But there was no sign of that. Hours into the day's travel, after causing the enemy a loss similar to what they'd suffered at Emery, if a bit smaller in scale, and there was nothing.
Where were the bloodies? Troubled, and wondering if this somehow spelled disaster rather than the good news it appeared to be, Brandon made his way back to the group.
Along the way he caught up to the rearguard and scouts, warning them to be even more vigilant. He also resolved to pass the word along to the scouts ahead and to either side, in case they were being cut off or surrounded.
When he reached the struggling group and laid out his concerns to his volunteers, however, Ray simply rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, I did blow up their command tent, and I think I saw their armory go up in flames,” he pointed out. “Their radios would've been in one of those places, wouldn't they?”
Andy snorted. “You think out of over a hundred bloodies, not a single one would have a spare?”
The older man glowered. “Why not? Maybe you don't know how militaries work, but they tend to keep track of their gear. I recall some armies didn't even issue soldiers their rifles until they were headed out into the field, and I'm sure their leaders would keep an even tighter watch on valuable radios, having them all locked away in a secure location for the night.”
Brandon nodded slowly. “On top of that, Tanner's group stole Sangue's trucks, which would've been their other source of radios.” Was it actually possible that the bloodies hadn't been able to call in the jailbreak, at least until the next convoy rolled into camp and learned what had happened? That those few dozen soldiers who'd chased them in the night were all that was coming, at least for the moment?
If so, they might actually have a chance to get away after all.
Jenny seemed to have the same idea. “We should press this advantage, try even harder to put distance behind us before Sangue's able to start their search.”
Nobody seemed to have an argument with that, although Andy looked troubled. Brandon nodded briskly. “All right. Don't push too hard, though, and be generous with the food and water. Resting for a minute or two every half hour is better than people collapsing from exhaustion and needing an hour to recover, and half our people are already lending a shoulder to the worst off where needed as it is.”
With their plan, such as it was, decided on, Brandon headed back out to do a rounds and check on the scouts. Andy insisted on going with him, protesting that his minor puncture wound was doing just fine and he was good to go.
If that wasn't what was bothering his friend, it was probably worth looking into. “What's eating you?” he asked as they made their way back to the rearguard.
Andy glanced at him sidelong, expression tightening. “I was just thinking,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We're worried about bloodies chasing us from the road, and we should be. But even if they didn't have radios to begin with, they will before long. And the squads that chase us will, too. And when they do, they'll be able to radio ahead.”
Brandon's gut clenched at the implication. “You think they'll call in the patrols searching for Camptown to come after us?”
“Why not?” his friend said grimly. “They're in the area, there's hundreds of them out there, and most of them are going to already be in the direction we're going. They could probably walk five feet out of their way to cut us off, even set up ambushes.”
He could admit that he'd considered the possibility of them running into some of the bloodies searching for the bowl valley as he led the slaves there. But he hadn't considered that the enemy might radio ahead and mobilize all those soldiers to come after them. Combined with the pursuit coming in hard from behind, that would put his group between hammer and anvil, slow and exhausted and poorly armed and with nowhere to go to get out of the trap.
“We sent people ahead to Camptown,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Gray will clear us a path.”
Andy looked at him dubiously. “Didn't he as much as say that Camptown was already hard pressed, and he couldn't spare more than he'd already given us?”
“Well yeah. But if the bloodies break off their search to come after us, that gives Gray more breathing room. He'll be able to spare fighters to come give us a hand.”
“Once he figures out that's what's going on,” his friend pointed out. “What if it takes him too long to do that, and his people don't reach us in time?”
Brandon clapped him on the shoulder, forcing a smile. He'd thought the delayed pursuit was a reprieve, and didn't like the idea that it had just put off the inevitable. So his reassurance was as much for himself as for Andy. “They will. Gray knows his business, he'll be here for us.”
He had to be.
* * * * *
Gray's chest hurt.
That tended to never be a good thing, and at his age almost certainly wasn't. The old ticker had given him more than a few scares over the years, especially since he signed up to lead his city's militia and felt the ever increasing burden of responsibility for his people crushing him.
Then, of course, during the death march from Grand Junction he could've sworn he'd suffered at least one minor heart attack. Frankly, it was a miracle he was still alive; people didn't tend to reach his age in the days after the Ultimatum, especially with a vicious enemy invading their country.
Although if he had to be honest, his longevity felt less like a miracle than a curse. The chance to finally rest, to put it all aside and let whatever came next finally come, seemed pretty darn welcome at the moment.
But that was probably just the half a day of exhausting pursuit of an enemy force doing the talking. No doubt it was also what made his chest feel like it was caught in a vise, even though he'd resigned himself to the limits of his age and chosen to ride while most of his people marched.
If there had been anyone, anyone else who had the slightest chance of keeping these people alive in a war against Sangue, Gray would've told Trapper some inventive things he could do with his rifle when the miserable SOB tried to foist this burden back on his shoulders.
But here he was, and the few dozen fighters he had with him to pursue two squads of bloodies were just as burned out as he was. They'd had to run themselves ragged to keep up with the enemy, who were in turn pushing north at a brutal pace, either not noticing or not caring about Gray's force coming up behind them.
There could only be one explanation for that.
These Sangue patrols had been relentlessly searching this area for weeks now, shrugging aside skirmisher harassment in order to push closer and closer to Camptown. Even when Jonas and Gerry had taken out Highway 29 again, inciting a swarm of furious searchers farther north, the squads searching for Camptown hadn't relented. Gray's lieutenant had long since returned with news of their success, but that hadn't stopped the enemy from hunting for the hiding place of Gray's people.
So what would make the enemy searchers suddenly turn tail and bolt? Not just these ones, but from the mirror and even smoke signals relayed by other scouts scattered along the area north of the bowl valley, it looked as if other groups of enemy soldiers had also abruptly turned north.
The only explanation he could think of, the only one that made sense, was that Gerry had managed to successfully stage his jailbreak. The bloodies were temporarily abandoning their search because dozens or even hundreds of their slaves had escaped the work camp and were fleeing south, and they were moving to cut them off.
Which meant if Gray didn't catch up to these bloodies and take them out, they were going to catch Gerry's beleaguered group between hammer and anvil. A lot of innocent people, people who were only in this situation because of Camptown's interference, were going to die.
Which would just make this the perfect blasted time to suffer a heart attack.
He glanced at the sun, a few hours past noon, with a frown, doing the math. On top of trying to figure out which path Gerry would take south, he had to try to calculate how long it would take for his fighter
s to meet up with the young man's force.
Assuming the bloodies knew where Gerry was, Gray could just follow them right where he needed to go. And given where they'd started from, it would probably be around full dark or sometime tomorrow morning when they met the group of freed prisoners running south.
At least, he hoped; nighttime fighting was awful at the best of times, and while trying to head off the better part of forty enemy soldiers before they could slaughter a bunch of emaciated freed slaves armed with nothing but pistols and shotguns, well . . .
He'd have to do everything in his power to prevent that, if it looked like it might become a possibility. Which led to another calculation he had to make: was he going to make it to nightfall without dropping dead?
Him, personally, that is, although his fighters were also seriously struggling.
Up ahead he saw Jonas returning from the forward scouts to report, and turned his horse to meet him. With any luck his lieutenant would have good news about their enemy's movements, like that the bloodies had all dropped dead from exhaustion and they'd won the fight without a shot fired.
Although knowing his luck, it would probably be the exact opposite. “What's going on with our quarry?” he called, forcing himself to breathe deep against the burning in his chest.
Jonas spat off to one side in disgust. “They've sped up.”
Gray stared at him blankly. Sure, he'd been pessimistic, but this? “Sped up, at the pace they were already going? How's that even possible?”
“Second wind, I guess. Point is, they're getting away from us.”
He sighed, rubbing his chest again. Nightfall was looking more and more like a long shot. “I guess we'll have to go even faster ourselves, then. Get the volunteer scouts who know this terrain to find us the fastest route . . . maybe we can luck into a shortcut that wins us some extra speed.”
“Worth a shot.” His lieutenant loped off. Gray watched him go, unable to bite back a scowl at the seemingly boundless energy the man had.
With a sigh he turned away, jumping slightly when he saw one of his runners standing nearby. He always had one or two stay close so he could send them off with instructions, since it wasn't like he had the energy to go haring off whenever he wanted these days.
“You know, I had a dream last night I was back at my old job,” he told her.
The young woman frowned. “As Sheriff of Grand Junction?”
“My old old job,” Gray snapped. What was her name again? He supposed it didn't really matter. “Back before the Ultimatum, before the shortages even. Actually decades before then, when I was still a young buck. I was back on my beat, chasing some punk drug dealer through the streets of Grand Junction.”
He snorted, staring at the mountains ahead. They seemed endless. “I could run again. Fast as I ever did, body light as a feather instead of this sack of lead I'm lugging around these days. I'd forgotten what that felt like.” He paused to give her a stern look. “Bear that in mind . . . all that youthful energy you take for granted, I can't actually remember how it feels.”
The runner, Emma, that was her name, shook her head wryly and took her place by his stirrup to keep pace with him. “Don't take this the wrong way, Sheriff, but you're acting like you're the first old person to ever try to school one of us young'uns on appreciating how good we have it.” She beamed up at him, probably aware of just how charming her fresh-faced look was. “Believe me, sir, I appreciate it.”
Gray was positive he didn't harrumph like an ornery old coot, it just sounded like it. “You might think you do,” he said as he nudged his horse into a faster walk to set the new pace for his fighters. “And you will, once you get to my age.”
“Looking forward to it,” she said, deadpan.
It had already been a delicate balance, pushing his people to keep up with the enemy squads. Now he had to pay even more attention to their condition as they struggled to match the increased speed. Emma was a good bellwether for that, since she was close enough for him to notice when she really began to struggle, and he judged she was in roughly average shape for his fighters.
How were the bloodies managing this pace? With each passing hour Gray expected Jonas to send back news that they'd finally hit their limit and slowed, that they'd stopped for a real rest and meal.
His people knew these mountains, they were in excellent shape with consistent decent food and rest, and they were driven by the desire to protect their homes and loved ones and, at the moment, help poor people like them who'd suffered terribly at Sangue's hands. And yet somehow, without the horses or vehicles the enemy usually relied on, they were maintaining this murderous pace that threatened to have Gray's people collapsing from exhaustion at any moment.
He could only hope that it was pure discipline keeping the enemy soldiers going, and they were also on the verge of dropping dead. That, or the enemy was putting so much into just catching Gerry's people that by the time they finally did, they wouldn't have any fight left in them and a bunch of poorly armed freed slaves might have some chance against them.
That, or that full dark would come before the bloodies intercepted Gerry, forcing them to camp for the night.
That seemed like a dim hope; the sun crept towards the western horizon with agonizing, borderline vindictive slowness, mocking the race taking place in the mountains beneath it. Gray lolled in his saddle, beyond exhausted and a mass of aches in spite of sitting his horse while the rest of his people marched. Overshadowing all other pain was the constant burn in his chest, which had spread to a pins and needles tingling in his fingers and toes that warred with the soreness of his muscles.
Come on, you blazing SOB, he silently yelled at the sun, just set already! We've moved heaven and earth to stay alive here, give us a break!
It shined merrily overhead, heedless to any earthly concerns.
After an eternity of Sangue keeping their pace, and his fighters somehow keeping up with them, and Jonas and his scouts reporting no news in the mountains around them, sundown finally came. Gray managed to sit straighter in his saddle, raising his voice to be heard by the lines of struggling fighters behind him.
“Almost to the finish line now, folks! Just a bit more, and we can finally get some proper rest and food.”
Nobody cheered, few even perked up; he'd already lost half a dozen of his people to dropping in exhaustion by the wayside, promising weakly as they were left behind that they'd push extra hard to catch up. They hadn't so far.
Well, morale would improve when they finally got word that the bloodies had stopped for the night, and this nightmarish ordeal was over.
Or not.
In the deepening gloom he caught sight of Emma, who he'd sent ahead with Jonas so she could immediately return with news of Sangue's impending encampment, running flat out towards him. Any hope that she was pushing herself beyond her limits to bring good news was dispelled when she got close enough to read her expression, which was pale with terrified urgency.
“Sheriff!” she croaked, before cutting off with a strangled cough and dropping to her hands and knees twenty yards short of reaching him.
Gray nudged his horse forward to join her, waving curtly as she struggled to speak around panting breaths. “Slow down,” he said calmly. “Catch your breath, just tell me the bare bones facts.”
“Jonas!” the young woman wheezed. “Found . . . Brandon. Sangue there . . . ambush!”
Gray bit back a curse. “How long do we have?”
Before she could answer, the rattle of automatic fire echoed across the valley ahead. It was soon joined by screams and the sharper pops of handguns and booms of shotguns.
Well, that answered that. It was doubtful Sangue had managed to prepare a proper ambush, not so quickly. But it wouldn't take much for professional soldiers with automatic weapons to ruthlessly mow down a bunch of exhausted freed prisoners.
Gray cursed bitterly, staring at the fold in the valley ahead that hid what was happening. His people had pushed as hard as they
could, but were they still too late?
* * * * *
“Hit the dirt!” Brandon yelled over the noise of gunfire and screaming people all around him. He suited his own words by going prone, aiming his rifle up at the dark silhouettes and flashing muzzles among the sparse trees up ahead and snapping off desperate shots.
This was a nightmare.
He'd known it was a risk to cross this valley, which was nothing but a long uphill slope of meadows and airy stands of aspen trees. But there hadn't been an alternative without going way out of their way, slowing their forward progress to a crawl and running the risk of being caught from behind by their pursuers.
And now here they were, caught with their pants down in the middle of a meadow while the bloodies ambushed them from above. He was certain he'd already lost dozens of people to the withering automatic weapons fire, and his own people firing back with their pistols and shotguns felt like kids throwing rocks in comparison.
Guilt and dread wormed in his gut as he realized that he'd just gotten his volunteers and almost a hundred freed men killed. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, because trying to run for cover would just get them butchered faster, and there was nowhere to hide for a hundred yards in any direction.
All he could do was keep shooting and hope for a miracle.
* * * * *
There was no time to waste. Every second Gray delayed meant more innocent people slaughtered by Sangue.
He grit his teeth as the pain in his chest surged, gripping his rifle tightly. Emma was looking up at him with a frantic expression, frozen in the panic of the moment and waiting for him to tell her what to do. He forced himself to give her a reassuring smile as his mind raced.
They were at least three hundred yards away from whatever chaos was happening around the fold of the valley ahead. An eternity when it came to battles.
Mountain Man (Book 5): Final Stand [Last Ditch] Page 23