wasn't needed more by his mom, little sister Molly, his friend Brandon's wife Fiona, and the women he'd rescued from the Sangue camp at Joes Valley Reservoir. Even though the summer retreat group was better off than most, he refused to even consider taking any of it.

  Likewise, the caches Brandon had set up for the skirmishers felt off limits, even if Skyler was technically a skirmisher himself. Or at least, unofficially one. For a while he'd entertained the idea of taking supplies from the Sangue he took out, before dismissing it as impossible; while skirmishing, he'd be hitting a few targets in a larger group then running away. He wouldn't even have a chance to try to strip the soldiers he shot of anything useful, he'd be too busy evading pursuit.

  Considering the whole point was to keep the bloodies chasing him rather than finding Camptown, that wasn't exactly a bad thing.

  Sheriff Gray, leader of the Grand Junction militia, had already sent out three more squads of skirmishers to work to the north, south, and west, since Brandon's skirmishers were already operating to the east. Of course, those squads had all left laden with enough supplies to last them as long as they needed.

  The sight of it had actually kind of ticked Skyler off.

  If his parents, especially his mom, weren't being so stubborn about keeping him a perpetual baby, he could've joined one of those squads and wouldn't have to worry about any of this. As it was, he was already resigned to the fact that he'd have to operate even farther out than Camptown's skirmishers, or they might end up accidentally shooting him thinking he was Sangue.

  No easy solutions to his food dilemma were presenting themselves, short of raiding Camptown's storehouses for some of the supplies they'd brought back from the attack on Emery. Which he wasn't planning to do; it would not only be incredibly difficult, but would also be stealing food from a bunch of people who desperately needed it.

  Even though what they'd taken from the Sangue supply post looked like a lot, split among over a thousand people it still wasn't enough. Camptown's residents were going to be starving not too long into what was looking to be a harsh winter in the high mountains, if not even sooner.

  Skyler had no intention of making their situation even worse.

  Since for the moment he was stuck on the food issue, he put it aside while he focused on an equally important one: training Sulky, the younger and wilder sister of his previous mount Surly, to be an ideal mount for a skirmisher. Since the mare had hardly even been trained to the saddle before he began, he had his work cut out for him. Especially since he also needed to get her accustomed to gunshots, particularly ones from him shooting from her back.

  That was easier said than done, but it helped that she'd spent months now corralled or pastured within a few hundred yards of the range, so she heard the far off noise of gunshots all the time. Now he just needed to get her used to deafening noises coming from right next to her head, and he was set.

  No problem.

  As for saddle training, Trapper had made training Surly Skyler's responsibility when he gave him the young gelding, and he'd done a fairly good job with the mountain man's help. Now he was confident he could turn that knowledge to training his new mount by himself. Especially since Sulky was actually pretty good about not balking, aside from when nearby gunshots still made her dance.

  At this rate, Skyler thought he'd be able to head out in a few more days, maybe five or six days after he'd gotten started just after they returned from Emery. And who knew, if he was lucky maybe he'd even find the Sangue who'd stolen Surly and could steal his horse back.

  His preparations hit a huge stroke of good luck on the afternoon of the fourth day, when Brady Everett, formerly owner of a trading post in Emery and now Camptown's quartermaster and long term planner, swung by the retreat leading a laden packhorse. His visit was a surprise, since Trapper was still gone hunting down those Sangue riders who'd nearly caught them on the way back from the attack on Emery. That meant Brady wasn't looking for Skyler's adoptive dad, so this probably wasn't official business.

  Actually, it turned out it kind of was.

  Skyler had been in the field nearby, teaching Sulky to respond to unspoken commands, which seemed important when he was trying to sneak around the mountains. At the trader's approach, he put that training to work and turned the mare towards the retreat, wanting to see what Brady wanted.

  He got there at about the same time his mom and Fiona came outside to greet the man, with Fiona holding her infant son Thomas, Trapper's namesake, in one arm. With the other she held the hand of Skyler's two-year-old sister, Molly.

  “Good to see you, Brady!” his mom called, although Skyler thought she looked more tired and stressed than happy to have a visitor. Especially when she unobtrusively tried to knuckle her lower back to ease the ache of carrying a baby that was about eight and a half months along.

  “Sorry to intrude, Mrs. Miller,” Brady replied politely, removing his hat and nodding to her and Fiona, then Skyler when he noticed him riding up.

  “Nonsense, always a pleasure,” his mom replied. “What brings you around?”

  The trader lightly tugged the reins of the packhorse, looking a bit sheepish. “Well, folks in town have been deliberating on all the help you've given us, what with sharing the dairy from your animals and letting us butcher most of them for meat. We thought it only fair that, seeing as how we've got what we took from Emery now, we try to offer at least some gesture of thanks.”

  “That's not necessary,” her mom protested, although her eyes were fixed on the horse's bulging packsaddle; they'd given up a lot of their food stores to feed the Grand Junction refugees, and while they were still better off than most, their own circumstances weren't terrific.

  “Well to be fair, you're also feeding Mrs. Gerry and the women your boy rescued from Sangue,” Brady said stubbornly. “Winter might still be a ways off, but it'll sneak up on us quick.” He made his way over to the packsaddle and began undoing the ties. “This is just a token, unfortunately, but with the baby almost due we thought you should have one less thing to worry about.”

  Skyler's mom looked torn for a moment, before reluctantly joining him to see what he had. “I suppose so. Thank you, Brady. And give my thanks to the others, too.”

  “Will do.” The man pulled open the pack to reveal heavy boxes of dense Sangue rations. It wasn't the most appetizing fare, but it beat eating bugs and there was a whole lot of it.

  Skyler couldn't help but eye the packsaddle intently. There was enough in there to feed everyone at the
retreat for a few weeks, if he was any judge. And, to be fair, if he stayed here he would be eating these for every meal anyway, right?

  So what was the harm in taking his share with him to go out skirmishing? This was exactly what he'd needed.

  Brady didn't stay long to chat, no surprise considering how busy his duties left him, and how little time he had to spend with his own wife and young children. Skyler helped him unload the packhorse, then he and the women saw the trader off before getting to work hauling the unexpected windfall into the front room of the retreat.

  Coincidentally, the room where Skyler slept. Although with all his free time since being “confined” to the valley, he'd nearly completed a lean-to against the side of the building to use as his room. Not that he planned to use it anytime soon.

  Once they'd got the rations stacked up near Skyler's bed, also convenient, he headed back out to resume his training with Sulky. And now he had extra motivation to get her ready as soon as possible.

  Because ready or not, he was going to leave before first light, the morning of the day after tomorrow.

  * * * * *

  Tom watched nervously as Jonas pulled the rocket-propelled grenade launcher out of its case and began loading a grenade. “You sure you know how to use that thing?” he hissed.

  The militia lieutenant gave him a half amused, half condescending look. “I'm one of the few people not wearing a bloody uniform who does, old man. Just sit back and watch . . . you're going to enjoy this.”

  Tom glanced doubtfully down at the thirty or so Sangue riders making their way up the meadow below, what was left from the group that had chased him and Gray a few days ago. After he and the Grand Junction leader and his men managed to slip away in that treacherous cliffy area, the riders had circled the long way around to the north and continued searching west of Camptown.

  Likely assuming that since their quarry had fled this way, that's where their home base must be.

  That assumption might, possibly, keep them away from the bowl valley. But at the same time, out of the hundreds of bloodies now swarming the area looking for Camptown, these few dozen mounted men were by far the ones closest to it. It would only take one suspicious sign, one hint of a trail leading back to Camptown, and this group might get closer to discovering the valley's location than Tom was comfortable with.

  Not to mention there was a good chance they'd eventually run into another group of searchers coming the opposite way, and turn in a dangerous direction to continue their search.

  Gray had argued, and he agreed, that it was best to deal with them now. And, thinking like a veteran campaigner who'd spent years fighting this enemy, the former sheriff had decided the best way to do so, while also maximizing the number of fighters held in reserve ready to deal with other threats, was to send Tom to guide Jonas and two other militia fighters here to lob a couple grenades at the enemy horsemen.

  If that didn't make them turn tail and run, hard to say what would.

  Assisted by the two other militia members, the lieutenant got the launcher ready to go and got in position perched behind the cover of a shallow dip in the hillside. The plan was to wait for the riders to reach a spot where the meadow narrowed between two dense stands of evergreens, which would hopefully force them to pack a little closer. Ideally, Jonas wanted to take out as many as possible with each grenade, not just for the casualties but for the shock and awe value. Hopefully that would convince the rest to get the hint and get out of there.

  “Shame about the horses,” Benny, one of the militia fighters, said. He was young and green, from what Tom had heard just recruited into the Grand Junction militia when the city fell. Although the grueling death march that had ultimately brought his group of refugees to Camptown had aged and hardened him somewhat.

  Jonas snorted. “Kind of hard to lob high explosives at a bunched enemy without hurting the mounts they're riding on.”

  “Well yeah,” Benny shot back defensively. “That's why it's a shame. It's not their fault they have to carry a bunch of rapist, murderous SOBs.”

  “Shut up,” the lieutenant snapped. “It's about time for this party to start.”

  Benny grabbed the remaining grenade from the case, holding it ready to assist Jonas with a swift reload. The other fighter and Tom both moved to their firing perches, closely watching the massed enemy below and ready to pick off anyone who tried to shoot Jonas as he launched the grenades.

  In spite of his diligence, Tom couldn't help but watch as the lieutenant popped up, launcher couched firmly against his shoulder, and fired. There was a heavy whump as the grenade was shot from the tube, traveling a safe distance before the rocket on it ignited and sent it arcing down towards the enemy below. In the blink of an eye it crossed the remaining distance and hit, exploding with a force that sent men and horses flying, their sickening screams heard even over the deafening blast.

  Tom snapped his eye back down to his scope, forcing himself to view the grisly sight; he would've been more awed by the sheer devastation wrought by such a deceptively small and simple explosive if he didn't have to see it so up close and personal; as it was it just made him want to empty his stomach.

  He tried not to let his eyes pause to really see anything as he panned his crosshairs along the front edge of the milling tangle of horses. Many were galloping away, not all under their riders' control, while some soldiers firmly kept their mounts in check as they raised their weapons, searching for the source of the attack.

  He got to work making sure none found it, while Jonas dropped back down and reloaded with Benny's help. On the other side of the two fighters, he heard the other fighter's rifle rattling with automatic fire, pouring bullets down into the confusion.

  The lieutenant's second grenade was away in an impressively short time, although the devastation it wreaked wasn't quite as impressive with most of the riders dispersed. Still, it wiped out a clump of several bloodies, which was enough to send the rest galloping away. Some tried to follow their fellow soldiers, although unsurprisingly they avoided clumping up, while many just wanted to get away with no thought to where they were going, bolting in every direction.

  That was Tom's cue. He backed away and slung his rifle over his shoulder. “Time to disengage.”

  The others were already packing up, Jonas wedging the launcher back into its fitted foam outline in the case while Benny prepared to slam the lid shut and work the clasps. The moment he had the launcher secured they all followed Tom as he ran south, staying out of sight of the valley below and making for the roughest terrain he could find to deter pursuit on horseback.

  Not that he expected any; if there was a Sangue out there who wasn't halfway out of the mountains by nightfall after what they'd just been through, he was either monumentally brave or suicidal. Tom had seen iron discipline from these invaders from the south, even if their leaders allowed them to commit atrocities whenever they had the opportunity, but courage was something different.

  Either way, whether or not any riders stuck around was a problem for Gray to sort out; unless Tom caught sight of some of them literally riding straight for Camptown and needing to be stopped, he intended to lead his small group back to the bowl valley without any further tangling with the enemy.

  It would take at least a day to circle around Camptown enough that he'd feel comfortable heading in, assuming nobody followed them. But he could content himself that the four of them had probably taken out at least a score of enemies, and the rest had more to worry about than continuing the search.

  Back in the bowl valley, he hoped, Gray would be putting the rest of their fighters to equally good use, keeping Sangue far from Tom's family.

  Because if what the Grand Junction leader's people had overheard on their captured radios was true, there were hundreds of enemies swarming the mountains between Emery and Highway 29. Combing every peak and valley with their usual doggedness, determined to avenge the attack on their supply outpost.

  This group of riders Tom had chas
ed off was just the first.

  * * * * *

  Things were going good so far.

  Skyler had already counted out the captured Sangue rations he'd need for a few weeks of skirmishing, unobtrusively of course, then checked his saddlebags to see how much room they'd take up, and how much he'd have left for ammo, camping gear, and other necessities.

  He'd spent hours going over his gear: first and foremost his AK-47, the same one he'd taken from the body of one of the Sangue soldiers who'd attacked them outside Newpost five years ago, the night he'd saved his mom. He'd carefully cleaned and maintained it, making sure the strap hung well and the scope was well calibrated. Then he'd taken similar care on the Glock 9mm, and made sure his combat knife was sharpened and oiled.

  He spent a bit longer on the flak jacket he'd been given by Sheriff Gray after the attack on Emery, a sort of unofficial “thank you” for saving him and his men as they were fleeing back into the mountains. “Although I don't expect you'll be using it for a few years yet,” the leader of the Grand Junction militia had told him when he presented it to him, eyes twinkling.

  The man obviously meant Skyler wasn't old enough, not to mention his parents vehemently opposed him putting himself in danger. But he might as well have been talking about the body armor's size; it hung on Skyler as if he was ten years old and wearing a man's overcoat, so ludicrously oversized that Tabby had fallen over laughing when she'd seen him wearing it.

  It fit better now, after some work cutting it down and stitching it. He'd worked plenty of leather since coming up into the mountains, working with his mom and Trapper both to make clothes, pouches, and other things. Resizing his flak jacket was simple enough in comparison; he just hoped it didn't come apart at the seams the first time he got in a serious fight.

  One of the last preparations he needed to make involved working up the audacity to ride Sulky right up to the firing range on the north end of the valley for a new sort of training, during one of the few times it wasn't occupied by some of Gray's new recruits.