The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (26 page)

Good and bad! At least he and his friends hadn’t lost them. His best guess put them about an hour behind his people, but if this was the same group Michael’s squad had been decoying toward an ambush for the past two days, they had managed to get too close. The last time he’d checked on them they were almost four hours behind. And if this wasn’t the same group, well...he had to know exactly how many soldiers his squad was leading into the trap.

“Time to get busy.” Michael collapsed his scope and put it back in his pocket, then rolled off his perch and began his descent to the canyon floor. As his feet touched the ground he swore a solemn oath that he would never again ignore a gut feeling. He refilled his water flask from the cool, clear creek, dropped in a disinfectant tablet and headed back to the clearing.

He mounted his horse, a small dun-colored mare that he selected for her sure footedness and great endurance, reined her around and headed for his friends. No time now to go after the Giant. He couldn’t risk his people being caught between the two forces, not when the first order of business was to lead those tailing them into Adam’s ambush.

*

“Sky King, this is Rook Two,” said the pilot of the ultralight as he glided high overhead.

“Sky King here,” said Anthony. “Report, Rook Two.”

“It didn’t work, Sir.” He’d almost slipped and said Sire, before remembering that the Prince had expressly forbidden any reference to royalty over the radio. “Their point man survived the trap and he’s waving the rest of’em off.”

Shit! Anthony was sure he had them. Must have made the bait too obvious. He keyed the mike. “Keep an eye on them, Rook Two.”

“Sir, I’ll lose’em once they get under the trees, but it looks like they’re headed for that enemy camp I spotted last night.”

“How close are our men, Rook Two?”

“Maybe an hour out, Sir. And the other company is a couple hours behind them.”

“In that case, come on down, Rook Two.” Anthony had lost one ultralight and a pilot the day before to a windy landing crash, leaving him only the three black planes. He didn’t want to chance another loss. Those little planes were worth their weight in gold, even if they were too tricky to handle when the wind came up.

He looked around with regret, such a nice little ambush site. He sighed: patience. He’d get them yet, surprise the enemy and roll up their whole damn operation. He’d show John and his father, too.

*

Thirty minutes later, as his squad crossed a creek, Michael pulled out of line, heading downstream so any silt his horse kicked up wouldn’t still be muddying up the water when their followers arrived. He stayed in the stream for more than half a mile then headed back west for higher ground. He wanted to find a nice ridge, watch the pursuers pass by, then backtrack them until he either saw where they’d cut his squad’s trail, or sighted the original group he’d ambushed. He spotted a promising-looking rise and started up through the trees.

Before long he was perched up high, just below the ridge, with a great view of the meadow. His horse stood between two boulders, still as a Remington bronze and he stood on his saddle peeking out over the top of the smallest boulder and into the valley below.

The first group of soldiers he had spotted following his squad had passed straight through the meadow and into the trees about an hour behind his friends. They didn’t ride in formation, milling around too much for him to get an accurate head-count, but they numbered between forty and fifty men.

Leaving his horse between the rocks, where she couldn’t be seen from below, Michael took his binoculars and scrambled up a short talus slope to a small ledge where he could get a better view. From there he could see not only the meadow, but also the mouth of the small canyon where he had encountered the rattler.

He scanned the tree covered hills for signs of trouble. In a clearing he spotted a small herd of mule deer. Just as he was about to shift away from the deer, their heads came up and their tails flashed white as they bounded away.

He focused his attention on the farthest edge of the clearing. A band of horsemen trotted from the trees. They were following his trail and that of the enemy soldiers he had spotted earlier. His gut told him these were the guys he and his squad had originally jumped, which meant he was leading almost twice as many men into the ambush as Adam expected.

For more than an hour he sat there, searching the hills for other surprises, watching clouds build, bringing a promise of afternoon showers. Movement in the meadow caught his eye and as he brought his binoculars to bear the group of soldiers who’d spooked the deer appeared. He quickly counted forty-three men. They came to a halt just inside the clearing, milling around uncertainly as they studied the tracks.

Heads came up, arms pointed and he swung his field of view to include a small group of riders coming out of what Michael now called Booby Trap Canyon. Nine men, led by the Giant. They made a beeline for the other soldiers, joining them.

There was a lot of gesturing going on and he sensed an argument developing. Quick as lightning the Giant’s left hand streaked for his knife, flinging it with such force it knocked the man arguing with him right out of the saddle. The Giant stepped down from his horse and jerked his bloody knife from the dead man’s throat then glared at his victim’s buddies: end of argument.

The two groups spurred off across the meadow at a gallop, trailing those who were following Michael’s squad, leaving the dead man for the scavengers. Now Michael knew there were almost a hundred men following his squad into the ambush.

As soon as they disappeared into the trees on the near side of the meadow, Michael swung up into the saddle and headed north. An hour and a half would see him over the next ridge and from there he could follow that drainage down to Adam’s camp and the ambush site, intercepting his friends, who were leading the enemy the long way around.

Chapter 25: The Ambush

Northeast of Nephi

Mid July, 13 A.I.

The stars were out when Michael rode into camp. Adam Young and Daniel Windwalker were on hand to greet him.

“Ho, Yellow-eyes,” Daniel spoke first as they clasped hands warmly.

“Captain Whitebear,” Adam was more formal as he returned Michael’s salute. “Dan Osaka got a good count on the enemy force,” he said as he led them into his tent. “He said there were ninety-three of them,” Adam smiled, “or, ninety-five, if you count the Giant. Says the group that was on your heels stopped to let the others catch up. They’re a couple hours behind, but I think they’ll stop for the night.”

Michael nodded his agreement and asked, “Rest of my squad here, too?”

“Down at the mess tent,” Adam confirmed.

“Beat you in by thirty minutes,” Daniel looked at Adam, who gestured for him to continue. “The King is using ultralights against us, Yellow-eyes. He might have spotted this set-up.”

The rest of the briefing took no time at all.

Daniel and Michael stepped from Adam’s tent into the fresh night air.

“So,” Michael asked, “Are you going to stick around for the party?”

“No, my scouts are pulling out in an hour. Adam says until we get a handle on this ultralight wrinkle we should travel at night.” Daniel didn’t like the thought of leaving so soon. He looked off in the direction of the field hospital, hoping he’d have time to visit Chris before leaving.

Michael nodded. Traveling at night made sense, but something was bothering Daniel.

“What’s up?”

Daniel told him about Chris.

“You should have seen her,” Daniel said softly, remembering how she looked charging those men with her eyes flashing and her guns blazing.

Michael laid a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “I’ve known Chris for years. She’s tough. She’ll make it.”

Daniel nodded and walked off toward his scouts, one hand reaching for his medicine pouch before he remembered that he’d placed it around her neck. He asked Ma-Hay-Oh to help her.

Adam made sure Michael and his squad knew the one safe path through the ambush, then wished them luck and sent them on their way.

As they rode toward the place where they would bed down for the night Michael reviewed the layout of the trap, searching for weaknesses. The valley they were in was roughly football-shaped if viewed from above, with a very narrow entrance guarded by sheer cliffs and a wide open, flat, grassy interior that tapered to a narrow exit in the mountains above. It was that rear entrance, guarded by Sergeant O’Malley’s company, that Michael had come down earlier.

Actually, once inside the valley it looked like a box canyon from which there could be no escape. Of course, anybody coming into that tiny twisting canyon mouth, surrounded by those sheer rock faces would proceed with caution, expecting an ambush. And they would be right, but it wouldn’t happen there.

Adam had borrowed an old trick from the Apache, digging shallow holes, covering them with planks or metal, then camouflaging the lids with sod carefully cut from the meadow before excavation began. These pits lined the perimeter of the meadow, as well as the banks of the creek that flowed down the middle of the valley. Lieutenant Walt Beeman was in command of the machine gun crews in the pits and by now every soldier under him knew he was not to be taken lightly. The idea of borrowing from the Apache came from him.

Michael and his people reached the bait site. Try as he might he couldn’t think of it as just another camp site. They lit a small fire, taking care to use damp wood so it would be smoky. The odor would waft down-canyon on the night wind and help to entice the enemy into the trap. Since it had rained Michael figured using damp wood wouldn’t arouse suspicions.

Michael set their normal rotating guard schedule. Since Dan and he had ridden hardest and longest that day, Michael took first watch and Dan would take the last.

The others bedded down and the sounds of their breathing soon blended with the burbling water of the creek and the long grass rustling in the down-canyon breeze. Michael prowled the perimeter, keeping his eyes turned away from the fire to preserve his night vision.

Every few minutes he would study that dark opening through which danger would ride, wondering if the enemy had stopped for the night or if, as the last scouting report indicated, they were still riding. Michael figured they would stop for most of the night, so as not to risk losing the trail in the darkness, but if they entered the canyon tonight, word would be relayed to Michael’s squad immediately via flashlight signals from high atop the canyon walls.

Sergeant Buell’s scouts were up there, invisible from ground and air, to give advance warning of the enemy’s approach and to prevent their escape after the trap was sprung.

In the meantime there was nothing to do but pace and think and wait for the enemy attack. He hated waiting.

*

“Anything shaking?” Wayne Anderson asked. The former army medic had just gotten up to relieve Michael of guard duty. Wayne had an internal clock that never failed. No one ever had to wake him up.

Michael scanned the valley mouth one last time. Nothing, just normal night sounds. “No, it’s quiet.”

“I feel like cheese in a mouse trap,” Wayne said with a nervous grin, handing Michael a cup of hot tea and taking a sip of his own.

Michael grimaced as he sipped the herb tea. He really missed coffee. “No you don’t,” Michael said dryly. “Cheese doesn’t worry. Try a worm on a hook, or a goat tied to a stake.”

“Realist,” Wayne snorted and adopted his best professorial tone. “I, of course, was referring to the sense of oneness all bait-objects share.” He gestured broadly with his hands. “A concept your literalist mind would fail to grasp.”

Michael stroked his beard and shook his head. “Nonsense. It’s just your ego, wanting you to be elsewhere, preferably some place safe, conflicting with your super-ego, which is demanding you do your duty and risk your precious neck.”

Wayne threw up his hands in surrender. “Arrgh! I can handle anything but psychobabble...More tea?”

Michael stuck out his cup.

Wayne shrugged, then poured. “At least it’s hot,” he said, then nodded to the sleeping forms of Minowayuh and Lady Di and added, “and speaking of hot.”

Michael smiled. The growing attraction between that Mutt and Jeff duo hadn’t escaped his attention, but he wasn’t about to gossip about it.

“You know, Wayne, I never did get a chance to thank you for saving my leg.” Wayne had used his medic training on Michael’s broken leg after Michael rescued the children from Prince John, wet-nursing Michael and the kids back to Breckenridge while Ellen and the posse continued after the raiders.

“It was nothing,” Wayne said and stared into his tea cup. Michael’s leg was in that part of the past he didn’t like to think about...after his wife and son’s deaths.

Michael knew he’d said something wrong and kicked himself as he remembered Wayne’s aversion to talking about the recent past. The man’s humor had vanished--replaced by somber brooding. Wayne’s ghosts were with him tonight.

Michael sat with his friend for awhile and then turned in. He slipped into his sleeping bag and lay there staring at the stars, listening to the frogs croaking down by the creek. He couldn’t relax--pre-battle jitters. His mind jumped from subject to subject, never staying in one place long enough for him to get comfortable. He’d wonder how Ellen and the kids were doing, then worry that the horses might pull loose from their picket pins. The last thing they needed was to have to chase their horses down before they could mount up and flee tomorrow morning.

Daniel’s talk about the King having ultralights kept coming back, bothering him. If he had some of the tiny planes, how would he use them...SHIT!

He sat up wide-eyed.

“You okay, man?” Wayne asked.

“Douse the fire and wake the others.” Michael strapped on his .357, slung on his Uzi and headed for the horses. Something definitely felt wrong. Michael’s gut was working overtime trying to get through to him and this time he was listening. Where were the normal night sounds? No birds, no frogs, even the crickets had stopped creaking. The horses were nervous, stamping, snorting and pawing the ground. He walked along the picket line, rubbing their noses, calming them as best he could.

Behind him, he heard his friends grumbling as they rolled out of their sleeping bags. The fire hissed loudly as Wayne threw a bucket of water on it.

He scanned the skies, hoping he was wrong. Three large black shapes slid across his field of vision, eclipsing several stars as they passed.

“Gliders!” Michael screamed. “Scatter!”

Michael drew his pistol and started shooting, the reports of the .357 echoing down the valley. He saw Wayne run into the darkness toward the creek. Machine guns opened up from the gliders, stitching bullets through the camp, making their sleeping bags dance crazily. Minowayuh vanished in the direction of the canyon mouth. Lady Di had already disappeared. Dan Osaka materialized at Michael’s side and grabbed the picket rope.

“Might need these horses,” he said, as he slashed the picket rope and leaped astride his mount. He grabbed the reins of another horse and spurred away from Michael.

Michael stopped firing long enough to snatch the reins of two other mounts, then vaulted aboard his own. His pistol bucked in his hand as he sent bullets flying in the direction of the nearest glider. Empty! He snubbed the other horse’s reins around his saddle horn, flipped open the cylinder of his revolver, ejected the spent shells, slapped in a speed load and resumed firing. The whole process took less than two seconds.

Michael kicked his horse toward the mouth of the canyon, knowing Minowayuh was in there somewhere. The thought also crossed his mind that the glider couldn’t touch him if he reached those sheltering walls of rock. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dan cutting toward the creek, from which Wayne was laying down a covering fire.

Another gun opened up from a clump of willows off to his right and he knew that Lady Di had joined the fray.

The sound of chainsaw engines came to his ears and he realized the ultralights had fired up their motors to make strafing runs. He saw one banking toward him.

Bullets ripped through the grass on his right as he zigged the horses left, then tore up the ground on his left as he zagged right. One of the horses he was leading screamed and jerked away from him in pain and panic. It faltered, then stumbled and fell, blood pumping from numerous hits.

He emptied his revolver in a futile gesture of defiance as the little plane zipped by close overhead. Ultralights were hard enough to hit when shooting from solid ground, as he knew from personal experience...but from the back of a galloping horse? Forget it. Besides, he never had been half as good with a pistol as Ellen. He had to aim. She shot instinctively.

Suddenly, a rifle spoke from the mouth of the canyon and the ultralight jerked upwards and sideways as if it had been slapped. The rifle blasted again and the plane dipped sharply and smacked into the ground, coming apart as it tumbled end over end.

“Good shooting, Chief!” Michael yelled as he sped between the rock walls.

“How’d you know it was me?” Minowayuh asked calmly, as he stepped from behind a rock, shying Michael’s already spooked horses.

“You kidding?” Michael asked, pulling up beside him and tossing him a pair of reins. “You’re the only guy I know who could hit a black moving target at night...twice.”

Minowayuh swung up onto his mount with a grin, his gold tooth glinting in the starlight. He pointed upwards with his rifle at a flashing light and said softly, “We got company coming.”

“Shit man,” Michael swore under his breath, “I almost admire that Giant bastard. We were expecting him and he still managed to surprise us.”

“Man’s no fool. That’s for sure.”

The thundering sound of horses running echoed from down the canyon. Michael and Minowayuh reined around toward the meadow. There were still a couple of planes zipping around out there. Dan and Wayne were on horseback now, galloping all-out toward the canyon mouth--which made good sense considering it was the closest shelter from aerial attack. Di was still horseless, firing from the willows, her mount killed by the enemy pilots.

Minowayuh’s eyes met Michael’s.

“It’s a good day to die,” he said and his grin widened.

“For the other guy,” Michael responded.

Minowayuh’s laughter rang in Michael’s ears as they spurred their horses back into the meadow. Looking over his shoulder, Michael saw the enemy charging around the final bend in the canyon, a bit more than a hundred yards behind them. His blood sang with that exquisite blend of fear and thrill that only a combat soldier knows. He laughed crazily, on a natural high, his laughter mixing with Minowayuh’s as their horses pounded along side by side.

While Minowayuh fired at the ultralights Michael unslung his Uzi and sent a burst back toward their pursuers. Two horses tumbled to the ground, causing a minor pile-up and gaining them some valuable time and distance.