by Darrell Bain
The grizzled man, whose name was given as George, was the head of a family group, which had been heading to Galveston for a weekend of fishing. There was George, his wife Emily, and their son and daughter-in-law plus their four children, two boys and two girls, all pre-pubescent. While McMasters begrudged the time spent explaining his and Judy's situation, he did take the opportunity to at last remove the saddle from the horse and begin rubbing it down while they talked. He padded the skinned areas on the animal's back with rags provided by George's wife, then re-saddled it.
George, backed up by his son, was at first reluctant to believe his story, but McMasters simply pointed to his wounded leg and the surrounding circle of old growth trees. None that huge had been seen in east Texas for a hundred years or more. Finally George turned to his extended family. He ran a hand through his grizzled hair. “Shit. ‘Scuse me, Momma. Son, I reckon I got to help this man. You stay here with the womenfolk. Sorry, Mister, but we ain't got but this one weapon. Don't know why I was even carrying it, ‘cept I just never took it offen the rack after deer season."
“What are we supposed to do?” his son broke in. He was gangly, with thin blonde whiskers. “We can't stay here without a gun. Dad, you've seen those animals. What if another of them comes around? What do we do then?"
“Judy can stay here with you. Her shotgun is loaded with buckshot."
“No! I'm going after my mother!” Judy clutched her weapon protectively.
“Judy—"
“No. I'm going."
McMasters couldn't find it in himself to say no to the young girl. Finally, a compromise was reached. She would go, but she would give her weapon to George's son to protect the others, and carry Goober's discarded rifle in exchange. McMasters had little confidence in George, Jr., as he learned his name was, but he felt time pressing like a weight on him, and the less of it spent in argument, the better. If the young man needed to shoot at anything, he was more likely to hit it with a shotgun than his father's rifle.
Painfully, he remounted the horse, but alone this time. There was no way it could carry three. Judy and George would have to walk, regardless of how much it slowed them. Besides that, his leg brooked no argument. He couldn't possibly fight afoot if it came to that. George would have to help, and Judy as well, at least to the extent of helping him get around. He was almost too crippled to walk.
* * * *
Michael put Wanda in the lead, thinking her smaller steps would set a pace the others would have no trouble following. He trailed the group, constantly urging them to hurry. In his mind, he was already picturing the terrain ahead and trying to form a rescue plan. Nothing concrete came to mind until he thought of their river crossing. He hadn't remembered it until now. Maybe that would slow the convicts down. He ran ahead and caught up with Wanda.
He paced in step with her for a few moments then decided to call a halt. The going had been hard anyway, and he thought they could all use a short rest. “Listen,” he said, once they were halted and he had gathered the group around him. “I think our best bet is to catch them while they're trying to cross the Trinity. There can't be an intact bridge left, I don't think. They will have to cross the same way we did. That's when we'll hit them. Wanda, you keep the lead, and everyone else keeps silent from now on. As soon as you get them in sight, just follow, and keep silent. Wanda, you let me know when they reach the river, then we'll spread out as much as we can."
“Right,” Wanda said. “That way, we can fire from the side, and aim at the cons. Good plan.” She scratched at a speckle of deer fly bites on her arms. “Damn, I should have worn long sleeves."
“We all should have,” one of the women spoke up as she slapped at the ubiquitous flies. Her shotgun barrel traversed an erratic arc.
“Easy,” Wanda cautioned. “Don't point that at anyone like that. Not until I tell you to, anyway.” She grinned at the woman to take the sting out of her voice. Who would have thought that she would ever put officer's training into effect by leading a group of civilian women into combat?
“Everybody rested? Let's go then,” Michael said, not waiting for an answer. They moved out. He patted each of the women on the back as they passed and touched hands with the old man carrying the rifle. The white-haired oldster was panting a little, but his eyes were bright. Michael thought he must be a veteran. Certainly he showed no fear. He wondered if his own apprehension was detectable. Can I kill a man in cold blood? No, not cold blood. The bodies back at Livingston belayed that. He shouldered his weapon and pressed on.
Just as he was getting ready to send word up the line to tell Wanda to take another break, the column halted. He began moving forward and met Wanda coming back toward him. She held a finger to her lips.
“We've spotted them,” she whispered. “They're at the river trying to make a raft. They have their prisoners all tied together, with only two men guarding them."
Michael crept past the women, Brent and the old rifleman, cautioning them in whispers to silence. Wanda led until she parted the riverbank underbrush and motioned him up beside her. He peered through the brush.
Two convicts were guarding and heckling the prisoners while the others were busy constructing a makeshift raft. The two were within sight of the bedraggled line of women. Their hands were bound in front of them, with the ropes leading to the next who was bound in turn. As Michael watched, a convict walked up to one of the women in the line. Holding his rifle in one hand, he reached into the line and squeezed a young girl's breast, laughing when she shrank away from him. A sudden rage made Wanda raise her weapon. Her finger was already tightening on the trigger when Michael hurriedly crawled in front of her, not daring to yell, but willing to do almost anything to keep her from firing before they were ready and spoiling the ambush.
Wanda remembered to breathe. She lowered the barrel of her rifle, not wanting to think how close she had come to firing at the leering convict. She was shaken by the thought that her first gut instinct had been to protect that one single woman rather than the ultimate rescue of the whole group. Maybe men were better at combat, regardless of what she had been taught. At least in these circumstances. She waited now for Michael's direction.
Michael wiped sweat from his forehead, trying to pretend that nothing untoward had happened. “We need to spread out,” he whispered.
Wanda nodded and backed away, trembling like a fluttering leaf. Somehow, she thought, I have to stop reacting like that. Just because my stepfather—not now, no time. Michael was motioning urgently at her. She caught the gist of his intent and began moving half of the group along the riverbank while he took the others in the opposite direction. They had already agreed that all would fire upon his first shot. It began before they were completely ready.
Wanda never knew how they were spotted; perhaps some movement, or a glint off a weapon, but it really didn't matter. One of the convicts guarding the prisoners looked in their direction and yelled, raising his weapon at the same time. Wanda fired, missed and fired again. Her second shot brought forth a ragged volley. The shotguns boomed like thunder in springtime, but to little effect. Only one of the convicts at the raft went down; the rest scattered after their weapons. She fired again, and again, cursing as she missed each time. A bullet tore through the brush just past her face and she ducked involuntarily. When she raised her head again, a kaleidoscopic view of the riverbank flickered into her vision. Convicts running; the string of prisoners tangled in a heap from each of them trying to run in different directions, and two convicts crowding around the rafts. She fired at them and finally had some satisfaction in seeing another of them fall.
Michael was taken completely by surprise by the premature ambush. The two women beside him that he was still trying to get in position froze at first then fired ineffectively through the brush. Both of them forgot to hold their weapons tight and were kicked backward by the recoil of the magnum rounds. He scurried forward, head low until the river came into view. He leaned against a handy tree trunk and aimed at t
he convicts around the makeshift raft, not wanting to let any of them escape and warn the others in Huntsville. He was not used to firing a rifle. He jerked reflexively at the trigger. His first few shots went wild, hitting nothing, but from somewhere a bullet tore into one of the cons and he sank into the water, clutching at his stomach. The satisfaction of seeing him fall was short-lived. To his right, a woman rose upright, clutching her throat. Bright red blood spewed through her fingers and spattered green leaves.
Michael fired again toward the raft ineffectively. Four convicts that he could see were still on their feet. They had recovered their weapons and were shooting back. The bullets buzzed through the underbrush, cracking limbs and branches. One of the men rose to his feet and charged, rifle blazing. Michael sighted and fired again. This time, he had the satisfaction of seeing the man fall in a froth of blood, but then a searing pain creased his shoulder. He dropped his weapon, clutching at the wound. Another shotgun boomed, then two more. He spotted his rifle, half-covered with leaves and grabbed for it, rising to his knees.
The rafts were abandoned, as were the prisoners. Two convicts were in the river, swimming desperately. Another was running wildly along the near riverbank, firing over his shoulder with a pistol. A shotgun thundered again and he dropped, twitching in the mud.
Wanda stood upright and sighted carefully. She fired. A white clad body stopped its swimming motions and sank, twirling blood behind. She scanned the river, looking for other targets. Only one convict was in sight, but the current carried him around a bend of the river while she was trying to draw a bead. She fired anyway in frustration. Along the firing line, several women stood shakily, unbelieving for the moment that they had actually participated in the carnage. On the riverbank, the coffle of female prisoners was still trying to untangle themselves.
“Go on,” Wanda said irritably to the nearest woman. “Get those people untied.” She felt shaky, as if she had drank a gallon of coffee on an empty stomach. She found Michael and Brent standing beside the old rifleman, staring down at his still form. His eyes were glazed with death, but somehow, they still seemed merry, as if he had gone out the way he had wanted to, firing a rifle in combat. At first, she looked at the body of the old man, then she noticed that Michael was bleeding. She dropped her rifle without even thinking about it and went to him. “Mike—"
“I'm ok, I think. Oh shit, I blew it. Who else is dead?” Michael was responding to his first taste of combat with an incongruous combination of wild exuberance at being alive and a sense of failure at being the proximate cause of other people's death.
Wanda hugged him, wondering how he could possibly think he had failed. From what she had read of combat, this had been a howling success. Whatever the cost, they had accomplished their mission. The prisoners were free. The convicts were running, what few were left. She brushed at the still flowing blood from the superficial wound across the top of his shoulder.
“Mike, you didn't blow it. We won! Come on, now. Let me get you bandaged, and let's see who else is hurt.” She felt a fierce protectiveness overcome her, almost maternal in it's power and possessiveness. Whatever else happened from now on, she knew that Michael was her man.
Michael hesitated before he allowed her to tend to the crease on his shoulder. While she was taking care of it, he looked down at the white-haired body, and thought to himself: old-timer, you did good. Now let's hope we can make your sacrifice mean something. Wanda led him away, holding him in a protective grip, but even as he threw off the pain of his wound, he knew they hadn't won anything other than a skirmish. The real battle was yet to come.
* * * *
McMasters knew as he spotted the girls and their guardians in the distance that there was no way of getting ahead of them. The forest had thinned somewhat in this particular spot, but beyond he could see where it grew thicker again.
The convicts were apparently just finishing a rest stop and were preparing to get underway again. From where he watched, he could see that two of the girls were clutching torn blouses. While he kept his little group concealed and wondered what to do next, one of the girls held her shirt front together and stooped to pick up a scrap of white clothing from the ground. A con prodded her with his rifle and laughed. The girl glared, but made no protest. Damn, he was already too late for some of them.
Abruptly, he made up his mind. If they could pick off a couple of the convicts from here, maybe it would slow their progress until he could think of a better idea.
“George! Pick a target up front, then fire when I do. Judy, hold the horse, and get ready to help me back on. Don't delay; we won't have but one or two shots, then we'll have to run."
George looked puzzled. McMasters gave him a savage look and punched him on the arm. “Just fire when I do. Try not to hit any of the girls, and get ready to run. All I want to do is try to pick one or two of them off and slow them down until I can think of something else. Understand?” The grizzled man gave a slow nod. Sweat stood out on his face in dirty beads. He looked unstable. His hands were shaking, but McMasters hoped he could at least shoot straight. If he was a deer hunter, maybe he could, but he wouldn't want to bet the farm on it.
A small tree gave him a brace for his scoped rifle. He drew a bead on the convict who had been molesting the girl. The image was fuzzy, only a blur of dirty white. Damn my eyes, he thought. He held his breath, steadied his aim and gently squeezed the trigger.
The con spun and fell, a red splotch blossoming on his shirtfront. He levered another round into the chamber and ranged with the scope, trying to find another target. Beside him, George got off a round. Immediately, return fire came from the convicts, but it was wild and disordered. McMasters abandoned the idea of trying to hold steady on another target. He fired quickly then shouted, “Run!"
George was already on his way. Judy's face was blanched white, but she held steady as he used her as a brace to mount the horse. He leaned low over the saddle as uncomfortable buzzing noises whistled past. Judy grasped his out flung hand and threw her body over the horse's rump. McMasters kicked with his boot heels and they were away. Just as they gained a heavier cover of brush, he heard a thunk near his leg. Missed! he thought, as the sound of the shot came a second later. He spurred the horse harder, running it until he thought they were safe. He passed George near the end of the race, then stopped a ways beyond.
“Did you get one of them?” McMasters asked as George trotted up to them, panting heavily.
George sank to the ground. He gasped for breath and shook his head. “I don't think so. Damn, I've had buck fever before, but nothing like that. Sorry.” Abruptly, he grinned. “I'll try it again, though, if you want me to."
McMasters had to settle for that.
* * * *
Michael was policing up along the riverbank, gathering such plunder as the defeated cons had left behind while Wanda comforted the released women. He prodded a body, and then bent to roll it off the rifle it had fallen on. The body groaned as he tugged at it. He let loose quickly and stepped back, weapon ready. Slowly, the white-clad convict sat up, holding his head with both hands. He groaned again, then surprisingly, tried to grin. Michael kept his rifle ready while he examined the man. Apparently the wound at the back of his head had been more bloody than deadly. “Get up,” he commanded.
Slowly, the con got to his feet, staggering a little at first, then steadying. He still held his head. “Goddamn, what a headache,” he exclaimed.
Michael had no sympathy. “Better a headache than dead, which by rights you should be—and it's still not too late to correct the situation."
“Ease up,” the convict said. “I haven't hurt anyone, at least I don't think so. I tried to miss, at any rate."
“Tell that to the bodies I found in Livingston. Are you going to claim you weren't there?"
“No, but I still didn't hurt anyone. Jason told me not to if I could help it, and that's what I did. I'm glad too."
Jason? Who was Jason? Michael didn't quite know what to m
ake of the captured convict, but if nothing else, he should be able to provide some badly needed information. He motioned with his rifle. “Move. That way, and slow."
“You got it, Mister."
Michael got nothing but glares from Wanda and the other women as he prodded his prisoner into view. When he saw the still bodies he couldn't blame them. Two women and the old man gone, he thought, against how many cons? Five? Six? Not a very good trade. Then he took in the huddle of former prisoners gathered on the outskirts of his band. Well, maybe not too bad at that. He still wasn't used to death, though. His eyes avoided the bodies.
“You're not planning on keeping him alive, are you?” Wanda asked. She stepped forward, weapon raised. Again, her instincts were overriding sound strategy, like a hungry farmer eating his seed corn.
“No!"
The voice came from behind her. She turned. One of the group, a former female prisoner, edged forward.
“Don't kill him. He was never bad to us like some of the others. He even tried to help us some, but the others wouldn't allow it."
“Shit, what is this?” Wanda turned her weapon back toward the prisoner, but now she seemed a little more hesitant about using it.
“Maybe I can explain some, ma'am,” the convict said. “I never tried to hurt anyone, and neither did a couple of the others. Jason told us to go easy if we found other folks and we did."
“Who is this Jason?” Michael asked.
“He's—can I sit down? I feel dizzy."
Michael motioned with his rifle. The man collapsed to a sitting position. He rubbed his scalp and drew away bloody fingers, then began to talk. “My name's Whitney. Eli Whitney. I'm one of Jason's men. All I was in for was bank fraud, and Jason never did even that much. His was a bum rap all the way. There's others, though—"
Under prodding questions, the story came out. Whitney answered everything freely, as if undergoing a catharsis. Gradually, Michael and even Wanda began to believe him, incredible as his story was.