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

by Jones, Nathan

  There was just. No. Time.

  He turned to his struggling fighters, who'd begun to clump behind him. Many had taken the brief pause as an excuse to drop to the ground, guzzling water or simply hunched in exhausted misery.

  Did they have this in them? They had to, for the sake of the innocent people being butchered up ahead. “One last push, people!” he roared at the top of his lungs. “Emma's going to lead you to Jonas. Catch up to him and get ready to hit the bloodies from behind, at a full run if you have it in you!” He paused, taking a bolstering breath. “He's in charge here now.”

  “What do you-” one of his squad leaders began, sounding confused and worried.

  Gray didn't bother waiting, kicking his horse into a gallop towards the noise of gunfire ahead. Every second he delayed meant more of his people killed, and those deaths were on his head.

  A quick look at the lay of the land gave him a route he could take that would keep a rise between him and the unseen enemy. He spotted Jonas farther west with the scouts, rushing back to get his word on what they were going to do.

  Gray urgently waved them back towards Emma and the others, who were now running flat out with weapons in hand to catch up to his lieutenant. Then he deliberately wheeled his horse farther east to avoid them as he rode on past and kept going.

  Maybe it was the cowboy in him, but he'd always sort of hoped he'd go down in a heroic charge. Or at least a charge. It would be a comfort to die knowing he'd done some good at the end.

  It beat cuddling up to a snowdrift.

  Part of him didn't want to believe this was it. Insisted that he'd get through this same as he had the countless other life and death struggles he'd been in, throughout a long life spent putting himself between innocent folks and those who'd do them harm. But deep down he knew that wouldn't be the case this time. That this was the one he wasn't walking away from.

  If nothing else, at least he wouldn't have to worry about his blasted chest anymore.

  He rode hard along the rise, just out of sight of the enemies on the other side. His urgency to help Gerry's group was tempered by his need to hit the bloodies from a different direction than where Jonas would be moving into place, so he wouldn't be turning the enemy to face his fighters as they began their own attack.

  Gray knew his role and he was a distraction, nothing more; he just needed to make sure he didn't screw the job up.

  Finally, he figured he'd gone far enough that Jonas and his fighters would be able to hit the Sangue squads from the side after they turned to respond to Gray's one-man charge. Combined with a crossfire from Gerry's people, that should completely turn the tide.

  “Hope you make it through this alive, boy,” he told his gelding. It was a noble beast that had carried him well, and he hated to see a good horse die. On top of that he'd borrowed it from Trapper, and he had no desire to go into the next life indebted to that ornery young cuss.

  Steeling himself for what lay ahead, he wheeled his horse up over the rise and into view of the unfolding battle on the other side.

  Well, the good news was that he saw pretty much exactly what he'd expected to see when the enemy came into view: three dozen bloodies more or less lined up perfectly in a small aspen grove with their backs to him. They were shooting at over a hundred vulnerable people huddled out on open ground in the meadow below, feebly trying to shoot back as they were indiscriminately gunned down.

  If he'd stayed with Jonas and set up a more cautious attack, it was likely they would've sprung it just in time to watch most of Gerry's group get wiped out.

  Snarling in fury at the horrific butchery he was witnessing, Gray lifted his rifle to his shoulder and began firing at the bloodies ahead, yelling at the top of his lungs as he did.

  His shots were embarrassingly inaccurate, bouncing around in the saddle as he was, but that wasn't the point. As long as he hit at least one enemy to get him screaming bloody murder, and got a bunch of others turned around paying attention to him, he honestly didn't care if the victims of his spray and pray all ended up being tree trunks and random half-buried rocks.

  The soldiers below scrambled in almost comical surprise, seeking new cover or pivoting in place to stare at him in postures of obvious bafflement, even from this distance. Before they raised their rifles to fire, that was.

  Gray immediately wheeled his horse to keep it at a cautious distance, zigzagging to make himself a more difficult target. That didn't do any favors for his accuracy, but again, that wasn't the point.

  Staying alive wasn't the point either, even though it might've looked like he was doing his darnedest. He just needed to make sure he lived long enough to keep the bloodies occupied while Jonas got into place. As long as the man obeyed orders and hurried, that should only take a few minutes.

  Then again, a few minutes was an eternity when dozens of skilled soldiers were gunning for you.

  The first shot hit Gray's side, blasting the air out of his lungs and nearly knocking him out of the saddle in spite of his body armor. He swayed drunkenly, wheezing in breaths as he struggled to reload his rifle to keep on firing.

  The full magazine jolted out of his hand when the second shot hit his leg, just below the knee. It was bad, he knew right off, and from the way his horse lunged and screamed had likely gone right through to wound his faithful mount as well.

  Bad or not, though, he had a job to do. Gray grit his teeth and fumbled another mag from his vest, slamming it home with a determined snarl and working the action. A third shot hit his back, his first hint that his horse had wisely decided to run away from danger while he was occupied reloading. Too bad horses didn't know about zigzagging.

  “Not so fast!” he snapped, sawing on the reins to wheel the gelding back around. “Hate to do it, boy, but if you die here it's so a lot of other people can live, so suck it up. I sure have.”

  With another hoarse yell, he raised his rifle and began firing again.

  About fifteen seconds later, around the point when his second magazine was running low, a shot to the arm made him lose his grip on his rifle. He watched it fly away with a curse; looked as if his little bit of theater was drawing to a close.

  But it wasn't over quite yet. He fumbled for the combat knife on his belt, injured arm clumsy, while wheeling to directly charge the line of bloodies below and yelling for all he was worth.

  He made it maybe halfway before his gelding stumbled with a congested gasping noise, obviously hit in the neck or lung.

  Gray threw himself out of the saddle as his horse collapsed beneath him, feeling bones snap in his arm, chest, and side with blinding flashes of pain as he landed. No surprise there, given how brittle they'd gotten of late. His scream was probably more agony than defiance at that point, but he forced himself onto his knees and then his feet and hobbled at the nearest soldier, standing a dozen yards away jeering at him and shaking his rifle overhead, not even bothering to take the shot that would finish him off.

  The miserable SOB's jeering ended in a gurgle when Gray's thrown knife buried in his neck, just above the collar. Honestly, under the circumstances Gray was as surprised as his enemy that his aim had been true.

  Then he felt more jolts of pain, more sensations like punches beating him to the ground. He knew he'd been shot at least a half dozen times by that point, to say nothing of broken bones and probably internal bleeding. Heck, from the burning agony in his chest he was probably also suffering a heart attack. He'd certainly worked his way up to one after the excitement of the last few minutes.

  As blackness closed in, he forced himself to look up at where he hoped Jonas was getting into position. He didn't see any signs of his people, but above the deafening rushing noise in his ears he thought he heard the roar of gunfire starting up in that direction.

  He let himself sag to the ground in relief, welcoming the numbness spreading through his body. The pain in his chest was gone, he noted distantly. It all seemed to be fading away, and he didn't fight the sensation.

  Not l
ong after that Gray Tucker, Sheriff of Grand Junction and leader of that city's famed militia, died with a smile on his face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Reprieve

  Brandon wasn't sure what caused the bloodies to let up their fire, but he used the opportunity to risk scrambling a few feet to get behind a big sagebrush. It was more the illusion of cover than actual protection, but at least the enemy couldn't see him directly.

  He saw some of his people, desperate or overcome with terror, try to use the opportunity to get up and run towards a dip in the meadow where a stream ran through it, a few dozen yards away. Some made it, more didn't.

  Gritting his teeth around a scream of grief and fury and pure fear, he raised his rifle again and kept shooting at the enemy muzzle flashes in the growing gloom. What else could he do?

  By some miracle, the bullet he'd been expecting with his name on it never showed up. On top of that, only a few of the enemies who'd stopped firing started up again, at least from what he could see. In fact, over the next few minutes the muzzle flashes from the tree-lined fold above kept winking out one by one.

  Even in his wildest dreams, Brandon's shocked and panicking mind couldn't accept that it was his people with their inaccurate weapons and lack of training that was managing that feat, not from over a hundred yards away and with so many of them already dead or injured. But it wasn't a dream or an illusion brought about by false hope, because finally the brutal rain of bullets stopped completely.

  In the sudden silence, broken only by a dozen or so of his people still firing desperately up at their ambushers, a shrill whistle rang out across the meadow in a series of familiar blasts. A Camptown signal indicating friendlies coming in.

  A team of skirmishers, maybe, or a far patrol. Possibly even a group of fighters Gray had sent to their aid.

  “Cease fire!” Brandon shouted at the top of his lungs. He stood and began waving frantically, aware he might earn a bullet but unable to think of anything else to do. “Friendlies coming in, cease fire!”

  He didn't catch a bullet, which was a relief. After a few seconds he looked around, gut churning at the sight of the meadow around him. “Jenny!” he called. “Do what you can for the wounded. Andy, start grabbing people to come with us to check the bloodies who ambushed us. We need to make sure they're all down.”

  A dozen or so freed slaves, dazed and haunted, stumbled over to join him and his friend as they started cautiously up the slope, holding pistols and shotguns at the ready with shaking arms. Brandon had to admit that he wasn't feeling all too steady at the moment, himself.

  “Remember, make sure it's an enemy before you start shooting,” he called. “We've got friends heading for us from this direction.”

  He was glad he'd given the warning a few seconds later, when he spotted several people moving through the aspen grove ahead, checking the bodies and dispatching the few that seemed suspicious with cool gunshots to the head.

  One figure broke off from the others, and as he got closer Brandon recognized Jonas in the dim lighting. The man's jaw was clenched, shoulders slumped and steps plodding.

  “You showed up right in the nick of time,” Brandon said as he strode forward to meet the man, Andy at his side.

  “Not quite,” Jonas said dully, pausing up the slope and waiting for them to join him.

  At first Brandon thought the man meant the fact that the ambushing bloodies had been able to kill so many of his people before they arrived. Then he realized that there were tears on the militia fighter's cheeks, barely visible in the deepening gloom. He'd never seen Jonas look anything more than dour or condescending, and now he was crying; somehow he doubted it was for all the freed slaves who'd been butchered in the last ten minutes, although that was why Brandon's own eyes burned.

  “What happened?” he asked as he reached the man.

  Jonas shuddered. “Sheriff Gray,” he whispered. “We weren't in position when the bloodies hit you, and they probably would've finished most of you off by the time we got close enough to make a difference. So he galloped ahead to distract them from using you for target practice until we could get in place.”

  A cold feeling settled in Brandon's gut. “Is he okay?”

  Gray's lieutenant hiccuped, half sob and half bitter laugh. “He charged the next best thing to two squads of bloodies on his own, Gerry, whooping and hollering and spraying gunfire to make sure he had their attention for as long as possible.”

  It was somehow hard to believe. Not that the sheriff hadn't lived through such a charge, since nobody could be expected to. But at the same time, this was the legendary Gray Tucker. The man who'd kept law and order in one of the largest cities in what was left of the United States after the Ultimatum, who'd fought dreaded invaders to a standstill for years, then led the survivors through hell to bring them safely to a place of refuge.

  What hope did Camptown have against the bloodies now? Without Gray's leadership, how would they keep the enemy at bay until winter snows drove them out of the mountains? The situation that had already seemed as grim as it could be had just got that much more hopeless.

  With a heavy breath, Jonas squared his shoulders and looked across the meadow. “The group that attacked you is down, but there'll be more where that came from. Where do you need us?”

  Brandon forced shock and grief aside before they could turn him into a quivering ball of misery on the ground. The last thing Gray would've wanted was for his death to be what broke his people's spirits during a crisis. “Scouting, and helping with the wounded,” he said. “I'm still not sure how many we lost.”

  “Less than you would've, thanks to the Sheriff,” Jonas said, although the usual bite was gone from his tone. He turned and looked up the hill past where the bloodies had set up their ambush, touched a finger to his forehead in silent salute, then strode back to his group of fighters and began barking orders.

  After sharing a solemn look with his friend, Brandon sighed and motioned to the dead bloodies in the grove. “We need their guns more than Jonas's people. Gather them up, make sure our best shooters get them.”

  Andy nodded and led the impromptu posse onward while Brandon turned back to where Jenny was gathering the survivors together and moving among the fallen to see if any were still alive. He dreaded what came next, but part of leadership was having to face the consequences for his decisions.

  That meant tallying how many people they'd just lost.

  He was sure it was going to be a sickening number, with over a hundred people caught out in the open against forty enemies with automatic weapons. But much as the burden of all those deaths weighed on him, he didn't have the luxury of beating himself up for them right now.

  It was almost dark, and this area was inarguably hostile. He needed to organize whatever care was possible for the wounded, find a safe place to camp and make sure they had a solid net of sentries guarding them through the night, then at first light somehow keep his shattered group going to the safety of Camptown before more Sangue showed up to use them for target practice.

  * * * * *

  Skyler didn't know where the squad of Sangue down in the valley below was going in such a hurry, showing no sign of stopping in spite of the onset of night. But it was a safe bet that wherever it was, he didn't want them there.

  Their backs were to him at the moment, with only the most token effort apparently given to watching their surroundings. That seemed like a good opportunity to get off a first shot without his muzzle flash giving away his position in the deep gloom that preceded full dark.

  So he wasted no time dismounting and tethering Sulky to a tree, then crept forward to a good firing position where he could get off a shot before the enemies moved out of range. He was aware of the almost careless lack of setup he was making for this attack, but given the haste and carelessness of the enemy he felt it was justified.

  Although that didn't prevent him from taking the necessary time to line up the shot, aiming for the soldier at the back of the li
ne. Hopefully it would take the others long enough to respond that he could get off a few more shots before needing to relocate; that would mitigate the disadvantage of shooting in the dark, when his muzzle flash would let any soldier glancing his way immediately pinpoint his location.

  It was impossible to hit the mark perfectly every time, especially at this range. Still, Skyler couldn't help but feel a bit frustrated as his shot missed by a couple inches, hitting the soldier's back where it was protected by his combat vest instead of just above the waistline where he'd been aiming.

  The man went down with a strangled grunt that turned into a shouted warning, dropping behind a grassy hummock that made hitting him again impossible.

  Skyler abandoned him as a target and kept searching, expecting the bloodies to behave like they usually did, scattering for cover or dropping and trying to find the source of his shots so they could return fire. What he didn't expect was for the entire squad to simply . . . melt into the surrounding terrain, moving off in all directions in organized groups of two and three with plenty of space between them.

  Granted, there were only a few minutes of light left and it was easy to lose a target at this range, but even so the enemy was showing above average skill and coordination.

  To make matters even worse, from the flashes of movement he caught as he continued looking for something to shoot, it was obvious the dispersing soldiers were still moving. For a heart-stopping moment he thought they intended to hunt him in the darkness, a dicey situation he didn't relish being in. Then he realized that they were all moving in generally the same direction, even if some circled wide while others moved more directly.

  It didn't take much searching to spot where they were headed, a defensible gully where they could hunker down for the night. If Skyler had harbored any plans for hitting the enemy camp in the dark, the sight of their preparations was enough to deter even his confidence in his own ability.