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

by Nathan Jones

  He and the Grand Junction leader stayed behind with a dozen militia fighters to take care of destroying the vehicles; it wasn't hard to find people willing to volunteer for the task, which should prove to be memorable.

  They couldn't take the trucks and ATVs with them, of course, and they were some of the things they'd be most motivated to deprive their enemies of. So they got to work with sledgehammers, rock chisels, and pickaxes to turn the priceless vehicles into so many useless hunks of junk.

  Tom had to admit that after living in fear of the sound of engines for half a decade, it was fun to pop open the hood of a truck and get to work turning the engine into a useless metal brick. This sort of wholesale destruction would've been a blast when he was a teenager, and even now it almost made him feel young as Skyler again.

  Even with all their enthusiasm, there were a lot of engines to junk, tires to slash, axles and rims to bend and mangle, and windshields and other windows to smash. Eventually the job became more exhausting than fun, especially coming after a long day yesterday and then an even longer night. As they worked, more than a few eyes turned worriedly to the thick column of smoke rising over Emery in the distance.

  Finally, Gray declared that Sangue would have more trouble salvaging anything that was left than it was worth. He'd had his people strip a few things from the vehicles, batteries and lightbulbs and mirrors and other things that might be useful, and now weighed his grumbling militia down with the haul as they made their way back up the valley.

  At least there was plenty of light to see their path now.

  In spite of the urgency of their retreat, they still paused atop the ridge at the foot of the valley to watch Emery burn in the distance, and closer to them the destroyed vehicles. Tom felt an immense surge of satisfaction at the sight.

  He was beyond exhausted, and worried about how Sangue would respond to this brazen raid on one of their supply depots. But at the same time, they'd managed to pull off a surprise attack many had thought would be impossible, and struck a serious blow against their enemy. They'd walked away with enough desperately needed supplies to keep them going for months, as well as more weapons and tools for the fight. And they'd even managed to save some poor souls from a miserable fate in the bargain.

  Whatever the future held, that was worth feeling some pride over. He solemnly turned to Gray and offered his hand, a silent acknowledgement of what they'd accomplished here.

  The sheriff took it, his grip less crushing than it used to be. “You realize they're going to swarm these mountains like locusts after a provocation like this,” he said grimly.

  Tom nodded. “At least we've got the supplies to focus on fighting them, now. And you and your people fighting beside us.”

  “For what it's worth,” the leader of the Grand Junction refugees muttered. “They stomped my city flat once we pissed them off enough, and this is going to piss them off.”

  Around them, the men who'd stayed to help shifted and muttered uneasily. This sort of talk didn't do much for morale, especially since they were all militia fighters and had seen firsthand what the enemy could bring to bear.

  “Hard to stomp anything flat in the mountains,” Tom said, trying to sound confident. “And they still don't know where we are. If we can weather this storm until they cool down, we might just make it through this.”

  Gray opened his mouth, probably to point out that the bloodies probably wouldn't cool down, just throw more and more soldiers at them until they won. Then he glanced at his men and just shook his head grimly.

  The trip up the valley only took a few hours, since they'd covered most of the distance from Emery in vehicles. Even so, those hours seemed to stretch like days to the bleary-eyed fighters, especially weighed down with batteries and other heavy items from the vehicles. The group Tom had sent on ahead with Mitchells was nowhere to be seen, although he didn't expect to see them since they'd agreed each group should head back to Camptown at the best speed they could manage.

  They set fire to all the ranch buildings as they passed, even doing their best to burn out the caves of the winter lodge. It was less painful than Tom had expected, probably because he'd already dealt with the emotional turmoil of losing his home when they'd abandoned it months ago. Especially considering the bodies in the barn and the Hendricksons' cabin that were being burned along with the rest.

  It was a temptation to take a moment to rest while standing around watching the flames. But they'd be a signal to any Sangue bent on revenge over the attack on Emery, so Gray ushered everyone on up the valley. By that point many were stumbling, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, and even with the urgency of putting miles behind them Tom didn't think they could go on for much longer.

  Finally, after a couple hours of doing their best but with the burning ranch still visible behind them, he called a halt. “Let's take a break here!” he shouted to groans of relief from the others, even Gray. “We can sleep til noon, eat a quick lunch, then push hard to get as much distance towards Camptown as possible before nightfall. Should be able to make it sometime tomorrow morning, noon at the latest.”

  Tom could barely keep his eyes open, and the idea of staying awake made him want to curl up in a ball. Even so, he volunteered for first watch while the others slept, sitting on a perch that gave him a view of his burning home down below. A few hours later, still well before noon, he caught sight of two squads of bloodies entering the valley far below.

  You wouldn't think you'd be able to guess a person's mood from so far away, but even from there Tom could tell they were pissed. And moving fast; after taking out Emery he'd expected the pursuit to start up so soon and be fierce, just not quite this soon.

  He was really going to hate today.

  With a sigh, he dragged himself to his feet and made his way over to where Gray slept. “Time to get up,” he whispered grimly, shaking the man's shoulder. “Bloodies pouring into the valley down below, not four hours behind us. Probably less, at the pace they're going.”

  Some of the militia fighters nearly cried when their leader woke them with the news that their break was going to be cut short, and they had pursuit on their trail. Gray ordered the batteries and other stuff from the vehicles destroyed, since they couldn't afford to be slowed by the weight. Even that news wasn't greeted with the enthusiasm it normally would've been.

  They packed up their impromptu camp and moved on, taking more care to hide their trail now. The rest, brief as it was, had revitalized everyone, and even Tom was feeling a bit better after being off his feet for a couple hours. They made decent time, although he couldn't help but do the math on the Sangue coming up the valley, even far away as they were.

  Fresh troops with a fire under their feet could probably go twice as fast as his exhausted people, which meant they could catch up well before nightfall. Aware of that, Tom grimly pushed everyone to go even faster, promising he'd lead them to country where they could try to lose their pursuers as soon as possible.

  Truth be told, he was regretting sending Mitchells ahead; they probably couldn't have fought off the bloodies coming up from below with more people, but more would've been handy if they had to try. Then again, maybe it was good that most were well ahead of pursuit, out of danger.

  Tom hadn't thought their situation could get much worse. But then, when they were halfway up the broad high mountain meadow past the top of the ranch valley, which stretched for hundreds of yards in every direction, he heard a distant rumble in the air.

  Almost like thunder.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thunder

  Tom couldn't place the sound, although it made his hackles rise. It certainly wasn't the noise of engines, not up here and not so low and deep he could practically feel it shivering the ground beneath his feet.

  But it definitely wasn't thunder.

  It seemed to be coming from the east, where the meadow sloped down and eventually led to a wide canyon, steep but passable. It even boasted a switchbacked dirt road tha
t led down into the valley below, north of Emery but south of where they'd dropped off the supplies and freed prisoners for Brady to take up to Camptown.

  The canyon seemed to be echoing the noise, amplifying it so it carried up to them. Like some sort of giant beast rushing towards them. Or multiple beasts; Tom finally recognized the rumble, not from real life experience but from movies he'd seen what felt like a lifetime ago, back before the Ultimatum when they'd still been a thing.

  Hooves, dozens or even hundreds of them, creating a noise like thunder as they all moved together towards his exhausted people.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Gray demanded, face paling to match his name.

  “Afraid so,” Tom replied grimly.

  The sheriff looked around at the vast meadow they'd been moving through, spread out so as to leave less obvious signs of their passage through the grass. “You're telling me we're in the only open terrain for miles, and now's when they decide to spring horses on us?”

  “Looks that way.”

  The militia's leader cursed bitterly. “You know, I get the feeling the only reason hope springs eternal is because something always comes along and tramples it down to nothing, so it's got no other choice.” He looked at their small group of men on foot. “What now?”

  Tom jerked his head west, where a gentle rise gave way to a rugged mountainside slashed with cliffs and canyons. “Race them to terrain where humans travel easier than horses.”

  Gray glanced back towards the distant rumble of hooves. “Hope you brought your running shoes. You know I heard once that a horse can run as fast as 55 miles an hour? That's highway speeds, back when there were still working cars.”

  Seemed like that would have to be the world's fastest horse. And highway speeds were a lot easier on highways, which tended to be smooth and flat. Still, the man wasn't wrong. “Then we should probably shut up and get moving.”

  The sheriff nodded grimly and turned to his militia fighters. “Up the slope, now!” he barked, suiting his words by turning and bolting up the gentle incline of the meadow with Tom hard on his heels. Behind them, he heard cursing as the militia fighters followed at the best pace they could manage.

  He only took his eyes away from the climb in front of him once, just in time to see dozens of Sangue on horses burst out of the canyon and begin tearing up the meadow after them. Over the thunder of hooves he heard whoops and ululating screams from down below, as well as the crack of rifles as their pursuers fired useless shots from well out of range, even if they were sitting still and aiming through good scopes.

  Tom didn't think he had much left in the tank, but the sight and more importantly sound of their pursuit added a bit more speed to his faltering steps. He stared through sweat-blurry eyes at the sanctuary of the rugged terrain ahead, which seemed to get farther with every step instead of closer. The thundering of hooves was now loud enough to drown out his roaring heartbeat, as if they were about to trample right over him instead of being hundreds of yards away.

  As he ran he cursed himself for a fool.

  He'd been so smug about boasting about how the enemy's greatest strength, their vehicles, was also a weakness up in the mountains where they couldn't use them. How the volunteers with their horses could run circles around Sangue raiding parties and pick them apart with ease. Never even considered that the invaders from the south might have horses of their own.

  But why shouldn't they? They were well seasoned and disciplined, well equipped, and well supplied, and they'd been pillaging the southwestern States for years now. As far as he knew they had whole herds of horses, and probably trained units specifically to fight using horses so they could raid into places where vehicles couldn't go.

  And now here they were, running him and his people down like mounted soldiers did so well, and his small group was caught out of position and completely unprepared. He should've led them by a route that would allow them to flee to safety if they got chased by horsemen, but should've was easy when the danger hadn't even occurred to him.

  His miscalculation about Sangue's resources was about to get them all killed.

  * * * * *

  Skyler grit his teeth, watching the chase helplessly from his perch above the mouth of a box canyon, a hundred yards south of the spot Trapper and the others were making for.

  The Camptown fighters were in a dead sprint, stumbling up the slope with every ounce of speed their rubbery legs could manage. Behind them thundered the Sangue riders, closing the gap alarmingly with every second and getting closer and closer to where they could begin firing, and actually hope to hit something even on horseback at a gallop.

  His dad and the others weren't going to make it.

  Sure, the spot they were running for was ideal, a narrow, twisting canyon too steep and rugged for horses to easily follow, that provided plenty of cover and wound all the way to the top of this stretch of cliffs and canyons and offered a safe descent down the other side. It would take hours for men on horseback to find a place to go around to resume the chase, and if they tried to dismount and follow on foot even a few of Gray's men could hold that canyon against an army.

  Which was all pointless, because at the rate they were going they'd either be gunned down as they ran, or forced to go to ground and fight before they could get safely around the first bend of the canyon. Unless of course Skyler did something to help.

  He was lying prone, rifle planted sturdily on its bipod. He was far enough away that he had some doubts about success making shots at this distance, and the Sangue horsemen were spread out to begin encircling their prey. They were also moving fast.

  Conditions were terrible, but if he could hit two or maybe three of the riders up in the front, he might spook the others into thinking they were being led into an ambush. They probably wouldn't stop entirely, but they might at least slow down to assess the situation, or begin moving erratically to avoid being hit, which would also slow them down.

  And on the plus side, with every second they were getting closer, making his shots easier. Although closer to Trapper and the others, too; many had rifles raised, struggling to line up shots from the backs of their moving horses. Skyler sighted on his first target and took a breath, willing himself to make the best shot he'd ever managed.

  He hated to do it, hated it more than words, but he couldn't afford to pass up any advantage. At this distance that meant he needed to aim for the larger target: the Sangue horses. “Sorry,” he whispered to the poor animals as he opened fire.

  Skyler emptied his magazine over the next half a minute, moving from one shot to the next at the best speed he could manage. All but four missed, and only one hit an enemy soldier instead of his mount. But as one horse near the front screamed and pitched forward, throwing its rider in a way that certainly led to broken bones, and then another did, and then a third stumbled and began kicking and thrashing in pain, and finally a fourth rider slumped out of his saddle, the other horsemen took notice.

  Showing impressive coordination, all the dozens of riders wheeled their mounts toward the north away from Skyler, randomly veering left and right. It slowed them down tremendously, and more importantly distracted them from taking shots at their prey just as they'd been coming in range.

  Skyler hurriedly reloaded and kept up his attack, even less effective now. But that wasn't important; just the pressure he was putting on the bloodies was making all the difference. He watched with grim satisfaction as Gray and his people stumbled the last distance to the narrow canyon and safety.

  All aside from Trapper; he was distantly aware that his adoptive dad had veered towards the box canyon he was perched above, meaning the man would be out in the open for another hundred yards. Although at least he was running in the opposite direction Sangue was coming from, and the closer he got the easier it would be for Skyler to cover him.

  The bloodies had finally begun shooting at Gray and his men, their accuracy even worse than Skyler's in spite of being much closer to their targets, thanks to
their continued focus on evading his incoming shots. In spite of that, one of Gray's people screamed and went down clutching his side. Two of his companions paused and rushed back to help him, and Skyler emptied his second magazine covering their desperate scramble to the safety of the canyon, where some of the other militia fighters had found vantages to shoot back at the enemy soldiers.

  That caused the bloodies to veer closer to the steep slope they were riding beside, out of line of sight of the canyon. They closed on it in a swarm, dismounting and taking positions to fire up it at the retreating militia. Skyler couldn't see the result, although he hurried to reload again so he could begin taking out the finally motionless targets.

  At least until he realized that a good twenty riders had peeled away from the others to pursue Trapper, who had ducked around a fold in the steep slope leading to the canyon, which provided cover for the final twenty or so yards of his approach.

  That was a pretty clear signal that it was time to go. Skyler slammed his fresh magazine home, then slung his rifle and jumped off his perch to a ledge five feet below, then from there ran down a treacherous rise to where Surly waited patiently for him.

  By the time he arrived, Trapper was there. “Hop on!” Skyler shouted to him, changing directions to run up the canyon past him. His adoptive dad gave him a dubious look, but he was obviously on his last steps and grateful for a reprieve. He dragged himself into the saddle and urged Surly up the canyon after Skyler.

  Although it turned out that even as out of breath as the mountain man was, he still had enough left for scolding. “You seriously left the valley and followed us?” He sounded more resigned than angry. “What am I going to do with you, kid?”

  Skyler flushed slightly at being called that. “You could start by thanking me,” he yelled over his shoulder.