The Blastlands Saga

by DK Williamson

  Jack knew she might be trying to lead him into an ambush, but thought if that were the case, she would have recommended a specific route. He was inclined to believe her. “How do you know?”

  “Some of them were here and left in a hurry when a man ran up and told them a friend of theirs was being taken in by a Ranger.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Her face tightened. “You mocking me?”

  Jack shook his head. “No ma’am. I have manners.”

  The woman’s expression softened and she smiled. “I guess you do. He wanted for something serious?”

  “If you consider sacking a town and raping and killing a woman serious, yes, ma’am.”

  She gave Buck a hard look. “I do. Be careful, Ranger.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  Once at the livery, Jack saddled Buck’s horse, removed the gag from the raider’s mouth, and secured the handcuffs to Buck’s belt before he helped him mount his horse. They went west. As they passed out of town, Jack looked back and saw a man round the corner of a building at a sprint. The man stopped when he saw the two mounted men, then took his hat off and threw it to the ground.

  “Watch your ass, lawdog,” the man yelled. “You’re liable to find trouble out there on the trail.”

  Buck looked at Jack and laughed. “I got friends and other than mouthy whores, you’re alone, Ranger.”

  Jack didn’t respond to the comment, but knew he may have trouble in tow.

  The two rode in silence for quite a while. Jack kept the pace high and watched the rear, but so far he’d seen no threat.

  “How’d you hear about the redhead anyway?” Buck said.

  “You were talking to your pal Jazz on the road near Kings Town a few nights before we took down Joe Crow.”

  “Yeah? Why didn’t you do something then?”

  “We were on our way to Kings Town.”

  “So this is the second time we’ve encountered one another.”

  “Third. I was on the ridge the night Joe Crow bought it. I heard Jazz and you talking to one another.”

  “You know who killed Joe? Who was it? Weren’t more than three or four Rangers up there.”

  “What does it matter now. He’s dead… just like the redhead in Madill.”

  “You’re the guy. I saw it happen. I’d bet it was you. You put one through his head.”

  “Not that it’s important, it was one in his throat.”

  “There’s talk of a bounty for the guy that done in poor old Joe.”

  “Yeah? If it’s high enough I might turn myself in. Then again, if it’s raiders putting up the reward, it’s probably bullshit.”

  “Always got something to say, don’t you. You won’t be laughing if word gets out.”

  “You ought to be worried about yourself. You’ll stand trial.”

  “I doubt it. I got friends. Rangers ain’t the only ones got a code. You’ll see. I’m betting I won’t see the inside of a courtroom.”

  “I suppose you are. You’re betting your life.”

  . . . . .

  By early evening Jack knew they would not catch up to Harstens’ group that day, so he looked for a place to spend the night, somewhere secluded and defensible.

  They crossed a bridge that spanned a sandy gulch that ran down a slope to the left. It appeared to Jack that the gulch handled runoff from a nearby ridge, funneling it to another waterway about a mile downstream if the map was any indication. The gulch seemed to be the sort of terrain feature that was either dry or a torrent of raging water, with little in between, what some called an intermittent stream. What it was called wasn’t important, the fact that it was currently dry was.

  I don’t think it will rain tonight. We’ll double back and move down the creek bed once it’s full dark, he thought. They rode almost a mile past the bridge and stopped just past a turn in the road where Jack could watch their back trail through the trees. As darkness came on, there was no sign of pursuit. Jack led Buck back the way they came, leaving the road down onto the sandy creek bed. As the last of daylight gave way to darkness, a slim crescent of moon teamed with starlight to provide just enough illumination to move under the tree cover.

  “Where the hell are you taking us?” Buck asked.

  “Our lodgings for the night.”

  A quarter of a mile down the creek bed, they stopped. Jack found a place he felt would provide a safe place to make a cold camp. A tree that had lost the battle against erosion and fallen had achieved some measure of revenge upon the waterway that brought it down. Its massive root ball forced the creek to cut a diversion in order to maintain water flow, creating a curving depression deep enough to keep the horses out of sight from the surrounding woods.

  Jack dismounted and checked the ground under foot. There was still moisture just under the surface at this low point. He pulled a tarp from a saddlebag and spread it across the ground in the shadow of a massive oak that grew a short distance away.

  He decided to leave the horses saddled, just in case. The saddlebags Jenny carried came off and he placed them on the tarp, doing the same with the sacks of forage. The last thing to unload was Buck Scuddie. Jack led him to a place on the tarp, securing his ankles with rope.

  “What are we eating?” Buck asked.

  “Corn dodgers and jerked beef.”

  “You ain’t cooking?”

  “This is a cold camp, no fire.”

  “What do I do when I have to take a leak?”

  “You tell me and I will assist you. You aren’t getting out of those cuffs unless you gnaw a hand off.”

  “Fuck you. You ain’t touching my junk.”

  “Then piss yourself. We’re not sleeping in a tent, so it won’t bother me.”

  “Fuck you. You better hope you sleep light, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “If I sleep I will do so lightly. I plan to stay awake to make sure no harm comes to you. You have a day in court that I don’t want you to miss.”

  Jack ate and fed Buck using a long, thin stick with a sharpened end to avoid a bite from the angry raider. When they were finished, he took care of the horses and surveyed the area in and around the camp as best he could in the minimal light.

  Finished with that, Jack used a length of white cloth tape to wind through and wrap around the lower three-quarters of the front sight assembly of his rifle.

  “You looking to surrender?” Buck asked, seeing the white tape.

  Other than a glance his way, Jack ignored him and completed the job. The white tape would be visible in the meager light cast through the tree cover where iron sights would not. While not terribly accurate, with proper stock placement at the shoulder and a consistent cheek weld, a practiced shooter could reliably hit a human-sized target at ranges to fifty meters and beyond.

  Sometime later, Buck fell asleep. Jack retrieved some roasted sunflower seeds from his saddlebag and consumed them to pass the time, quietly spitting the hulls onto the creek bed. A little past 0100, a barred owl began to scold as the night song of the woods diminished. Something was amiss out in the dark.

  Jack pushed the safety lever of his rifle to the semiautomatic position. It’s to the west, whatever it is, he thought. Buck didn’t stir, so Jack moved up the side of the gully to a position where he could see through the woods in the direction of the sound.

  A few minutes later, it became clear to Jack what the situation was. He had a line of several men moving slowly toward the gulch. Quite a feat to find us in the dark, he thought. Somebody has some tracking skills.

  The men moved quietly, patiently, but in the dense underbrush, it was impossible to move without making at least some noise. They think I am asleep. I’ll need to let them close, but not let them get too near. Shoot straight, hurt them, then move. There is Buck to worry about also. He’ll yell once he realizes what’s going on. That will help them pinpoint our position. I should have gagged him. Worry about that when the time comes.

  Jack watched them. He could see six of the
m, but he knew there could be more. Two men to the left of the line were the most visible. Jack brought his rifle to his shoulder as he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Just a bit more. Two more steps, one, now!

  Two rapid blasts of 7.62x39mm rounds startled everyone but Jack. Two men fell, one without a sound or a twitch, the other grunted and flailed in the leaf litter for a moment. The other raiders opened fire, blindly shooting into the dark at the spot from where Jack fired, most of their rounds going high.

  The Ranger was no longer there. He dropped out of sight and moved to his right, going up the bank for another shot.

  As he came over the top, a dark shape loomed over him. He fired quickly. The shape shrieked in agony and staggered backwards. In a brief moment of silhouette, Jack saw a fountain of blood jetting from the raiders neck. Buck was shouting something, but it was lost in the fearful yells of the wounded raider.

  From the darkness ahead, another man ran toward the wounded raider. Jack aimed low and rapidly fired several rounds at the man. Another primal cry of pain pierced the darkness. Jack dropped to the creek bed and ran to Buck as bullets tore the night air, clipping branches and hissing past. The raider was kicking and squirming in an attempt to free himself from his bonds. Jack deftly slipped the handkerchief dangling around Buck’s neck into the raider’s mouth and tied it tightly at the back of his head. As he did, he noticed Buck’s horse was nowhere to be seen. A quick look gave him no clue where the animal might have gone. Jenny stood calmly, watching Jack. “Feel free to kick him if he tries anything else,” he muttered.

  He left Buck on the tarp and climbed the bank once again. The raider fire ceased. The man Jack shot in the neck lie still and silent, while the other wounded raider whimpered as he dragged a leg and crawled slowly away and out of sight.

  To Jack’s left came the sound of a branch snapping. South. Coming up the creek bed. Jack moved back down to the bottom of the gulch and moved toward the sound. Whispered voices from behind stopped him. Both ways, they’re coming from both ends of the creek! Jenny snorted. Buck’s struggles stopped and Jack looked and saw the raider pulling at the gag. His hands are free.

  Jack charged, setting his rifle aside as he piled onto Buck, the tarp rumpling underneath them. The gag was loose. “C’mon guys, he’s all al—”

  Jack kneed him in the chest, then turned him facedown, shoving the raider’s face into the sand of the creek bed.

  “We’re coming, Buck!” someone yelled. Jack couldn’t tell from which direction it came.

  Buck continued to fight and Jack realized he would not be able to use his rifle and hold Buck at bay. He drew his M1911 pistol and thumbed the safety off. They’re getting close and are headed straight at one another.

  Jack looked left and right, back and forth. To the right, movement! Jack brought his pistol up and fired, then went as low as he could while still keeping Buck under control. The response was immediate. Two rifles replied with full auto fire, then two from the north opened fire as well. The flurry of fire lasted but a few seconds, and then silence fell.

  “I think we got him,” said a quiet voice to the left.

  “Yeah, but there were at least two shooters banging at us,” said another voice from the same direction.

  “Maybe he picked up some more Rangers?”

  “Maybe. Tracks said otherwise. Let’s take it slow.”

  “What if it was Milt and Pedro shooting?”

  “If it was, they shouldn’t have shot at us, that’s what. Like I said, be careful.”

  Buck realized his situation. His chance at freedom was slipping away and he was desperate to prevent that from happening. He mustered every bit of strength within him and fought to throw off the big Ranger that pinned him. For a brief moment, he raised his face from the suffocating sand and drew a breath. “Hel—” was all he managed to get out before the Ranger’s weight drove him back into the sand. A moment later, something steel hard smashed into the back of his head. Buck ceased his struggles.

  “What was that?” one of the raiders hissed. They were close enough that Jack could hear them clearly, but they were still out of sight.

  “We’re going to find out. Follow me.”

  Jack heard the rustling sound of the men rising. There was no time to pick up his AKM without giving away his position, so he brought his .45 up in a two-handed grip. Movement, silhouettes barely visible against dappled moonlight on the opposite side of the gulch. Jack could not see the sights on his weapon despite the shiny brass insert in the front sight, but the short range coupled with his familiarity and skill with the M1911 compensated for that.

  Jack fired at the lead silhouette, trying for a head shot. The man dropped like a marionette whose strings had been cut. A race between Jack and the remaining raider ensued, lasting but a fraction of a second, a contest decided by which could kill the other first.

  The raider was faster on the trigger, his rifle spitting rounds on full auto, but throwing them high and wide of Jack. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jack thought the raider must be desperate or relying on luck to win the exchange, but the foremost thing on his mind was to hit the mark with the first shot. The dark shape of his pistol crossed the blob that was the raider’s head. A practiced pull of the trigger dropped the spurred hammer and Jack’s pistol barked once more as raider bullets passed overhead. Within moments, the lingering echo of gunfire faded away into near silence as the last raider fell into the sand beside his comrade’s body.

  Jack kept the pair under his sights for several seconds before he holstered his pistol and recovered his rifle. He saw Jenny was fine and Buck was out cold, so he scaled the bank once more and scanned the woods for threats. He heard movement in the dark, but it was beyond visual range. Within minutes, the sounds of night returned. He maintained his vigil for over half an hour before moving back down to Buck’s form.

  The raider still breathed. As best he could in the dark, Jack checked his prisoner for injuries. In the process, he discovered how Buck had freed himself from the handcuffs. He had dislocated his left thumb, allowing his hand to slip through the encircling steel. Whether it was by design or a result of desperation, Jack didn’t know. I don’t care either, he thought, but it isn’t going to happen again.

  Jack pulled a first aid kit and some rope from a saddlebag. He used the rope to lash Buck’s arms to his torso, and tape from the first aid kit to wrap up the raider’s thumb. A clean cloth soaked in some cool water from a canteen was the best Jack could provide for the growing lump on the back of Buck’s head. Jack’s .45 proved to be an effective club.

  As dawn came on, something large approached from the north. After a few tense moments, Jack discovered it was Buck’s horse, none the worse for wear after its excursion.

  Once it was light enough, Jack gave his weapons a once over, then ventured to the west. There were three dead raiders and he found three trails leading away. He gathered the dead men’s weapons and took them to the camp. He gathered the weapons from the quartet of downed raiders in the creek bed as well.

  He returned to find Buck was conscious and as unpleasant as ever, cursing a storm despite the gag in his mouth. Jack dragged the raider to the steep bank of the gulch and leaned Buck against it, loosening his gag to hang around his neck.

  “You want some water?”

  “Fuck you. You could have suffocated me last night.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t. I could have shot you instead.”

  Buck looked past Jack at the last two raiders that died in the gunfight. “To hell with you.”

  “Do you want some water?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I take that to mean no.”

  “No. I want some. What’d you do to me?”

  Jack went to retrieve a canteen. “That’s a long story. Short version: less damage than I should have, more good than I felt like.”

  Jack held the canteen to Buck’s mouth, taking it away when it seemed he was finished. Jack moved a hand in front of Buck’s lip
s as the man spat.

  “You’re becoming predictable. You want me to gag you again?”

  Buck glared and shook his head. “Hey, what are we eating for breakfast?”

  Jack stood. “Same as we had last night.” He began picking up what few items needed to be packed away.

  “When do we eat?”

  “We’ll eat in the saddle. I want to get moving.”

  “You ain’t getting me on that horse.”

  “Yes I will. I’ll put your lights out again if need be. You have a choice, get draped over the barrel of the horse like saddlebags, or ride upright. Personally, I’m fine with either one, but you might not like riding head down with that headache you must have.”

  Jack took care of the horses and secured the saddlebags and weapons for transport. Once packed up, Jack managed to get Buck aboard his horse with little trouble, lashing his legs to the saddle. He extended the reins on Buck’s mount with rope and climbed aboard Jenny.

  Buck saw the first pair of raiders that died in the creek bed. “You done in Milt and Pedro.”

  “No. Those two did it for me,” he said with a point at the other pair. “Let’s go.”

  Buck spat at Jack. Jack’s response was to put the gag back in place.

  Within minutes, they were back on the road that would carry them south.

  . . . . .

  By midmorning, the Ranger Sergeant and his prisoner entered a trading post and salvager camp that was, much like Eastwood, well on its way to becoming a town.

  Jack stopped the horses in front of a place with the odd name of Boot Liquor’s and Eat’s - Goods Too painted on a large sign over a covered porch that spanned the entire front of the building. After he dismounted, he looked at the sign once again, making sure he read it correctly.

  “Yeah, I know,” a voice said.

  Jack saw a tall and burly man in an apron walk through the front doors.

  The man continued. “I believe the first owner or his sign painter had a poor grasp of the language. Maybe both of’em did.”

  Jack smiled. “You’re not Boot?”

  “I’m Heath Featherstone, owner and operator. Guy named Boot started the place, but about ten years ago he picked the wrong side in a camp dispute and got shot full of holes. Didn’t kill him, but he’d worn out his welcome. Sold it to another guy who took up the name of Boot. Told me he didn’t want to repaint the sign. Easier to change his name. About three years ago, he sells it to me. I came up with the idea of selling goods.”