Seven Out of Hell (9 page)

But now, as the distance between the group and the town narrowed, Terry could almost taste vengeance. Up ahead, sleeping in their innocence of impending slaughter, was a unit of Confederate cavalry. And Terry had no doubt that it was one of many such units scouring Georgia for him following a successful bank raid in Atlanta. It was their ill-luck - and his good fortune - that found them sleeping off their exhaustion trapped in a town which he had claimed as home for the raiders’ wives and families.

At the top of the rise, where the spur of the trail leveled out to feed the town’s single street, Terry raised a hand, halting the men. Then he motioned with his other hand, which clutched the hilt of his saber, instructing the men to split into two groups. One group, led by Terry, continued on up the street while the second angled towards the rear of the houses.

“Hey,” Seward whispered as he drew a bead on one of the raiders. “Ain’t that...?”

“That’s him,” Forrest cut in. “The Captain was right about his luck. Don’t break it for him.”

“What?”

“Don’t reckon he’ll take kindly to anybody else killing Terry.”

From the outside, there was nothing about the houses to arouse the suspicion of the raiders as they crept forward, for sunlight bouncing against the window panes at the front acted as an opaque screen for the men behind them. And at the rear, Scott, Douglas and Rhett stayed low or to the side.

The raiders first surrounded the house at the end of the street, moving with silent caution. From the church, the women watched with bated breath, aware that the house was empty but knowing a shout of warning could also alert the soldiers.

As he neared the front door, Terry drew a Colt from his holster and nodded to two men to cover the window with their rifles. Then he gave a low whistle and the men at the rear closed in. Terry, his grizzled face twisted into a mask of hatred, raised a foot and sent his boot crashing into the door. As it slammed wide, he rushed inside, and two windows smashed in the rear.

“They ain’t here!” he roared and the men ringing the house whirled, fear crawling across their faces.

For long moments the familiar silence gripped the town and the sole movements were the swiveling of the raiders’ eyes as they sought to explore every hiding place. Then Terry exploded an animalistic bellow of frustration and his boot thudded against floorboards as he ran to the door.

“Blast ’em!” Hedges yelled.

Seven rifles cracked with a sound like a single cannon shot. Four raiders screamed and reeled drunkenly before slumping to the ground, pumping blood from head and chest wounds. Two survivors on the street turned and scuttled for the cover of the houses opposite. One of them reached safety but the second was launched into a clumsy cart wheeling motion as a bullet from Forrest’s rifle took the man high in the thigh. He dropped his gun and tried to drag himself one-handed across the sun-baked street as his other hand clawed at the blood-soaked raggedness of his jeans. The rest of the raiders ran into the house where Terry stood, trembling in a rage, shrieking a string of obscenities.

“Come on, Cookie!” the raider on the far side of the street yelled, not daring to break cover to help the injured man.

“Yeah, Cookie!” Seward taunted. “Get the lead outta your pants!”

“For Christ’s sake, they’ll kill you!”

The injured man clawed at the hard ground, his features painted with agony. His body snaked forward a pitiful few inches. Four shots rang out simultaneously and pieces of bloodied flesh and shiny bone splinters spun away from the back of the man’s head. His face snapped forward into the ground and he lay still.

“Bastards!” the man across the street screamed.

“Just the way the Cookie crumbles!” Forrest taunted in reply.

Since the houses were built in a straight line neither group could see its enemy and only the man who had reached the other side of the street was in a position to assess the situation.

“Hemingway!” Terry yelled.

“Yeah, Bill?” The man’s voice was still shaky with shock.

“What d’you see?”

“House next door and the one next to that.”

Terry, sweating, irritatingly aware of the five pairs of eyes looking to him for a decision, began to pace the room.

“We got took, Bill,” a bearded fifty-year-old complained. “Them army guys must have smelled a rat.”

Terry’s arm swung and the saber point was suddenly resting against the man’s middle. “Must have been you,” Terry snarled. “You stink of fear.”

The man’s beard quivered. “Yeah, Bill,” he agreed. “But what we gonna do?”

Terry snorted, spun away from the man and went to the window. He stared out at the empty street. “We’re gonna wait, that’s what,” he hissed. “We’re gonna sweat the army into making first move.”

And the troopers were sweating. The air inside the houses was cloyed with stale heat and the tension of knowing that sudden death lurked only feet away was a strong additional factor in sheening the men’s faces with moisture.

“Reckon they’re waiting for us to do somethin’, Captain?” Bell whispered.

Hedges finished reloading his Spencer and pumped a shell into the breech. “They sure as hell ain’t taking a coffee break,” he answered.

“So what we gonna do?” Bell asked.

“Keep ’em from getting bored,” Hedges replied, stepping to the door and jerking it open.

Hemingway, one of the few raiders wearing a semblance of army uniform - a forage cap - heard the creak of the door. He poked his rifle around the corner of the house and fired one blind shot. His bullet had not found a wild mark in the roof before the Spencers of Bell and Hedges spat lead. Wood splinters flew into the raider’s face, hard and jagged enough to draw blood. As he screamed and threw up his hands to his face, his rifle clattered down on to the street.

“Farewell to an arm,” Hedges muttered as Forrest and Seward sent a volley of bullets towards Hemingway’s position, driving the man further back from the corner.

In the vibrant silence that followed the burst of gunfire the heat seemed to increase in intensity. But then the sound of running feet caused every man in the three houses to tighten his grip on his rifle. But the footfalls were moving away from the street and Hedges grinned as he spotted the retreating figure of Hemingway.

Terry bellowed his rage and the shot that was sent after the fleeing man came from his gun. It dug up dirt short of the target and Hemingway splashed through the stream and scuttled towards a stand of trees halfway down the slope.

“The bastard ran out on us!” Terry roared.

“He ain’t ready to die,” Hedges taunted “It ain’t afternoon yet.”

“Where’s he go, Captain?” Bell wanted to know, scanning the street, fearful of attack from another quarter.

“Forget him,” Hedges answered from the open doorway. “Across the river and into the trees.” He looked along the street towards the church and saw the big door was still firmly closed. “Get the others,” he instructed and stepped outside, flattening himself against the front wall.

“Bill, they’re coming out!” a woman shrieked from the church.

Bell, Rhett and Douglas came through the doorway sideways and then followed Hedges in a crouched run for the gap between the house they had left and the one occupied by the other three troopers. Terry pushed his revolver out of his doorway and sent a wild shot harmlessly across the front of the houses.

“You out there?” Forrest called.

Hedges kept his voice low. “I’ll cover the front. Make it out the rear.”

He stepped away from the corner and began firing along the ^street, working the action of the Spencer to the limit of its speed. Then, when the gun was empty, he snatched Rhett’s rifle and continued in the same manner.

Inside the house Forrest whirled and broke into a run across the sitting room and into the kitchen. Seward was hard on his heels. The sergeant crashed into the rear door and it was ripped off its hinges. As he and Seward burst into the open they began to pour lead towards the house next door. The startled Scott had to crouch down under their line of fire as he made his escape. Only one wild shot was exploded from the rear of Terry’s stronghold before the three troopers ducked into cover to join the other four Union men.

Hedges began to reload both the emptied Spencers as Rhett relieved himself against the house wall.

“He’s getting better,” Seward rasped. “Didn’t wet his pants this time.”

Hedges threw the New Englander’s rifle to him. “It’s the only goddamn weapon he’s fired all morning.”

Rhett’s expression was twisted by the insult, but the Captain’s eyes, narrowed again into menacing slits, warned him against a retort.

“We blasted four and one run off,” Forrest said, reloading his own gun. “I figure six more to go.”

“You count better by the minute,” Hedges complimented sarcastically, motioning the troopers towards the rear end of the entry between the two houses.

“You’re gonna enjoy this, Bob,” Scott said softly. “We’re gonna take ’em from behind.”

“You’re not funny!” Rhett spat at him.

“Damn right I ain’t,” Scott retorted. “I’m straight.”

“And you’ve got a big mouth,” Hedges hissed at him. “Open it once more and you’ll be able to flap it from ear to ear.”

Hedges raised his hand and fingered the bulge of the razor pouch at the back of his neck. Long seconds of silence tightened a grip on the troopers. The low croak of Forrest’s voice broke it.

“I ain’t for all going in on one side, Captain.”

Hedges let out pent up breath as a sigh and locked his gaze with that of the sergeant. “The women owe you any favors?” Forrest looked confused. “They got their eyes
on
the street. If so much as an ant moves out there, they’ll yell at Terry to blast it.”

Forrest considered this while the others watched him. Finally, his expression conceded the truth of Hedges’ statement. But he could not allow it to rest there.

“Waiting in the open ain’t no better than time-wasting inside,” he challenged.

“So let’s go chase the cruds out of there,” the Captain answered.

He tossed his rifle up on to the flat roof of the house, hooked his fingers over the angle of the roof and wall and hauled himself aloft. It took the startled troopers a moment to assimilate this move and then they, too, followed Hedges’ example. Seconds later the seven were snaking across the roof on their bellies, using the rifle stocks for levers. Then seven rifle muzzles angled down over the opposite edge of the roof and exploded into a destructive fusillade against the side wall of the house next door.

Inside the house the raiders yelled in alarm, leaping up from their crouched positions to stare at the wall into which bullets were thudding. But only one man was pushed beyond the limit of panic, crashing out through a rear window to roll over once before regaining his feet and breaking into a run.

A snap shot from Seward caught the man high in the back and pitched him to the ground.

“That wall’s too thick!” Terry yelled at the remaining raiders as the troopers’ guns rattled empty.

“But getting thinner all the time,” Hedges muttered as he fed fresh shells into the magazine and glanced at the yellow line which the bullets had gouged out along the side of the house.

Again a concentrated volley of shots thudded into the wall, sending more splinters flying. Two found entrance. One burrowed into the floor. The second clashed against Terry’s saber blade and ricocheted into the stomach of the bearded man. He screamed, folded forward and began to writhe on the floor. His gun exploded and sent a bullet smashing into the eye of a terrified youngster. The older man’s moans of pain and the metallic scraping of fresh rounds into hot rifles were loud, magnified by the sudden cessation of gunfire. Then the reloading was completed and the man died with a gasp that spewed blood from his gaping mouth,

Terry and his three surviving men backed to the far wall, looking with expectant eyes at the ominous holes across the room. Terry’s mouth worked silently for a few moments, then the words came put.

“Okay! You got us. We’re coming out.”

The troopers on the roof grinned. Hedges’ face was impassive.

“Front door. No rules. Hands on heads.”

The raiders looked at Terry, and were unable to match his grin as he removed his hat, put his Colt underneath and replaced it. But they dropped their rifles and imitated his actions. When he put his hands on his head and walked to the door, the saber trailed down his back. At the door he turned sideways on, concealing the weapon from the men on the roof.

The troopers got to their feet and stood in a line, Spencers trained on the four men as they filed into the street.

“Two short,” Forrest warned.

“Two dead,” Terry replied, then did a double take at the roof. The craftiness of his expression abruptly changed into a fusion of anger and hatred. “They’re Union!” he shrieked, bending forward hurling the saber in a two-handed throw.

As the saber was still spinning through the air, all four raiders clawed for the concealed revolvers. They got off four shots as the troopers ducked to avoid the flashing steel.

Hedges spun and dropped his rifle, both hands reaching for the fountain of blood spouting from his left thigh. His knees buckled and rapped against the edge of the roof. Then he pitched off, his head thudding into the sun-hardened ground. There was an instant of mind-twisting pain: then the sun seemed to smash into the world, burning it into a charred black void.