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

by Jones, Nathan

  Anything that made it harder to shoot him was probably a bad idea.

  Not that Skyler shot him. He simply waited as time crawled by, until after what must've been fifteen minutes he heard the faintest hiss of whispered sibilants below, carried upslope on the breeze. Then one of the soldiers darted from cover towards the body of his leader, scrambling to snatch the radio from his belt.

  Skyler could've shot that man, too, but he didn't. He kept waiting patiently as the Sangue scurried back into cover.

  A minute or so later, after more whispered conversation and likely after reporting in to the camp over the radio, the soldiers below began moving with swift organization back the way they'd come. Towards the support of their buddies at the campground who were likely coming out to help.

  It wasn't quite the dogged aggression he'd expected, or for that matter encountered previously from the bloodies deeper in the mountains. But maybe that made sense, considering this was only a half squad and they were basically glorified camp guards patrolling the nearby area.

  They certainly were focusing completely on caution, instead of on finding him; rather than following the lakeshore, they moved into into the dense cover of a nearby stand of old evergreens, keeping together but cautiously spaced apart. Skyler caught glimpses of them as they circled the lake, growing farther away by the minute.

  Two hundred twenty yards. Two hundred forty. Two hundred eighty. He was well practiced at hitting a target hundreds of yards away, but that didn't mean them getting more and more distant would make his shots any easier. Especially not through closely spaced trees, against targets that were moving as if they expected to get shot at.

  In fact, he could honestly admit this was going to be a real challenge.

  At around three hundred yards the soldiers reached a beach with no cover for thirty or so yards. They could've kept to the safety of the forest and climbed up the hillside, bringing them closer to Skyler's position, but the underbrush there was so dense it would make movement difficult. Considering their poor options, they paused in the trees for several minutes, debating, before finally deciding to bolt across the beach to the cover of a thicket of scrub oak on the far side.

  Halfway across, Skyler opened up on them.

  He hit the soldier in front first, almost missing due to a sudden gust of wind and hitting the man's arm instead of just below the neck. The Sangue still went down with a scream, which was enough to confuse and panic the men behind him. Half skidded to a halt and tried to scramble back the way they'd come, the rest put on a burst of speed and ran full out for the trees fifteen yards ahead.

  He focused on the more vulnerable ones who'd stopped and turned back, quickly squeezing off shots with his AK-47 set to semi-automatic fire. A couple fell, either hit or pretending to be. He managed to fire at one last enemy before they reached the cover of the trees they'd just come from, and that one also fell, only feet away from safety.

  With those targets behind cover, Skyler quickly searched the trees on the far side of the meadow. He spotted one Sangue peeking through a wiry brush of scrub oak branches and squeezed off a hasty shot at him; the man disappeared, although probably not because he'd been hit.

  That seemed to be that. He checked the bodies in the meadow, putting a bullet through the lower back of the first man he'd hit, who'd managed to stagger back to his feet clutching his arm and was trying to flee to safety. He fired a last shot at another enemy who was still down moving in the dirt, then hastily slung his rifle.

  Skyler was fairly confident he'd just taken out nearly half the enemies below, and there was every chance he'd be able to account for more if he stuck around. But Trapper had pounded into him the need to be careful; although granted, he'd already been more reckless than the mountain man, who probably would've gotten out of there after taking out the first soldier.

  Still, it was time to go. The survivors might've called for reinforcements after he took out their leader, and they were certainly calling for help at this point. They'd also be desperate and feel cornered, more likely to try to fight back if he kept shooting at them.

  No sense pushing his luck. Skyler eased back out of his concealed perch and scuttled along behind the cover of the rise, making his way around the peak until he was out of sight of the enemies below. Then he hurried down the hillside, making his way behind a rocky outcrop where he'd left Sulky.

  The young mare was dancing nervously on her tether, probably less spooked by the gunfire than by being left alone out in the middle of nowhere, plus gunfire. Skyler was just glad she hadn't panicked and whinnied, or he would've been forced to flee immediately, probably with half a squad of bloodies hot on his trail.

  He spent a moment soothing her, giving her a treat of a piece of carrot from his saddlebags. Then he mounted and set off at the fastest safe pace through the widely spaced aspen trees lining this slope, which provided terrible cover but allowed a man on horseback through.

  When he reached a flat at the bottom of the slope he urged Sulky into a gallop, tearing towards a hillside ahead that should block him from the view of any pursuing bloodies, even if it was unlikely any had the guts to do so. Or at least, not until reinforcements arrived. The mare ran nimbly, mane whipping back at his face, and he couldn't help but smile in relief.

  Brandon was right, it wasn't a good feeling to shoot men from hiding and see their fear and desperation. But he'd gotten away unharmed, and Sangue was going to be more cautious in this area from now on.

  If they weren't, they sure would be by the time he was finished here.

  * * * * *

  Tom watched from a hidden position high on a mountain slope as the seven remaining men who'd been chasing Brandon's group pushed hard to the west. Away from the quarry they'd pursued so hotly for almost a full day.

  He'd slowed them to a crawl in spite of their best efforts, taking potshots from a distance and then vanishing into the hillsides, only to pop up from another direction, or even from the same direction, to hit them again. Considering it was one against nine, or had been to start, he hadn't risked getting close enough to make shots he could be sure would hit something vital.

  His only goal had been to slow the relatively fresh soldiers while Brandon's people got away. Which had been tense for the first few hours, as his exhausted friends struggled to keep ahead even with the help of the horses.

  But now the bloodies were heading off, likely to rejoin their buddies who'd lagged behind, or even the group that had gone after the rest of the skirmishers who'd fled north. Fingers crossed the rest of Brandon's people had also managed to get away, even without the timely arrival of horses.

  Either way, the skirmishers should be safe enough now, able to get back to Camptown on their own. It was time for Tom to get back to his own task: finding his son.

  Brandon's experience leading the Sangue squads on a merry chase through the mountains for days had been a bit of an eye opener for Tom. He couldn't trust that wherever Gray had sent his skirmishers was where those squads would currently be; in fact, he hoped the Grand Junction leader wasn't relying on skirmishers to be the front line of Camptown's defense, since they were a porous screen that was easily diverted.

  In any case, if he couldn't be sure where the skirmishers would be, then any place he searched had just as likely a chance of running into people Skyler would be trying to avoid as any other. Which meant he might as well start here and now, working his way northward along the mountains west of Camptown.

  He just hoped Skyler had decided to head the same way. He didn't want to be stuck on a wild goose chase for weeks on end while Kristy was back home on the verge of having the baby, and Sangue was swarming the area and liable to stumble across the bowl valley at any point.

  Tom was needed back home, desperately needed. Skyler needed him more, he couldn't argue that, but that didn't mean he wanted to be out finding the kid any longer than he had to be.

  He wished he still had his horses.

  Chapter Six

 
Audacity

  Brandon knew he should've been more careful than he was, leading his tiny group back to Camptown.

  It wasn't as if he just made a beeline for the place, and anyway he ran into a pair of Gray's scouts almost a day away from the bowl valley, who led him back past a group of defenders camped out permanently guarding one of the main approaches. There was almost no chance he'd put his loved ones and the people of Emery and Grand Junction, as well as all the slaves they'd freed during the fighting, in any danger.

  But still . . . he should've done better than this. Usually would've, if he hadn't been so exhausted and drained of spirit.

  The first words out of his mouth when he met the scouts were a question about his missing skirmishers. The news they had for him wasn't encouraging, and just made his leaden sense of despair sink in even deeper: of the six people he'd split up with after that disastrous fight three days ago, only Bill Cawley, a member of Pine's team, had made it back. The poor man had stumbled in half dead from exhaustion, reporting being separated from his team during the chaos and focusing all his energy on just getting away from his pursuers and making it back.

  That left five skirmishers unaccounted for. Five friends, people who'd depended on Brandon to lead them well and bring them home safely. And he'd failed them. He could hope it was just taking them time to duck pursuit and return home, but it was a fleeting one considering how long it had taken his group to get back.

  Needless to say, after the last ten or so days he felt close to half dead himself, even with them all taking turns riding Trapper's horses to get home. Or horse; Mer's wound hadn't gotten infected, which was an immense relief, but she'd still been too weak to walk, and had spent the trip home on Mary, riding double with other skirmishers. And it was a good thing she had, since there were times she might've fallen off without someone supporting her.

  Infected or not, bandages mostly doing their job or not, the wound was no joke. The young woman needed to be looked at by Gray's medics, and it was doubtful she'd be heading out skirmishing again anytime soon.

  Brandon almost envied her, although he felt selfish for it; actually, considering how Mer had suffered on the trip here, not to mention that his family was depending on him to keep the monsters far away, he felt like a real piece of work for even entertaining the thought of getting to ride the bench thanks to a wound.

  Once in the valley they made a beeline for Camptown, taking their wounded skirmisher directly to the basic hospital Gray's people had set up, which made use of medical supplies looted from the raid on Emery. It was near the storehouses, the armory, and the command building in the center of the growing town.

  They were halfway there, taking the main street past the rows of tents and newly erected cabins, when a familiar figure slumped against the side of a cabin down a side street caught Brandon's eye. He froze, shocked, then in spite of his frantic worry burst into a smile and hurried forward. “Neal! You're alive!” he called.

  His skirmishers all jerked around at his outburst, even Mer, who was lolling in the saddle being supported by Derrick. They all craned to follow his gaze, calling greetings and questions about the fate of the others who'd been in the two northernmost teams with the bartender.

  But their enthusiasm was dampened when the man barely even stirred. It was only then, in the fading twilight, that Brandon spotted the bottle Neal held in one limp hand. He couldn't be sure, but it looked like one of the top shelf ones Trapper had squirreled away in Miles Graham's scavenging stash.

  As he recalled, the mountain man had refused to ever sell the bartender any of that stock; considering Trapper was out searching for Skyler at the moment, it was doubtful he'd had an opportunity to arrange a sale. Mother Kristy likely wouldn't have sold it in his absence, either.

  Had Neal stolen the liquor? Taken it from the man who'd done more for Camptown, for each and every one of them, than anyone? Stolen it without even bothering to let anyone know that he was back and safe, or about the fate of his team members, then got plastered all on his own against the side of some random house?

  Brandon turned to Andy. “Get Mer to the medics. I'll go see what's up with him.”

  His friend nodded solemnly. “Give him my condolences. For, uh, Reina and the others.”

  Reina. That offered at least some explanation for the man's behavior. Brandon made his way down the street to crouch beside his skirmisher, clapping him on the shoulder. “Neal?” he said gently. “Good to see you survived.”

  The bartender barely stirred, although he burst into a fit of laughter that could almost be called giggles. “Yep, I'm alive,” he wheezed, words so slurred they were hard to understand. “Sure am. Whoop dee doo!”

  Grief or not, it was hard not to be annoyed at the man's tone. Especially considering Brandon's own exhaustion and raw emotions. “What happened to the others. Did you see?”

  Neal kept laughing for a few seconds, although it sounded almost like crying before he pulled himself together and took a gulp from the bottle he was holding. “After the bloodies surprised us and I watched Reina take one to the neck, I bolted straight back to Camptown. Didn't even care if anyone was following me.”

  Brandon ducked his head at the news of the woman's death. She'd deserved better, and that was on his head. Although he couldn't ignore the rest of what the bartender had said. “Leading the enemy here was the one thing you're not supposed to do.”

  The older man finally turned to look at him, rage flashing across his features. “What part of “didn't even care” was confusing you, Gerry?” he snapped. Surprised, Brandon leaned back a bit and opened his mouth to answer, but before he could Neal went on harshly. “You led us into an ambush! Ran us all ragged prodding the bloodies days after we should've slipped away, then when we were about to drop dead from exhaustion marched us right into a trap!”

  The words hit him like knives, but he couldn't argue them. He let a heavy silence settle for almost a minute, while Neal wheezed a bit more sobbing laughter and took another pull of whiskey. “I messed up,” Brandon finally said quietly.

  The bartender snarled. “No, “messing up” is when you accidentally spill a drink, or break a dish. You led us into an ambush!” He stumbled to his feet and flung the bottle at the wall of the cabin across the street, where it shattered in a spray of glass and liquor. The only consolation of that gross waste was it was already mostly empty.

  After that outburst Neal seemed to deflate, dropping to his knees with his head slumped halfway to the ground. “You got Reina killed. She's dead.”

  Brandon looked away. He could've protested that Reina had chosen to join the skirmishers, that she knew the risks. But the man's accusation wasn't wrong, and anyway that wasn't what Neal needed to hear at the moment. So he just rested a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. “I'm sorry, Neal. She was a good woman.”

  The shoulder started to flinch away, then began to shake beneath his hand as the man broke into sobs. After almost a minute he spoke in a desolate voice. “I ran away from her. She wasn't even dead yet, although it was only a matter of time with the bullet she took. I didn't try to carry her out, didn't try to take her body for a proper burial, I just ran like a coward.”

  Brandon could hardly judge, since that's exactly what he'd done, too. He felt like ten pounds of crap in a five pound bag. “Neal . . .”

  The bartender abruptly yanked away, rolling clumsily to get a few feet of distance between them. “Don't, Gerry!” he snarled. “You think I want pity? From you?”

  He hastily raised his hands and stepped back. But just that quickly the fight went out of Neal, and he sprawled on the dirt again, staring dully up at the sky. “I loved her, you know. Call me stupid for falling for one of my own working girls, but I did. Didn't even realize how much until after it was too late.” He made a low, miserable sound. “I never got a chance to tell her.”

  “She knew,” Brandon said quietly. “You know it meant a lot to her that you joined the skirmishers, even though it was plain
to see you didn't want to.”

  “Yeah.” The bartender stared up at the late twilit sky, eyes empty. “Done with that, though.”

  He'd kinda figured. “Come on, let's get you to bed,” he said, crouching to help the man to his feet.

  Neal shook him off violently, with the suggestion he'd get aggressive if Brandon kept trying. “Not sleeping in an empty bed, Gerry. Go 'way.”

  For a moment he stood helplessly, wanting to do something but unable to think of what. Then he decided he couldn't bring himself to figure it out; he was numb with his own grief, and if Neal wanted to try to drown his alone, that was his decision.

  So he kept going to the hospital, wishing he'd left the bartender alone.

  Mer wasn't the only wounded fighter in the small building. In fact, Brandon was dismayed to find that it was almost unhygienically crowded, and more wounded were being tended outside, and carried away presumably to their own homes. Andy and the others were slumped against the wall near the door, out of the way of the wounded and those helping them.

  It was obvious his skirmishers weren't the only ones fighting, and not the only ones getting battered by Sangue, either. Brandon paused to say hello to wounded fighters he knew, learning that they'd just returned a few hours ago from a vicious fight to the northwest that almost hadn't gone their way. After a few murmured well wishes he continued inside to see Mer, who was sprawled on a bloodstained cot while a medic checked her shoulder and another prepared tools.

  Orderlies were already draping sheets around her, for privacy and to ensure a sterile environment. Brandon didn't want to disrupt their important work, so he stayed just long enough to grip her good hand and tell her she'd be fine. She gripped his hand tight in return, eyes dull with fear and pain, and he stayed for a few more seconds until the medic told him to clear out so they could work.

  When he got back outside, he found Gray with his skirmishers, getting a report from Andy.