While the water heated, he glanced through his spotting scope in the direction of the river. He'd have preferred to own a twelve hundred dollar Leupold, though what he had was a thirty dollar Barska with a wobbly tripod. In the end, it pretty much did the same thing. He also knew that breaking the Leupold would hurt a whole lot worse than breaking the Barska.
As his eye adjusted to the view, he spotted movement. Four figures were coming in his direction. “You bastards," he mumbled.
The young men carried rifles and their pants were wet to their knees from crossing the river. Hugh knew in his gut there was probably only one reason these men were headed toward the valley, and that was to hunt Jim. At first glance they appeared to be hunters, but no one hunted the valley anymore except the people who lived there. Word had spread that the valley folk were tight-knit and didn’t like outsiders. They’d blown up all roads into the valley which, in itself, kind of made a statement about how receptive they were to visitors.
He couldn’t drop them in cold blood. There was no aggression and no clear indication they were there to harm his friends. If those intentions were expressed, he could engage them with no hard feelings. He decided to let them get a little closer. If they were inexperienced enough he could put the fear of God in them and send them packing.
Sometimes you got more mileage out of that. If he killed the men it was likely others would come looking for them. If he scared the absolute shit out of them and sent them back the way they’d come, it might deter others from trying to reach the valley. However, scaring away bounty hunters was a long shot. The reward promised by the flyer made a tempting offer. Starvation made for strong motivation.
Hugh was irritated that his morning coffee routine, the high point of his day, was being derailed. He used the toe of his boot to nudge the pot further from the heat, hoping this could be dealt with in a few minutes and he could go back to his coffee. He double-checked his rifle and confirmed it was ready to roll, took another glance through the spotting scope, and found the men where he expected them to be. They had not deviated from their course or their previous pace.
While they were far enough away that they wouldn’t hear him, Hugh pulled his radio from its pouch and called Jim, who was still in bed after the late night. It took a minute to get him to answer.
“What is it?” Jim asked.
“I’ve got a couple of young punks approaching me on the road. They’re armed but making no attempt to stay low-key. I’m getting ready to stop them.”
“I’ll be right there to back you up.”
“I can probably take them,” Hugh replied. “There’re only four of them and I’m behind cover.”
“We don’t take chances,” Jim said. “I’m getting ready now. You hold them until I get there. Don’t leave cover.”
Hugh reluctantly agreed, though he didn’t know what all the fuss was about. He’d only wanted to let Jim know what was up in case it became necessary to shoot someone. He didn’t want the shots flipping anyone out.
He moved to the position that offered the best vantage point while providing optimal protection against attack. He took a deep breath and relaxed, studying the men through his rifle scope. Neither their posture nor their manner of approach gave any indication these men had any training or skills he needed to be concerned about. They were casual and loose-limbed in their movements, chattering between themselves as easily as young men walking through a mall parking lot.
Hugh wondered if their presence here was the result of some scheme hatched over a night of drinking or smoking weed. Perhaps the chatter was an attempt to keep their nerve up as the effects of the alcohol waned. He let them reach a point about thirty-five yards away and flicked his safety off.
"You boys cooperate now,” Hugh whispered. “I told Jim I wouldn’t shoot anyone until he got here. Don’t make a liar out of me."
A little closer and he could hear their voices. It was time.
“Don’t you fucking move!” he bellowed.
The boys froze in their tracks. Experience told Hugh they were weighing their options, deciding whether to fight or to run. The key was to take control of the situation before they had time to arrive at a plan.
“Drop those guns! I will open fire and I will not miss. Unless you want to die, drop those weapons now.”
When they didn’t respond fast enough, he started counting backward. “Three! Two!”
Their rifles clattered to the ground.
“Turn away from me!” Hugh demanded. “Do it now! Do not look at me!”
The men hesitated to take action.
“NOW!” he barked.
They complied, slowly rotating in place until each man was facing away from him.
Hugh stepped from cover, his rifle at high ready and sweeping the line of young men. No one wore a web belt or holster but that didn’t mean they didn’t have deadly goodies stashed away somewhere.
“We’re—” one of the men began.
“No talking,” Hugh cut in. “You’re going to keep your mouths shut until I tell you to talk.”
Hugh approached the line of men. When he was about fifteen yards from them he stopped. “Starting on my right, the guy in the blue hoodie, lower your left hand and drop your pants to your ankles.”
“What?” the young man asked, starting to turn.
“Do not turn around!” Hugh bellowed. “You do what I tell you or you die now.”
He did as he was told, lowering his left hand and unfastening his pants. Once that was done, the weight of the gear in pockets pulled them the rest of the way down. Hugh worked his way down the line, having each man do the same thing. Besides effectively hobbling the men so they couldn't run, this reduced the chances of anyone pulling a surprise from their belt or pockets.
They were standing this way, lined up with their hands folded behind their head, fingers interlaced, pants around their ankles, when Jim rode up. He found it to be a somewhat appalling sight to ride up upon, like walking in on some bizarre cult performing a ritual.
"About time you got here,” Hugh said. “You run into town for breakfast on your way?”
With his rifle at the ready, Jim moved alongside his friend. "This is a disturbing sight, Hugh.”
“Had I realized that some of these men had dispensed with the practice of wearing underwear, I might have chosen a different approach. My intention wasn’t just for my safety, but to add insult to injury.”
“It’s my eyes being injured,” Jim remarked.
"I haven’t questioned them and I haven’t allowed them to say anything. I was waiting on you. I’m not sure if this is a serious attempt at a breach or merely one of those ‘hold my beer’ moments."
"Explain yourself, boys," Jim demanded. "Whose harebrained scheme was this?"
Whispers were exchanged and then one man spoke up. “Brady. It was all Brady's idea."
Jim moved his rifle from man to man. "Which one you assholes is Brady?"
Suddenly, there was an eruption of gunfire in the distance. Jim cocked his head and tried to locate the origin. With a sickening realization, he came to the conclusion that it was not coming from town. It was coming from his valley. Someone was shooting at his people.
"That's Brady," said the spokesman for the group, turning around to reveal a broad grin.
Jim erased that smile with a single 5.56 round to the spokesman’s chest. He jerked and toppled. His companions twisted to stare at Jim in shock.
"You’d better run," Jim said to the rest of them.
One bent, yanked up his pants, and started running. The other two stepped out of their pants and left them behind, scrambling booted and bare-assed toward the river.
"Hide those weapons!" Jim yelled at Hugh. "Stash them then come on. It sounds like we might need all hands."
Hugh checked the progress of the fleeing men and decided they weren’t running fast enough. He sent a couple of judicious rounds in their direction and they picked up the pace accordingly.
Jim was tr
ying to mount his horse. It skittered away, startled by his rapid movements and sensitive to his heightened anxiety. Jim finally got a hand on the saddle horn and pulled himself up. Then he was off and running, hoping like hell he didn't fall off.
20
Before the young men showed up at Hugh’s observation post, a larger force was entering the valley by another route. Their goal was to find Jim and take him prisoner, then hold him for the reward. Their strategy was to launch a diversion against the known observation post on the valley side of the river, then use stealth to bypass a second known observation post on the main road into the valley. They knew exactly where they were going and their strategy was sound. In fact, Lloyd might not have even noticed them if not for the Wimmers’ dog.
"Shut the hell up, dog," Lloyd mumbled. "You're throwing off my timing."
He was trying to learn a new song on the banjo and the dog’s irregular barking ran counter to Lloyd’s internal metronome, throwing him off. Eventually Lloyd noticed that it didn’t seem to be barking at another dog’s distant bark; it sounded different. It was that urgent, persistent bark a dog uses when something is out of place.
Halfway suspecting that he’d find a bear crossing the pasture, which was a common enough sight, Lloyd threw a glance in that direction and froze. A distant line of men were moving across the field. They were in the open pasture behind the Wimmers’ house, not far from where the sheriff was living. On that side of the road there were hundreds of yards of pasture that gradually increased in steepness as it ramped up the shoulder of Clinch Mountain. Where the land became too steep to mow for hay, forest took over. A little more than halfway between the houses and the tree line, the procession of men looked like a team of ants urgently working their way across the sidewalk.
Lloyd took up the cheesy pair of binoculars Jim left hanging in the observation post. Even through the low-quality glass he counted ten men carrying rifles and moving rapidly across the field. Some had on camouflage hunting clothing but others wore earth tones, trying to blend into their surroundings. Lloyd picked his radio up from the pile of gear on the dirt floor.
"Jim! Jim! I've got ten armed men coming into the valley behind the Wimmers’ house. They’re not moving like hunters. I think we’re being attacked!"
Lloyd waited for a long moment and there was no reply.
"Jim! Someone answer me. I need some help up here!”
No reply.
"Dammit!" Lloyd shoved the radio into a back pocket and started frantically pulling on his gear. He checked his rifle and confirmed there was a round in the chamber. Jim made him carry one of those fancy AR-15s because of the capacity and range but he’d have been much more comfortable with a double-barrel shotgun, a traditional hillbilly weapon. These fancy black guns were too complicated. Too many moving knobs and moving parts.
After finally remembering how to pull back the charging handle and confirm the glint of brass, Lloyd slumped back against the thick poplar logs that made up the back wall. He was sweating and his heart was racing, his breath erupting in frantic gasps. He decided to try the radio one more time before dealing with this on his own.
"Gary! Randi! Anybody! This is Lloyd. I've got armed men running across the field behind the Wimmers’ house. I can't get Jim on the radio. I'm going to try to intercept them and slow them down but I don’t know if I can do it by myself. If anyone gets this message, I could probably use some help.”
Lloyd shoved the radio into a pocket on the tactical vest he'd been given. Jim said it was a “battlefield pickup” and Lloyd hoped he fared better than the previous user. He ducked through the low door of the observation post and set an intercept path toward the group of men. He couldn’t even believe he was doing it. He was never the type to run toward danger. It was going against every survival instinct he had.
Although he had no training of any kind, he used his common sense to keep himself concealed. He ran along the fence line, then used the terrain and foliage to block him from the other group of men. When he found a location that offered a vantage point, he checked his bearings to make sure he was headed in the right direction.
Lloyd didn't do much running and this whole endeavor was taking way more effort than he’d imagined. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run more than a few steps. Maybe it was that day he’d lost a few fingers in the woods behind Jim’s house, or perhaps it was the day Buddy died.
He thought of all the times in his life that he’d joked about homemade liquor keeping him from getting worms. While that may be the case, one thing that it did not do was properly hydrate the body for extended running. Lloyd's muscles cramped and spasmed, eventually slowing him to a stilted, awkward stagger. He was limping and cursing when the radio in his pocket chirped.
"Lloyd, this is Randi, what the hell is going on?"
Lloyd fumbled to get the radio from his pocket. He raked the back of a forearm across his face to mop up the rivulets of sweat stinging his eyes. He wanted to sit down but was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get back up. "Men," he gasped. “Counted…ten. They went around me. Headed into the valley. I'm trying…to catch them…but I suck."
"They might be headed for Jim's place."
Lloyd started limping on again. "I tried to get him but he doesn't answer."
"Ellen! Pops! Pete! Charlie!" Randi said. “Is anyone receiving this?”
"I tried," Lloyd moaned.
"I better head over to his place. You keep an eye on those guys but don’t bite off more than you can chew. Got it?”
"You go ahead," Lloyd groaned. "If I can pin these guys down, hopefully I can hold them until help comes."
"Lloyd," came a voice. “It’s Gary.”
"Gary, Lloyd has armed men coming into the valley on his end,” Randi cut in. “Where are you?"
"I'm at my house," Gary replied. "Do I need to come back you up, Lloyd?"
"Yes!" Lloyd said. “Please.”
"No!" Randi countered. "What if we’re being attacked on all fronts? Men could be coming in on Gary's end of the valley too. He might need to stay down there and keep an eye on things."
"Fine, I got this," Lloyd said. He didn’t mean it. When he got killed, he hoped they lost some sleep over it. It would serve them right. He nearly had the radio back into its pouch when yet another voice entered the conversation.
"You say these men are high on the shoulder of the mountain, behind the Wimmer place?" It was Mack Bird.
"Yeah," Lloyd said. “Headed into the valley, halfway up to the tree line.”
"That means they’ll be approaching my place soon," Bird replied. "I’ll be ready for them. I’ll engage from the front. When I start shooting, you hit them from the back. Just don't fire toward my house. Got it?"
"Got it," Lloyd replied, relieved to not be carrying the weight of this whole effort.
After a minute or two of walking, the cramps began to subside and he picked up the pace, loping through the damp grass. One foot landed in a fresh green pile of fragrant cow manure and Lloyd slipped, nearly going down. He didn’t fall but the awkward maneuver twisted his knee and added a new pain to the bitter fruit salad of aches plaguing him.
Had he been behind these men and trying to catch up with them, there was no way he’d had ever gotten within range. However, having a reasonable idea of where they were headed and setting an intercept course allowed him to gradually close the distance. As Lloyd gained ground on them, he hid himself in the narrow draws etched into the mountain by millions of years of runoff. Moving up the draw provided both concealment and cover for the moment he intercepted his target.
He bobbed up occasionally, like a gopher from its hole, peering over the lip of the draw to get his bearings. When he was within a hundred yards of the men a smile curled the corners of his mouth. He could do this. He didn’t need any help. He could halve the distance, then halve it again. When they were trapped in the open with nowhere to go, he would open fire.
Yet it was not to be.
Lloyd made i
t perhaps twenty-five more feet when a painful spasm seized his entire body. He had no idea what was happening. The pain was so blinding and all-encompassing he feared he was having a heart attack or a stroke. He made it two more steps before pitching over into the damp grass.
He tried to push against the pain crushing his body like a vise, trying to curl him like plastic melting in a fire. The spasm stretched from his calf, up his thigh, through his abdomen, and along his back. His fingers curled and he could not straighten them. He could barely breathe. He could not recall ever having been in so much physical pain. Was this it? Was he going to die? If he did, these men were going to run unimpeded toward his friend’s home.
If dying was going to take some time, he decided those minutes should be well-spent. He rolled to his belly and dragged himself through the wet grass, pulling himself up the gentle slope of the draw. He crawled to the edge and peered over. Sweat soaked his body and tears filled his eyes. The men were a good distance away and getting further with each second. If he was going to die, he could at least take a few of them with him.
He raised the rifle and rested it on a forearm to keep the magazine from hitting the ground. The low magnification scope had hit the ground when he fell. A clump of mud and damp grass seeds packed the end of it.
“Shit!”
He pulled the rifle to him and used a damp shirttail to scrub the lens clean. It wasn’t perfect but it was going to have to do. He put the crosshairs on the cluster of men and tried to relax his body but it was a lost cause. The spasm had not subsided but the pain ebbed and flowed. If he could time the pain right and if the scope hadn’t lost zero in the fall, he might be able to hit something.
Lloyd flipped the safety off, centered the crosshair on the back of the closest man, and started pulling the trigger as fast as he could. For a moment, Lloyd flashed back on his grandfather and his stories of being in the Pacific in World War II. He felt like he was in a machine gun nest trying to hold off Japanese soldiers determined to take his position.
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