Final Stand: Last Ditch (Mountain Man Book 5)

by Nathan Jones

  The revolution had been long and vicious, and resulted in nearly all the BRICKS military forces being wiped out, along with most of their new families and a healthy chunk of their supporters. After that, the Panteras had done their best to channel the chaos and momentum of the revolution into invading the territories around them, those who'd refused to join Novo Patria but had up to that point had a peaceful relationship with the growing power.

  That campaign of constant war was probably the smartest and stupidest thing the new regime did.

  Smart, because ripping out the power structure in their country and replacing it with a brutal military dictatorship obsessed with war was causing Novo Patria to implode. The only way they were going to survive without an even sharper decline and more violent revolution, ultimately replacing their regime, was by essentially robbing their neighbors and enslaving them to serve as free labor.

  It was stupid because once they started down that road if the war ever stopped, if the influx of resources and slaves from conquered territories ever dried up, that was the end of Novo Patria. The ensuing revolution would make Panteras' own look like a spring festival in comparison.

  In the end, though, as Lisa's dad had been quick to point out, war is tremendously destructive even for the winners. The Militares Panteras and Sangue troops were forced to become more and more brutal as time went on to keep occupied populations in check. Which was the reason, even more than their desire for harsh vengeance on the citizens of the former United States, that they had begun killing everyone they encountered, rather than trying to enslave them.

  Most of what Lisa learned about the enemy and their history probably would've been over her head, way, way over, but her dad was eager to learn about the enemies who'd cost their family so much. It was almost an obsession with him, and he went out of his way to find out everything he could, then discuss it with them. Extensively, and in detail, so she gradually came to know the ins and outs of the invaders from the south as intimately as she'd ever learned about what the United States had been like before the Ultimatum.

  Even more so, in some ways, since Novo Patria and the Panteras were still around, while the United States had faded to almost a pleasant dream in most people's eyes. Although the Northern League had done their best to model their own government structure after the US and its Constitution, treating each town and city that joined them as a diminutive state in order to create a smaller scale country.

  Including having many of the same requirements for “statehood” with prospective new communities.

  What Lisa liked to hear more than the details about the enemy were the stories, gathered secondhand from soldiers and New Bozeman citizens, about the League scouts and spies who'd managed to sneak behind enemy lines to gather this information. Of what they'd found in Mexico and Central America and the things they'd learned from the people living under Panteras' harsh occupation.

  Even more exciting was the fact that the League was taking steps to support resistance groups in those occupied territories, giving them information and arranging to smuggle in supplies and weapons to help them fight.

  But for all that Lisa's dad spent so much time talking about the southern invaders around the campfire at night, she could tell that her mom really didn't want to discuss them. Didn't even want to be reminded of the animals who'd done such terrible things to her. But she didn't object to the discussions, and if her husband noticed her discomfort he showed no sign of it.

  But the best thing of all about living in New Bozeman came a couple days after their arrival.

  Lisa and her dad had been out all day grazing the herds, while her mom and Bryant had been in town visiting a few women she'd befriended among the citizens. They'd originally come around looking to buy fresh milk, a welcome source of prospective income for Lisa's family, and after an amiable visit had invited her mom to come visit them in town, and even promised to ask around to see if others were interested in buying dairy and other products.

  “Although I doubt it'll take much asking,” one woman had joked as she gathered up the jug of goat's milk she'd bought and prepared to leave. “We've been making do well enough since we jumped into this war with the Panthers, but fresh produce has been harder to find, and more dear, since then.”

  When it was finally time to bring the herds in, Lisa's dad asked her to stay at the corral they'd rented and look over the animals carefully while he went and fetched her mom and sister.

  “Past time we checked on them more thoroughly,” he said into her reluctant expression.

  “Can't I go get Mom?” she asked, trying not to whine. She wouldn't have minded seeing if any of her new friends were around, maybe sneaking a minute or two to talk to them. Even if she didn't, going into the city to find her mom beat running her fingers over the coats of a bunch of cows and goats and horses, checking for hidden injuries or ticks and other parasites.

  Her dad chuckled, looking oddly cheerful. “I'll find some way to make it up to you.”

  Grumbling, Lisa climbed into the corral and got to work as he hurried off. To her relief, it was only fifteen or so minutes before he returned to help her finish up. “Your mom took your brother back to camp to get started on dinner,” he said, eyes twinkling for some reason.

  Lisa gave him a curious look. “What's going on?”

  “Just another day in New Bozeman,” he said cheerfully. “Let's hurry up with this, I'm starving.”

  Her dad seemed to mean it, too; they finished checking over the animals in record time, and were soon on their way back to the camp. Lisa noticed her dad sneaking glances her way, in a much better mood than usual, although he continued to cheerfully wave off her questions.

  She found out why when they got back to camp, and found her mom bustling around the crude table her dad had made for eating. It was weighed down with delicious looking food, a feast compared to their usual meals, and obviously cooked on a proper stove and then brought back in covered dishes her mom must've borrowed. And to top it all off, under a clear glass lid dominating the center of the table was something that made her heart race.

  It was a cake. A real cake, covered by rich dark frosting like Lisa had never seen before.

  And suddenly, realization dawned. She hadn't paid much attention to the date, although she'd been vaguely aware it was August. Time must've flown faster than she realized, and it was now the 17th.

  Her birthday.

  She spun to face her dad, to find him grinning at her broadly. “Happy Birthday, sweetie,” he said, wrapping an arm around her and kissing the top of her head.

  Lisa briefly hugged him back, then bolted ahead to throw her arms around her mom as well, leaving him laughing at her excitement as he followed. Even Bryant showed less of his usual reserve, laughing and enthusiastically hugging her around the legs so she nearly tripped and fell. She stooped to pick him up and kissed his little cheeks as he hugged her around the neck.

  “A cake?” she asked her mom in wonder. “Did you make it today?”

  Her mom nodded, smiling in delight. “I'll be honest, I was excited to try my hand at baking again,” she confessed with a laugh. “It was always so hard to find fresh eggs and sugar and good ground flour and all the rest when we were living back at the ranch, even when we were able to make the trip to Emery to shop. Not to mention chocolate.” She paused to look longingly at the confection in front of them. “Especially the chocolate . . . I haven't had a chocolate cake since before the Ultimatum. Maybe even before the shortages.”

  If Lisa hadn't already been aware that this was something special, that would've tipped her off. With a pang, she realized where that chocolate had to have come from; her mom and probably her dad too must've saved their chocolate bars, the ones that gruff sergeant had given them, and donated them so she could have this cake.

  That made her feel guilty about how she'd devoured the first bar from the soldier, and over the last week had steadily eaten the second. So she gently set Bryant down to hug her mom tight ag
ain, then threw herself into her dad's arms as he joined them. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Her mom rubbed her back fondly, while her dad chuckled. “It's not every day my little girl celebrates turning fourteen,” he said.

  Lisa magnanimously decided not to protest being called little, when she was only a few years from being an adult.

  The only thing that could ruin this moment was that Skyler wasn't here to share it with her, or Trapper or Mother Kristy or Molly or Logan or the Gerrys or Tabby or the rest of her friends back in Utah. But even so, for the first time in a long time she felt like her family really might have a hope for a decent future.

  In the Northern League, of all places. Somewhere she hadn't even known existed a week ago.

  She settled down at her usual spot at the table, grinning up at her family. “Well, I'm starved. Let's eat!”

  Chapter Four

  Snake in the Grass

  Skirmishing was not a particularly honorable way of fighting. Something Brandon had made very clear to his people right from the start.

  They did everything in their power to keep the enemy off-balance and constantly looking over their shoulders, wondering where the next blow would land. They attacked the bloodies while they marched, while they slept, while they ate, while they relieved themselves. They focused on hitting officers, radiomen, anyone who looked as if they had tracking skill, and of course dogs and horses.

  They laid traps, sometimes something as simple as sharpened wooden spikes hidden beneath loose pine needles, or trip lines where the undergrowth was thickest to slow the enemy down and make them brace for a followup attack. They burned tents and supplies using rags soaked in gasoline from a single precious container of the stuff taken from the supplies captured from Emery, tied to crossbow bolts shot by their few hunting crossbows, or around rocks loosed from slings that none of them could aim accurately.

  Their constant attacks over the last several days had taken their toll on the Sangue squads. The enemy was exhausted, demoralized, eating on the march and constantly trying to stay behind cover. They put a ludicrously large number of sentries on watch at night, and posted them farther and farther away from the camp. At least until Brandon, Andy, and a few of the other most daring skirmishers began sneaking up and picking off vulnerable sentries in the dark, then melting back into the night.

  All in all, the skirmishers might have accounted for anywhere from a dozen to twenty bloodies, many of them wounded who had to either be left behind or escorted out of the mountains for extraction.

  Brandon opted to leave the wounded alone, less out of ethical considerations than because seeing their injured buddies being ignored the moment they dropped out of the fight might encourage others to decide they were too injured to fight as well. Not to mention that treating injuries would slow the bloodies down and bleed off their numbers.

  Unfortunately, the attacks had taken their toll on his people, too. In spite of their best efforts, Zeke Clay got hit in the head by a stray shot during an ambush. There was no choice but to leave his body behind, hoping that the infuriated and bitter enemy would leave it alone.

  It was a vain hope; he didn't like to think about what the bloodies ended up doing to the corpse of his friend, in an attempt to demoralize his skirmishers and possibly anger them into doing something stupid. He was just grateful that at least Zeke hadn't been caught alive.

  Far from goading his people into mindless rage, though, it had lit a cold fury in them that burned to this day, making it easier to continue to do what they had to in spite of exhaustion, grief, and the weary stain on their souls from inflicting such fear and suffering.

  Even on monsters like Sangue.

  Not long after that, Evan Sheffield had taken a bullet to the shoulder. Not serious enough to risk his life, fingers crossed, and he could still move well enough to get away. Brandon had sent the young man and his sister Toni back to Camptown for treatment, telling Toni to try to find Mer while she was there and return. Ideally with any reinforcements Trapper might want to send their way.

  In spite of the success Brandon's skirmishers had enjoyed in diverting the enemy away from the bowl valley, and bleeding them of strength and exhausting and demoralizing them, the last several days had taken their toll on his people as well. The strain of being constantly hunted by a superior force, combined with the knowledge that there were more enemies out there, was weighing heavier and heavier on their shoulders.

  His skirmishers desperately needed a break, a real chance to rest without worrying that there were enemies hot on their heels slavering for their deaths. A break they couldn't take as long as they had to lure the bloodies away from Camptown, keeping Brandon from even considering disengaging and trying to vanish into the mountains unless it was absolutely necessary.

  He didn't want to stop, but he was afraid if he didn't, and soon, his people would make a mistake and they'd be caught and wiped out. That wouldn't help Camptown any, either.

  As the days had dragged by, Brandon had harbored the hope that Sangue would break first. That they'd give up their pursuit and withdraw in another direction, giving his skirmishers a chance to catch their breaths before getting back to harassing the enemy, this time as the mouse chasing the cat. A more advantageous position for his people to be in.

  In fact, without that pressure he might finally be able to get back in touch with Camptown, possibly even arrange with Trapper for a larger ambush to wipe these squads out or chase them out of the mountains again entirely.

  Unfortunately, the bloodies seemed to know that too, and they refused to give up the chase. Which was why, after close to a week of skirmishing with the enemy, assuming he hadn't gotten the days mixed up in this eternal, exhausting conflict he'd dragged his people through, he decided to take a chance.

  The merry chase he'd led the bloodies on had taken them meandering in the direction of Trapper's ranch, then past it deeper into the mountains to the west. Far from the area east of Camptown where he'd told Brady he'd be skirmishing, but hopefully Gray and Trapper had plenty of sentries and scouts out in that direction just to be safe.

  In any case, he was now in territory he was very familiar with: a series of steep, narrow ridges and valleys like a heavily wrinkled blanket, many shooting off in all directions rather than in the generally north-to-south lines the terrain ran along in these mountains. It was an ideal spot to make good their escape if necessary, which was why Brandon had led his people here.

  He'd had a stronger and stronger feeling as the days went by that it was past time to get gone.

  Beforehand, however, he wanted to deliver one last solid punch to the bloodies. Maybe even knock them reeling after all, send them retreating back the way they'd come or towards Trapper's ranch and territory they held more securely.

  It was a good time for that, he felt, since his skirmishers had been doing more and more running and less and less hitting with every passing day. Also, the bloodies had begun diverting less effort to trying to catch up to his people, and more to simply staying on their trail and fending off their increasingly infrequent attacks. Maybe hoping he'd lead them back to Camptown, accidentally or in desperation.

  The main reason to really hit them now, though, was that Brandon knew of a spot where his people could ambush the enemy from well concealed positions, really get in a few good volleys and try to account for more than one or two of them. Then, assuming Sangue didn't finally break and run off, they could take trails he knew like the back of his hand and rabbit.

  Fully disengage, hopefully in a way his exhausted, demoralized enemy couldn't follow.

  Then sleep. Get a proper meal. Not be constantly shaking off the tremors from the last deadly conflict, or the dread of planning ahead to the next one. He knew he'd never be able to truly rest, truly be done with the fighting and go home to his wife and son, not as long as there was a single enemy in the mountains around their new home.

  But it would be nice to stop for a day. Even half a day.


  With the way the enemy squads had spread out in an umbrella to pursue them, almost as if they were herding the skirmishers west but more likely to prevent them from slipping away to run or hit them from a different direction, there were only so many places Brandon could've staged his ambush anyway. Luckily the spot he'd picked out was in their path, only a few miles ahead.

  They reached it just before noon, a narrow ravine between two steep slopes that were both hard to traverse. He knew a trail that made it easier, allowing them to hurry ahead of their pursuit to the opposite ridge, where thick trees and rocky outcroppings made ideal cover for an ambush. Brandon could spread his people out along that ridge, and they could wait until Sangue had picked their way down the far slope and were out in the open, vulnerable to targeted fire and with no quick retreat route.

  On the other hand, if the bloodies decided to try to go around the area, Brandon and his people could either shadow them along the far ridge, ready to open fire the moment they exposed themselves on the slope. Or, if it went that way, let the bloodies take a few hours finding a safer spot to continue westwards.

  Which would give the skirmishers plenty of time to make good their escape.

  They rushed along the trail, moving low and keeping to cover where possible but not allowing it to slow them down too much; they only had precious minutes to get in place and prepare their ambush. Exhausted as they were, going down the first steep slope was treacherous and up the second was absolutely brutal.

  Brandon was panting like a bellows and stumbling on rubbery legs as he ducked behind an outcropping on the western ridge. He hastily gathered his ten remaining skirmishers around him, forcing them to stay on their feet when some, mainly Neal, tried to collapse to the ground.

  “All right, folks, it's time to give these bloodies a last present and then disappear,” he wheezed. “I want to seriously hit them this time, try to break them and make them run, and then we withdraw and try to get away clean. No more dancing around trying to keep them on our trail to lead them away from Camptown, it's time to disappear. Then we'll finally have a chance to get some much deserved rest.”