by Nathan Jones
Well, he wasn't exactly wrong. And in spite of her irritation relief was still the stronger emotion; he'd come back, even after what she'd done to him. The fact that he'd left a message instead of talking to her face to face suggested he was probably still more than a little sore at her, but that was something they'd be able to work out in the weeks or months ahead.
At least she'd have a chance to apologize to him.
* * * * *
Tom hadn't really expected to see anything useful when he returned to the hill for another look at Newpost. Which was why he was so attentive when he saw four big trucks heading towards the occupied trading post from the south.
A resupply convoy?
The soldiers in town burst into activity at the arrival of the vehicles, chivvying the enslaved people of Newpost into work unloading them. The cargo seemed to be mostly food and drums of fuel, although he saw the soldiers personally unloading military crates that probably held weapons and ammunition.
Once the unloading was completed the slaves were directed to begin loading boxes back into two of the trucks that probably contained looted valuables. But the remaining two empty trucks pulled away from the others and rumbled their way to the prisoner camp, where they were let inside. The guards there began rounding up prisoners, inspecting them with callous efficiency and loading them into the back of the trucks.
So, there were regular convoys running between Texas and wherever these soldiers had come from, bringing supplies up and taking loot and slaves back down.
Tom's attention sharpened to sudden hope when he realized that the prisoners being loaded into the vehicles were all from Simon's convoy. He watched as Kristy's friend Bob and his daughter Lisa were herded into the lead vehicle with the thirty or so men, old women, and children, the severely beaten man clutching his daughter tight as they shuffled along with the others. The only sign of fire the poor man showed was when one of the soldiers pried Lisa from his arms to lift the girl up into the vehicle, when he hurried to climb up after her and resumed holding her protectively.
The other women from the convoy were being loaded into the second vehicle. Many were calling to their loved ones by the first truck, trying to go to them, but the soldiers roughly herded them back into place. Among them Tom saw Vicky Hendrickson; through the binoculars he could see bruises on the poor woman's face, and her expression was dull and defeated as she was shoved back from going to her family and forced up into the back of the vehicle.
Behind her one of the girls from the convoy in her late teens moved to follow. But before she could the truck's driver, standing nearby watching with detached curiosity, abruptly stepped forward and grabbed her elbow. Tom tensed as the soldier exchanged a few words with the camp guards, who shrugged and smirked as they pointed at the building near the camp's entrance.
The driver eagerly led the girl in that direction. She followed dully, without any visible reluctance or change of expression aside from visibly trembling. In spite of that the soldier still slapped her hard as he shoved her through the door, laughing as she cringed.
Tom looked away, pretty sure of what was happening and feeling sick at the thought of what the poor girl was about to go through. What she'd likely been going through ever since her capture. He turned his eyes back to the truck, where the guards continued to load prisoners. From the looks of things everyone from Simon's convoy was being packed into the two vehicles like sardines, likely on their way to someplace down in Central or South America where they'd live lives of continued hardship and suffering.
A distant rumble of engines turned his gaze back to the other side of Newpost, where the trucks loaded with loot were already pulling out the southern gate and starting on their way south, not waiting for the ones carrying the slaves.
His mind churned with a sudden thought, and although he angrily did his best to shove it down it wouldn't go away.
Trying to sneak a bunch of prisoners out of a well guarded camp in the middle of an occupied town might be suicide, but waylaying a couple trucks with drivers and at most two accompanying soldiers was a different matter. Especially when those trucks would carry enough fuel to get them wherever they were taking those prisoners.
Possibly enough fuel to get back to Emery, or at least Colorado.
Attacking two moving vehicles with two to four soldiers was hugely risky, especially so close to Newpost where dozens more vehicles and hundreds more soldiers waited. Tom wasn't sure he was willing to take that risk, and if he did it certainly wouldn't be for Kristy.
But at the same time he couldn't ignore the suffering of those people down there, people he'd known at least in passing from traveling together. And he especially couldn't ignore the abuses being visited on the women and the brutal futures waiting for the children.
Besides, he'd promised to get these people safely where they were going, and while he'd never been paid and they were already in Newpost that didn't change the responsibility he felt for them. He'd never once broken a promise in the ten years since the Ultimatum and didn't intend to start now.
He wanted to help them, and it was possible he might be able to; he didn't have to make any decisions right now, but he did have to move.
Tom eased away from his observation spot on the hill and ran south skirting the occupied town's earthworks, going at a hard pace he couldn't maintain for more than twenty minutes or so. But hopefully twenty minutes would be all he needed. His pack's weight slowed him down but he wasn't about to leave it behind for anything, and anyway if things went as planned he wouldn't have a chance to come back for it.
He took a route he'd used a couple times while hunting near Newpost, one that would keep him out of sight of the soldiers on the earth berms. The ground passed by in a blur beneath him, his eyes tearing up slightly as the hot wind of his speed blasted them and sweat streaming down his face. Minutes passed by in the same blur, a familiar eternity where all his focus was on his breathing and properly placing his feet on uneven ground, with the rest of his attention on his surroundings alert for any danger.
Soon he reached the steep rise he'd been aiming for. The road going south curved around it, which would put any vehicles traveling along it out of sight of Newpost and also hopefully mute the sound of gunshots. Tom searched around until he found a narrow spot along the road where the rise became a cliff, which crowded the pavement on one side while trees crowded it on the other.
A natural choke point.
He scrambled up the steep slope near the cliff, searching until he found a decent sized rock splitting away from a formation on it. With a bit of hard kicking and plenty of curses he managed to break it free, leaning back with a satisfied grunt to watch it roll out onto the road, blocking it.
Then he climbed the rest of the way up the rise and worriedly turned his binoculars on the prison camp, now miles to the north of him. He was afraid the driver had long since finished with his vile amusements and the trucks had already headed south, long before Tom could even get here and prepare his ambush.
But he didn't expect it. Most people weren't in a hurry to start a trip again after just finishing one, especially when they had a reason to stick around. Even if the driver was no longer with the poor girl in the building Tom had a feeling the other soldiers assigned to take the prisoners south would all want turns of their own.
After a brief survey of the camp Tom saw with relief that the trucks were still there. The guards were still gathered around the loaded vehicles, along with the driver who'd gone inside with the girl earlier, while the other driver was nowhere to be seen. The soldiers stood around idly, occasionally nodding or pointing to the prison building and apparently complaining.
It seemed like the second man was taking his time. That couldn't be fun for the poor woman, but it would give Tom the chance to properly prepare to help her. If he was going to; he still hadn't decided, but the fact that he was here and had already dislodged the boulder made it seem like maybe his unconscious mind had already made itself up.
Then he found a spot in the trees where he'd have a good vantage point to shoot into the cab of both trucks when they came around the bend. Even if the drivers saw the road was blocked, got suspicious, and immediately tried to back up and get out of there, Tom was confident he would still have enough time to take them out. Hopefully from there he could then move on to any soldiers who'd accompanied the drivers and get them before they found cover.
As long as the trucks' windshields weren't reinforced, fingers crossed. If they were it would take multiple shots to weaken them enough to puncture through and hit the occupants inside, assuming he had time before they got away.
Well, cross that bridge when he came to it. Tom eased out of the trees and climbed the rise again, lifting the binoculars to find things still just how he'd left them.
A few minutes later the second driver emerged from the building, grinning broadly and making a big show of fastening his belt. The girl from the convoy stumbled out behind him, the tears glistening on her cheeks highlighting a fresh bruise there. From the painful way she walked as she was led to the second truck and pushed up inside it was obvious the soldier hadn't been gentle with her, and Tom grit his teeth and focused on the man.
He no longer had any doubts about whether he was doing this. And if he hadn't already been planning to shoot that SOB, now it was definite.
In the end one soldier accompanied the two drivers, settling into the passenger seat of the lead vehicle. That meant three people Tom would have to deal with.
He could manage that . . . for the sake of those poor people down there he had to.
The trucks rumbled to life and started out of the prison camp, coming his way. Tom slid back down the rise and returned to his ambush spot, confirming that his .308 was loaded, the scope hadn't been jostled loose, and everything with it still looked good. Then he mentally worked through what was likely to happen when the trucks rounded the corner, taking the shots in his mind as he sighted through his scope at the spot the trucks would appear around.
Before long the steadily approaching rumble of engines abruptly grew louder as the lead vehicle rounded the bend, closely followed by the second one. They spotted the rocks across the road quickly, and Tom could see the lead driver's mouth moving as he cursed.
He held his breath and pressed his finger to the trigger, ready to shoot the moment it seemed like the man sensed something fishy and tried to get out of there.
But to his surprise instead the lead driver parked the truck and both him and his passenger got out, along with the driver of the second truck. He couldn't have hoped for a better outcome.
The three men glared at the blockage, cursing in Spanish so Tom was able to understand them. “Just drove through here,” the lead driver muttered. “Can't go five miles on these roads without some problem.”
The other driver set his rifle on the hood of the truck and started forward, crouching to test the weight of the big stone Tom had dislodged. After a moment he grunted and turned to the first driver. “You going to sit there whining all day?” he demanded.
With some more cursing the driver set down his own rifle against the truck's driver side wheel and crouched down to help the other man pick up the heavy stone while the third soldier covered them. Both men together could barely shift it, and they cursed and heaved together to awkwardly flip it over, then repeated the process.
Tom waited until they'd moved it to the side of the road before shooting the soldier on guard. Both drivers whirled with surprising speed, and one managed to snatch his pistol free of its holster and point it Tom's way.
It was the second driver; Tom felt a slight touch of satisfaction as he slammed the bolt home to chamber another round and shot the man in the chest.
The third driver wasn't carrying a pistol, and although he dove for his rifle behind the cover of the truck Tom still had a shot at his lower half. He aimed for the spine, and whether or not he hit it the man dropped twitching.
Tom immediately broke from cover and moved to a vantage point where he could get a killing shot on the injured man. Then he cautiously approached with rifle raised and ready to fire as he confirmed the three soldiers were dead. The first man he'd shot wasn't quite, although he was too injured to be a threat.
Better safe than sorry though, and no sense letting the guy suffer a slow death, even if he probably deserved it. Tom slung his .308 back over his pack and finished the soldier off with his revolver.
As soon as he was sure it was safe he circled around the lead truck. The back of the vehicle was bolted from the outside, no surprise considering the cargo. Tom drew the bolt back and threw open the door, looking in at the huddle of filthy, emaciated faces staring back fearfully.
“What's going on?” the man nearest him asked hoarsely.
Time did his best to make his voice calm and reassuring. “I just killed your captors. You're all free.”
For a moment his news was met with blank disbelief. Then the cramped, stinking compartment exploded with gasps of relief, whispered prayers of thanks, and even a few subdued cheers.
A young man near the back suddenly swore in surprise. “Hold up . . . is that you, Trapper?”
Tom recognized the guy: Brandon Gerry, who'd usually been assigned to drive the team of oxen pulling the biggest wagon. “It's me,” he replied.
He heard incredulous murmurs. “Without the beard you're completely unrecognizable!” Brandon said with an almost giddy laugh. “What're you doing here? We figured you'd been left for dead back in New Mexico.”
“That's a long story, one we don't have time for at the moment.” Tom drew his knife to free the nearest man's bound hands.
Before he could a shout from farther back in the crowd of people was quickly followed by a filthy, emaciated man with dark red hair struggling through the press. “You!” Simon snarled. Before Tom could even reply the man flew at him out of the truck, bound arms wrapping around his neck and hurling them both to the ground. His knife flew out of his grip and bounced several feet away, but if Simon noticed he was too busy trying to throttle him to go after it.
For a few seconds Tom lay stunned, half because of the nasty knock to his head as they hit the pavement and half from the sheer unexpectedness of the attack. During that time Simon yanked his hands free from around Tom's neck and began slamming both fists down into his face, throwing the whole weight of his emaciated frame behind the blows.
As it turned out that still wasn't much. Once Tom recovered from his surprise it was almost pathetically easy to flip the redheaded man onto his back and pin him. “Are you insane?” he demanded as Simon continued to struggle fiercely, face twisted into an expression of blind fury. “Stop!”
“You led us into a bandit attack then hid like a coward!” the redheaded man raged.
Other men from the convoy were starting to drop from the back of the truck, clumsy from starvation and exhaustion but looking happy to be free. Bob Hendrickson, weak but determined, immediately started forward. “Hey, calm down man,” he said in a soothing voice.
Simon glared at the severely beaten man, then around at the other prisoners. He must not've seen many supportive faces, because his expression grew incredulous. “Wait, you guys are taking his side? Against your own leader?”
An older woman still in the truck called out derisively. “Haven't seen you even trying to lead or inspire us since we got captured. You just huddled into a ball and shut your eyes to it all.” She snorted. “Heck, we could argue you stopped being a leader even before the attack, when you got us all captured by ordering us to fight instead of running like we should've.”
“You want to blame me for that?” the convoy's apparently former leader shouted, kicking up his
struggles a notch. He jerked his head Tom's way. “This is the guy who got us captured!”
“Actually he's the guy who just rescued us,” Brandon pointed out.
“He wouldn't have needed to rescue us if he'd helped back then!”
Tom snorted. “Against a few dozen men with vehicles and a mounted machine gun?”
Still Simon refused to relent. “They killed my best friend!” he snarled. “And the rest of us weren't much luckier. Do you have any idea what we suffered? What they did to our women?”
Bob's face suddenly went pale with grief and fury, swiftly overcome by desperation as he grabbed Tom's shoulder. Tom tensed for an attack, but the man just looked at him pleadingly. “Have you seen Vicky? Is she with the others in the second truck?”
Other men swiftly took up the cry, asking after their own loved ones. Tom immediately nodded and retrieved his knife, leaving Simon fuming on the ground as he motioned for Bob to hold out his hands so he could free him. “As far as I could see they're all there.”
“Thank God,” the man breathed, barely waiting to be cut loose before bolting for the other vehicle. Half the men followed with equal desperation, even though they were still tied up, while the others crowded around Tom waiting their turns to be freed.
He cut the next man loose then handed him the knife so he could continue freeing the others, while he stepped back and addressed the growing crowd of people jumping down from the truck. “Don't hop down just yet, folks, we're taking these vehicles.”
“Where?” the older woman from before asked hoarsely, the question met with murmurs of agreement.
Tom gave her a reassuring smile. “After a quick stop I plan to take these trucks to Colorado, maybe even all the way to Utah. You're all welcome to come along.”
That was met with another outburst of heartfelt relief and celebration, and Tom didn't blame them; after what they'd been through they'd want to get as far from here as possible.