Mountain War: Defending Their Home (Mountain Man Book 4)

by Nathan Jones

  That was cold, but the man had Camptown to look out for, so Tom supposed he had to be at least a little pragmatic. And to be fair, he himself had only truly decided to help those poor people once he found out who they were and that they could be useful.

  “We can find food,” he said. “But fighters of the caliber of Gray's militia don't exactly grow on trees. We need them.”

  “What if they don't intend to be cooperative?” the sheriff demanded. “Like you said, these are dangerous men. What if they decide our generosity isn't enough and take all we have instead?”

  Tom frowned deeply. “I hope you're not suggesting that Sheriff Gray Tucker would return generosity with betrayal.”

  “No, no,” Mitchells said hastily; he knew Gray's reputation as well as anyone. “His men might be tempted, though.” He seemed to feel it was a weak argument because he hurriedly continued. “But let's talk about generosity, Trapper. You've done a lot for the town, no one will argue that. But you're still sitting on enough meat in livestock to fill a lot of bellies, and staunchly refusing to sell. You going to keep hoarding that lifesaving boon in these desperate times, while at the same time insisting we bring in even more people?”

  Well, that was a solid point. “No, if there's a need. But I've already been sharing the milk from them, which has helped more than a few people. Butchering the animals will be the end of that.”

  The sheriff closed his eyes. “Heaven help us, we'll more than double our population if we take these folks in. And they might not get along with us so well, you realize. This is going to be no end of trouble.”

  Tom fought a smile. “I'm hearing a yes.”

  Mitchells cursed and turned to Derry. “Get back to Camptown, now. Tell Brady to send every animal that can carry packsaddles, volunteers to help out, and food and water and blankets and tents. Also axes to cut firewood.”

  The scout frowned. “He's going to wonder what food exactly he can send.”

  “He'll find something,” the sheriff said grimly, turning back to the mass of refugees below. “I know, the valley can't afford to take in hundreds more people who are too weak to even help out. But at the same time those people down there are some of our own . . . Americans, if that means anything these days, and enemies of Sangue who've fought bravely for years to keep places like Emery safe. We'll find a way to make it work.”

  Derry still looked doubtful. “Go on,” Tom told him, and the man finally slithered down the slope and made for the horses.

  Once the scout was gone, Mitchells gave him a grim look. “Well, should we grab the volunteers and go introduce ourselves?”

  Tom hesitated. “Maybe just the two of us, so they don't get skittish.”

  “Fair enough.” Camptown's leader fiddled with his beat up old hat for a second, then sighed and motioned for the volunteers to stay put. Straightening purposefully, he started making his way down the slope in plain sight. Tom followed, their path taking them straight towards Gray and the men at the front, hands away from weapons and hats in hand so the refugees could see their faces.

  “You know . . . Gray or no, heading towards a bunch of desperate people who might do anything makes me a bit antsy,” Mitchells said under his breath.

  He had to agree. The Grand Junction refugees might've looked pitiful, but there was nothing pathetic about the hand their leader rested on the large .44 revolver slung at his hip. And in spite of the fact that his men could barely stay on their feet, several others also shifted to hold their weapons ready.

  Tom held up his hands in a placating gesture; the last thing he wanted was for this to turn unfriendly.

  The Grand Junction refugees seemed to feel the same, since none of them made any threatening moves. Many in the column were using the unexpected stop, even if it meant possible danger, as an excuse to slump to the ground in listless exhaustion.

  “State your intentions,” Gray called hoarsely, barely loud enough to be heard across the distance.

  “Nothing but good, Sheriff Tucker,” Tom called back. “We've got people coming behind us with food and aid. And a place of refuge for your people not far away.”

  Some of the refugees literally collapsed at that news, moaning with relief and uttering fervent prayers of gratitude. Even Gray fell to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut, face going slack like he was on the verge of passing out. Almost as if only his responsibility for his people had kept him going, and finally hearing some good news had kicked the legs out from under his determination.

  Tom hurried forward to offer his friend a supporting hand. Gray squinted up at him for a moment before his jaw dropped. “Trapper?” he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment. “Thank God. Are we close to Emery?”

  “As close as you want to be,” Tom replied grimly. “I'm afraid the town's been taken and we were forced to flee into the mountains. But yes, our new home's not far from here.”

  “New home,” Gray mused, face drawn with hopelessness. “So I imagine you're not doing terribly well yourselves.” Tom started to answer, but the man shook his head and continued. “Well enough to help, though, which we very much appreciate. What next?”

  Good question. Logistics wasn't Tom's thing; he was regretting not insisting they bring food supplies with them, just in case they decided to help. As it was, that help was at least a day away, probably closer to two. “I'm afraid we've only got enough food at the moment to feed fifteen or so people for a few days. That should take the edge off your most urgent need, and I'll send my volunteers out to hunt and forage while we wait for the aid I sent for.”

  The sheriff seemed mildly disappointed by that news, although resigned. “I'll send my people out to forage as well, then,” he said. “So we set up camp here for the moment? How far away is this help you're sending?”

  “Day and a half, two at most,” Mitchells replied. “And yes, camping here would probably be best. Our first priority is to keep Sangue far from us, and I want to make sure you don't have any bloodies sniffing after you before I take you anywhere close to our camp.”

  “Fair enough,” Gray said dully. “My scouts haven't seen any sign of them, but they're as hard off as the rest of us and struggling just to keep up with the group as we put miles behind us.”

  Camptown's leader glanced at Tom, a silent request, and he nodded. “I'll take some people and check north of here while you get everyone settled in.”

  He started to head back to the volunteers to get them moving, but the leader of the Grand Junction refugees caught his sleeve before he could take a step. “Thank you, Trapper,” he said quietly. “We were at the end of our rope, I won't lie. This . . . this means everything.”

  The man had tears in his eyes. Tom shifted uncomfortably. “I can't promise this'll solve all our problems, for either of our groups. But we'll find a way to get through this together.”

  Mitchells nodded grimly. “If for no other reason than to deny Sangue the satisfaction of beating us.”

  * * * * *

  Close to Tom's concealed position one of his better scouts, Alice Kelly, cursed like a sailor, although quietly enough he barely heard her. “It just gets better and better, doesn't it?” she muttered.

  He lowered his binoculars and rested his face on the backs of his hands, heart sinking with despair. He shouldn't have been surprised Sangue would be sniffing around the Grand Junction refugees; it was impossibly optimistic to hope that hundreds of people who could barely put one foot in front of another could pass through such a heavily patrolled region without being discovered and tracked.

  Even so, the bloodies had sent a pursuing force appropriate for such numbers. And they were at best a few hours from where he'd told Gray to set up camp.

  He motioned to the young woman beside him. “Let's get out of here.”

  They returned to Jared Baker, the other scout he'd brought who'd been watching the horses, and wasted no time mounting up and pushing their horses hard back the way they'd come. As they rode, Tom glanced at the sun lowering
in the sky, wondering if the bloodies would move slowly enough that they might not catch up to the refugees until nightfall. Or at least, that they'd decide not to attack until morning. That was probably too much to hope for though.

  What were they going to do?

  Promising to help the refugees was all well and good, but he had a dozen volunteers with him who were outnumbered six or seven to one. Gray certainly had more people, but were they in any shape to fight?

  He and his scouts came in sight of the refugee camp in a dishearteningly short period of time, even considering they were moving fast on horseback; the bloodies would be worryingly close behind them. Tom immediately made for where Gray and Mitchells were parceling out food shares, prioritizing the most sickly refugees first.

  It looked as if his volunteers had managed to bag some game and harvest some greens, and of course there were the ubiquitous bugs. It was an unappetizing meal for the most part, but the people seemed absurdly grateful for the meager portions they were given.

  The two sheriffs rushed to meet him and the scouts, noting their grim expressions with weary despair. “How bad is it?” Mitchells demanded.

  “Bloodies, probably no more than two hours behind us,” Alice said, thankfully only loud enough for the two men to hear. No sense causing a panic.

  “I won't lie, it's a large force,” Tom added grimly. “At least three squads, probably four.”

  Gray sagged as if he'd collapse to his knees again. “So much for hoping for a miracle,” he said quietly. “We tried to cover our tracks and avoid being seen, but obviously not well enough.”

  Tom dismounted to lend his friend a supporting hand. “I hate to do it, but we need to pack up camp and move, now. My volunteers can try to slow them, and we can try to lead your people on trails that won't be as easy to follow.”

  Mitchells cursed. “Be realistic, Trapper. These people don't have it in them to outrun the bloodies. At best they'll stay ahead of pursuit until nightfall, maybe get themselves a good night's rest before they have to turn and fight.”

  “You mean we have to turn and fight,” Tom corrected firmly. He turned to Gray. “We'll do what we can, but the situation's not good. So if you have any men who feel strong enough to fight bes-”

  Gray held up a hand, skin as pallid as his name but expression determined. “You know what, Trapper? We spent years fighting to keep the Sangue animals at bay, so towns like yours could live in relative peace. We mostly did it on our own, with little help from anyone else. Aside from the occasional folks who traveled to Grand Junction to join us, usually at the prospect of three square meals a day and a bed. When we finally lost, finally had to flee, we approached other towns, other groups, looking for help, anything they could offer. We were always turned away, more often with threats than with regret. Always, until now.”

  The Grand Junction leader struggled to straighten and square his shoulders, some strength creeping into his voice. “The bloodies are on our trail. You've offered us help, even offered to take us in, when we couldn't have hoped for more than a kind word and best wishes. In return we've led the enemy right to you, and even now you're willing to put yourselves in their path for our sakes. That means more than I can say, but I can't let you do it.”

  Tom frowned. “I hope you're not talking about some sort of useless heroic gesture.”

  Gray smiled wanly. “Very heroic. But probably not what you're thinking, and certainly not useless. Like I said, we've fought Sangue for years . . . we've picked up a few tricks, and we brought one or two of them with us.”

  “Good to hear, because beating eighty bloodies is going to be some trick,” Tom replied, not managing as much levity as he'd hoped for.

  “Yes, it will be.” The older man clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you for offering to fight, but let us handle this.” He turned to his people, raising his voice to a surprising bellow. “Militia, to me! Everyone else, pack up! We need to move!”

  Exhausted and dispirited or not, the refugees seemed refreshed enough by the meager meal most had enjoyed to grab their things and flee south, led by some of Tom's volunteers. At Gray's insistence, his militia shared out the remaining food between them so they'd have the strength for this fight.

  With Tom and Mitchells relegated to observers, the Grand Junction leader laid out his plan.

  * * * * *

  A bit more than an hour to sundown, and the Sangue soldiers pouring over the ridge just north of Tom's position showed no signs of stopping for the night, the way they usually did about this time.

  The bloodies were moving quickly. They had a clear trail, their scouts well ahead of them scouring the area for potential ambushes. And if they'd seen the graves dotting the path of the march of death they were following, they knew that somewhere close ahead hundreds of defenseless men, women, and children were struggling just to keep moving.

  For animals like Sangue, the prospect of so many victims overrode their usual caution. Their noses were to the wind, and they smelled blood.

  Unfortunately for them, scouts could warn about ambushes well enough, but there were some things they couldn't account for. Like a mountain man helping three members of the Grand Junction militia hide in a concealed spot while the scouts passed them by; Gray had promised to deal with the scouts once the fighting started, so at the moment Tom's job was to just sit back and watch what was about to happen.

  Close to three squads of bloodies were moving down the slope roughly a hundred and fifty yards away, spread out in their usual cautious formations and darting from cover to cover. The slope was narrow enough to force them to move a bit closer together than usual, which was close to ideal, but Tom still had his doubts. “They've got a lot of cover,” he said, almost under his breath.

  Jonas, the militia lieutenant manning Gray's “trick”, shot him an amused glance. “Take it you haven't seen one of these things at work before?”

  He had, but just a warning display by Sangue bandits a long time ago. “I'll take your word for it.”

  “Well, you'll see soon enough,” another of Gray's men said. Then he handed Tom a couple balls of cotton. “Here, you should stuff this in your ears. Cover them with your hands, too . . . it's going to get awful loud in this enclosed space pretty soon.”

  Tom wasted no time complying; the enemy was getting uncomfortably close, which meant this party would be kicking off any second now.

  In spite of his haste he was still almost too slow. He wasn't sure what prearranged timing or signal made Jonas decide it was time, but the man raised his fingers for a silent countdown, then for the final few seconds gripped the handles of his weapon and swiveled it across the bottom of the slope.

  Then, with no further preamble, he began laying down a rain of fire from the .50 caliber heavy machine gun they'd carefully smuggled to this spot and concealed.

  The results were awe inspiring. And horrifying, considering it was mostly the enemy who had access to these types of weapons. Large caliber rounds ripped through moderately thick trees as if they weren't there, nearly chopping some down as the line of bullets swept from one end of the slope to the other, then climbed slightly and reversed direction.

  Some bloodies returned fire, bullets pinging uselessly off the heavy armor plates that protected the front of the mounted machine gun, with just a tiny slot for aiming through, or burying harmlessly into the thick bank of earth Tom and the others were protected behind. Mostly the enemy's attempts just served to show Jonas where to point the gun next.

  Realizing their situation, the bloodies either hunkered down and prayed whatever flimsy protection they found was enough, which it usually wasn't, or they broke and tried to flee. At that point they discovered that sprinting on a densely forested slope as fast as humanly possible, which wasn't all that fast, didn't offer much hope of outrunning bullets. Jonas shifted from his deliberate path of destruction across the slope to mow down groups of targets, moving the endless stream of .50 caliber rounds in a box around the periphery of the three
squads' positions to take out those who tried to flee.

  Some managed to get away. Most didn't.

  Unseen and definitely unheard by Tom, according to the plan Gray's militia would've picked off the scouts and moved into place to provide supporting fire for the heavy machine gun, sniping bloodies on the slope and doing their best to pick off the ones Jonas missed. That part must've gone smoothly too, because he saw enemy soldiers going down who were nowhere near the rain of bullets spat out by the .50 cal.

  The fight was over in minutes, with no more signs of enemy resistance and dozens of Sangue corpses turning the shredded opposite slope into a grisly nightmare. The Grand Junction militia moved swiftly in a screen, taking out the final Sangue stragglers and pursuing those who'd managed to escape the trap. They weren't quite as stealthy as the volunteers, but in spite of their starved and exhausted state were far more sure when it came to moving as a group and responding to threats or spotted targets.

  Jonas finally stopped firing, although the sawing vibration of the big gun still seemed to shiver the air even now that it was silent. Tom waited several seconds to take his hands from his ears, at which point the militia lieutenant turned his attention from the devastated slope to smirk at him. “Not how you folks usually do things?” he shouted, voice startlingly loud in the sudden void of sound.

  Tom thought of his disastrous failed ambush, and tried to tell himself the difference was only in the militia having access to bigger weapons. “Not quite.” He glanced back at the far slope and grimaced. “Not sure whether to shake your hand or puke up everything I've eaten in the last week.”

  “Just not both at the same time,” the man replied, rising to a crouch to begin packing away his weapon. Tom wondered how many bullets they had left for it.

  Another of the militia fighters moved to help him, glancing over at Tom. “Speaking of losing your lunch, feel up to helping loot that mess? Might take a bit of cleaning up, but there's a lot of good stuff out there. Probably food for at least a week for all those soldiers, which could make a huge difference.”