Final Stand: Last Ditch (Mountain Man Book 5)

by Nathan Jones

  Brandon was afraid Fiona would have trouble, given her fragile nerves where Sangue was concerned, so he stayed with her for a few precious minutes to hold her while she fell asleep. The weight of all the preparations he needed to make for the attack weighed him down, but he put them aside for the moment to focus on his family.

  “I've already talked with Skyler,” he said quietly as he stroked her hair, glad to see her eyelids drooping. “You and Logan and the baby are going to stick close to him and his family. If anything, anything at all goes wrong, you're all going to slip away together.”

  “Got it,” she murmured. “Speaking of slipping away . . .”

  He shut up and let her fall asleep. Or at least pretend to; she knew the pressure of his duties as well as he did, and giving him the illusion that she was fine was the only support she could give at the moment. He gave her another minute before gently extricating himself from her embrace, pausing to kiss her forehead. Last of all he leaned over Thomas's bed to kiss his son's rosy little cheek, then backed out of the tent.

  Brandon found Mitchells in the cabin tent he'd loaned to Mother Kristy a few days ago, which was packed nearly to overflowing with the column's leaders. It was the most unobtrusive way they could think of to plan what was coming. The sheriff saw him peeking inside and excused himself, edging out of the tent to join him a short distance away, around a tiny smokeless cook fire that would be put out soon, well before full dark.

  “Think everyone will be ready to move?” Brandon asked him quietly.

  “Ready or not, in a half hour they'll be slipping out of their tents with small bundles of absolute necessities and making their way southwest.” Mitchells poked him in the chest. “Just make sure you've done your part, huh?”

  “I will.” He offered the man his hand. “Good luck, Sheriff.”

  “Same to you.” The sheriff shook firmly, then straightened his shoulders and looked around thoughtfully, expression resigned. “Well, time to marshal my reserves for a strong push.”

  “It will probably be the most harrowing trek we've ever endured,” Brandon agreed grimly.

  The older man snorted. “No, I meant the leak I'm about to try to take around a prostate the size of a grapefruit, so I'm not sloshing like a waterskin as I trudge through the night.” He sighed. “Never get old, Gerry.”

  He couldn't help but grimace. “Considering I'm about to attack an enemy camp in the dead of night, you have pretty bad timing for that advice.”

  Mitchells grunted sourly. “Well, I suppose if some bloodies slip past you and kill me I won't have to worry about prostates anymore, eh?”

  “Death does tend to overshadow most problems,” Brandon agreed, although he didn't like the direction this conversation was going; he had no intention of letting the enemy get past him to threaten his family.

  He found Carl and gathered up the freed slaves, then led a handful of their squad leaders over to where Jonas had gathered Trapper and the other leaders from the fighters, making it look as if he was handing out sentry assignments for the night.

  “Good of you to join us, Gerry,” the militia leader said curtly as he arrived. The situation was too tense for Brandon to have any inclination to rise to the bait, so Jonas shrugged and turned to face the small crowd. “All right, folks. We'll keep this simple.”

  He used a long stick to begin scratching lines in the dirt. “Here's the southwestern-most enemy position, which Trapper scouted out less than an hour ago. Based on his knowledge of Sangue routines, he predicts they'll choose to camp here. Trapper, tell us what we're working with.”

  The mountain man quickly described the location of the camp, a box canyon with few good approaches, and the terrain surrounding it. “Luckily, that means three of the approaches will be from above,” he concluded. “Assuming we can get past their sentries, we should be able to pin them in and gun them down pretty easily.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” Jonas took over, scratching more marks. “Me, Gerry, Trapper, and half a dozen or so of our best people are going to go in first to take out said sentries.” Brandon watched closely when his name was called, tracing the route he'd be taking in from the east and, no doubt, the one his squads would be following him along a cautious distance behind. It was a tight path, to avoid bumping into the Sangue camp to the south.

  “If we succeed,” the militia leader continued, “we'll sneak our forces in to destroy the sleeping camp from all sides. If a sentry raises the alarm, well, we'll do the same thing but a lot faster and noisier.” More scratching. “Gerry's going to split his newbies up to put a squad approaching from every direction, paired up with two squads of fighters. The newbies will be reserve, with orders to keep guns slung and safeties on unless things go seriously wrong.”

  A couple of the freed slaves grumbled at that, but none voiced any objections; Carl actually looked relieved.

  Jonas abruptly began slashing the stick through the spot representing the Sangue camp. “Whether we're able to sneak up or we have to rush in quick, once the attack starts we're going to throw a bunch of flares down into the canyon. Then we shoot everything that moves until nothing does. Needless to say, if for some reason you find yourself inside the canyon you can expect to suffer friendly fire, so don't.”

  He tossed the stick aside and looked around at the people around him, which at this point were mostly just silhouettes. “All right, that's the plan. Any questions, comments?”

  Brandon cleared his throat. “Make sure your fighters realize that even though tossing flares to light up the camp gives us a huge advantage, our muzzle flashes in the dark will give them nearly as big of one. Have your people shoot a few shots at most, move, and shoot again. And even though they don't think they need it, make sure they stick to cover at all times.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from everyone else, then silence settled as they waited to see if anyone else had anything to add.

  Once it was clear no one did, but before Jonas could jump in again, Trapper looked around at the assembled leaders. “We've got the numbers and positioning to crush this camp, even if we lose the element of surprise,” he said quietly. “What say we wipe them out to the man, make sure they can't take potshots at our loved ones who're going to be stumbling through the dark tonight?”

  There was another chorus of murmured agreements at that. “Fine by me,” Jonas drawled. “Been through one death march in my life, not interested in a second.” He paused just long enough to make it obvious he was forcing himself not to point out that that was exactly what this had become.

  Well, the guy was one of the most unlikeable people Brandon had ever met, but apparently even he knew there were things better left unsaid.

  They split up and moved into the darkness, while behind them the camp quietly came back to life as everyone gathered up their barest necessities and began pushing blindly into the night. Trusting the fighters to protect them in their most vulnerable moment.

  Brandon and a few of his skirmishers scouted ahead of his squads as they circled around to approach the camp from the east. Most of his worry was about running into patrols from the southern camp, and it was only as they got closer to their target camp that he began worrying about the sentries there.

  Finally, he left his squads behind, ready to move at his signal or the first sound of gunfire, and he and his skirmishers split up and crept ahead.

  It took him longer than he expected to find the first sentry, getting him uncomfortably close to the steep slope leading up to the cliff overlooking the box canyon the camp was nestled inside. He soon reached the point where he feared the man was too well concealed, hiding in the darkness ready to blow Brandon away and raise the alarm at any moment.

  Which was why, as he swept his section of forest searching, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he practically tripped over the man he was looking for.

  The sentry was actually sleeping. As if he considered the thousand desperate refugees just a few miles away to be no threat at all; did t
he man just expect the column to meekly walk right into the trap waiting for them at the end of the mountains, like cows into a slaughterhouse? That this soldier and his monstrous friends could just amble along with them until it was time for the butchery?

  Or maybe the sentry was just a raw, undisciplined recruit. Or he'd let his vigil slacken at the worst possible time. Either way, Brandon wasted no time covering the soldier's mouth and putting his knife to work.

  He wasn't sure whether or not to be horrified at how little the deed affected him now. He could barely remember the disturbing surge of emotions, not all of them unpleasant which had made it even worse, that had made him lose his lunch the first time.

  His good luck continued as he moved around his section of the perimeter, taking out another sentry with his knife. Was it really possible the bloodies had been lulled by the refugee column's passivity up to this point? That they actually had just assumed their quarry would just keep on dully struggling to put one foot in front of the other in a straight line, until the enemies dogging their steps decided to massacre them at their leisure?

  For some reason the notion ticked Brandon off. Hadn't they earned more respect than that over the last few months?

  Then again, that lack of respect was going to let them waltz right in and turn a camp full of bloodies into fish in a barrel, so he supposed he shouldn't be complaining.

  Or not.

  Somewhere in the night he heard a single gunshot ring out, deafening in the relative stillness and echoing ominously. Then the gunshot was joined by shouts, screams, and the rattle of automatic fire.

  Brandon cursed and whistled the signal for his squads to rush in, then dropped into a firing position with an elbow resting on one knee for stability and stared blindly out into the night around him.

  Motion, ahead and to the right. He tracked it with his rifle and fired off a burst of shots, and was gratified to hear a scream. Immediately afterwards he ducked behind a tree, reaching cover just as the star patterns of muzzle flashes sprang up from two different locations, one chewing into the tree he hid behind and the other whining past his head as he dropped flat.

  From a prone position he managed to get one of the shooters in his sights, firing low to avoid the man's body armor and cut the legs out from under him. He heard another scream as he rolled sideways, as well as bitter cursing in Spanish as bullets thudded into the ground where he'd been.

  Then more gunshots came from behind him, and the muzzle flashes from the last shooter ended abruptly.

  Brandon called out quietly to let his people know where he was, judging friendly fire from them to be a greater danger at this point than any remaining sentries. He waited for answers from his people before scrabbling one by one to the three targets he'd engaged in the firefight, getting to work with his knife to make sure they were down.

  By that point dark shapes were flowing past all around him, up the steep, treacherous slope to the cliff that overlooked the box canyon. Brandon joined them, holding his rifle with one hand and searching through the pockets of his combat vest for one of the flares.

  As gunshots and screams continued to ring out in the night, he slammed the rough top of the flare's cap against the ignition pad, looking away from the blinding glow as people around him cursed. Squinting, he flung it the rest of the way up the rise and down into the camp below.

  Then he kept charging, rifle ready, as he heard gunshots begin to ring out ahead of him again, followed by a thunder of return fire from below and a bedlam of screams and shouted orders.

  The actinic glare of his flare was joined by a dozen others by the time Brandon reached the top, along with a more natural orange of regular fires as some of the flares landed on flammable material and set it alight.

  A lot of soldiers were out of their tents and firing into the night. They were impressively cool and competent in spite of the blinding lights, deafening noise, and general chaos of the surprise attack, moving with good cohesion to get out of the light and cover each other as they made for any cover they could find.

  They were also trapped in a box canyon, surrounded on four sides, and being fired down on from three of those sides. Which made it, as Brandon had compared it to earlier, like shooting fish in a barrel.

  He settled down in a good firing position and joined in.

  * * * * *

  It hurt to hold his new rifle.

  Skyler was able to ignore the discomfort, although he was worried that when it came to precise motions his injured arm might throw off his aim if they ended up in a fight.

  He desperately, desperately hoped it wouldn't; he'd only fought at night a few times while skirmishing, but he'd seen the chaos it caused even in the experienced and disciplined bloodies he was targeting. If it came to a situation where the refugee column, already confused and frightened and struggling to stay together as they pushed through the darkness, suddenly found themselves being picked off by hidden soldiers in the trees, well . . .

  It would be horrific. People trampling each other, or blindly running into trees and other obstacles in a panic, might cause ten times as many casualties as the actual bullets of Sangue snipers. To say nothing of almost eight hundred desperate people scattering in all directions and becoming lost, vulnerable to being picked off by the enemy or suffering friendly fire.

  Skyler wasn't sure whether he envied or pitied the people in the column, focused on nothing more than following the person in front of them and not tripping in the dark. On the one hand it must be awfully reassuring for that to be the beginning and end of their troubles.

  Aside from worrying about an enemy possibly attacking them from the dark, that is.

  On the other hand, it was nice to be a scout with good enough tracking skills to be at least somewhat confident the night around them was empty of threats. He could've done without the weight of everyone depending on him to keep them safe, an impossible job if there really were Sangue soldiers out there. But he supposed if his presence reassured people who had no other reassurance, that was something.

  To the southeast he heard gunfire and screams and saw a hellish glow, and the people in the column gave a collective moan of fear and sped up. Skyler was certain the commotion was coming from the attack on the camp, a safe distance away, but that didn't stop him from heightening his vigilance as they pushed on.

  Ten tense minutes passed without incident. They kept moving until the noise was to the east, then the northeast. After twenty minutes the gunfire began petering out, the glow fading. When it finally went quiet again after about a half hour, he wasn't sure if that was because they'd finally passed out of earshot behind a rise, or if the fighting was over.

  He hoped that meant Trapper and the others were the winners. He believed they were, but that kernel of fear remained that the attack had failed, and potentially a hundred or more bloodies were now swarming out into the darkness looking for vengeance.

  Skyler must not have been the only one afraid of that; to his right the column had sped up even more, their massed panting and noise of their passage like some monstrous beast moving through the night.

  No attack came.

  Instead, after another half hour there were muted whistles as the fighters returned to the column. Word flowed down the column that the victory had been crushing, with less than twenty people missing or confirmed dead and over a hundred Sangue soldiers eliminated, as many of their weapons and supplies stripped to aid the column as the fighters could carry.

  Trapper and Brandon were still out there, making sure the bloodies in the next camp farther east weren't in pursuit, or if they were that they were going the wrong way to counter the perceived threat of the column still “camped” to the northeast.

  Hours passed. The people in the column flagged, but determinedly pushed on. They knew that if they stopped now their pursuers would catch up and surround them again, if they didn't attack outright in pursuit of vengeance. But the runners his dad sent back reported no approaching threats; that made people re
lax a bit, but Mitchells determinedly chivvied them into pushing on at a punishing pace through the darkness.

  It was only when the moon set, a few hours before dawn, that the sheriff called a halt for everyone to rest. Many simply collapsed where they stood in the column, wearily dragging blankets out of their bundles and huddling together for warmth. Skyler rejoined his mom and siblings and set up a tent for them, then gratefully rolled up in his own blanket outside, near the horses.

  At dawn there was no sign of pursuit. They'd managed to slip the noose Sangue had thrown around them, and it was several hours before Trapper rode back from scouting with the news that the enemy was back on their trail and moving to catch up.

  They now had a significant lead, one that gave them hope that they might get away after all. That if they pushed south with enough speed they might slip their pursuers entirely and disappear into the mountains north of I-70.

  That hope was short lived.

  * * * * *

  Two days.

  That was how much time their last ditch effort bought them.

  On the afternoon of the second day Tom, scouting hours ahead to the south, spotted an army of Sangue just ahead. They were firmly entrenched in a solid line all the way across their path, no hope of fighting through without sending the fighters into a bloodbath.

  Jonas's scouts confirmed that the bloodies were just as thickly clustered to the east and north. They'd crept ever closer as time passed, growing bolder as the fighters failed to push them back, and instead were pushed back themselves. Which was no surprise, since at this point the refugee column had finally reached the ultimate end of their strength.

  They'd slowed to a crawl, food and water running out, hope dead.

  On his way back to the column to deliver his crushing news, Tom rode along the ridge overlooking the foothills to the west. That gave him a clear view of the hundreds of enemy soldiers dug in below, firmly entrenched with their dozens of vehicles waiting in case they needed to relocate at a sudden surprise change of course by the column.