"They must know there aren't many of us by our rate of fire, and they must want modern guns real bad. We've got to take out that horse." Eddie looked stricken, and he said, "Can't help it. Shame to waste a good animal, but he's their motor. Try that load #14 if you have any more. I can't seem to hit the f.u.c.ker."

They both kept firing at the wagon as it came slowly across the field. It was obviously heavy, and they didn't seem to be having any effect on it. Finally, as it got to the edge of the field where a lane ran in their direction, the horse suddenly dropped in its traces.

"Got the somb.i.t.c.h!" Eddie could barely hear him because of his earm.u.f.fs, but understood. He had rolled over and begun fishing for more ammo in the bag when Santee suddenly jumped up and swung his rifle around. Two shots rang out, the second one a deep boom that didn't come from Santee's gun. When Eddie turned to look, he saw a man with a wheel-lock slowly folding, blood on his chest. When he turned back to congratulate Santee, he saw him lying on the ground, on his side, writhing in pain. The gun Santee had been shooting was lying next to him demolished, the stock splintered.

Eddie dropped to his side. A continuous stream of quiet profanity now came out of Santee. "Motherf.u.c.ker shot my rifle. s.h.i.t. I think it broke my f.u.c.king leg. s.h.i.t. See any blood?"

Eddie looked at Santee's right leg, which was already swelling. "No blood. Maybe just a bruise?

"I can feel the bone grating," Santee's said tightly. His face was white with pain. "Okay, here's what we do. Take a quick look at that wagon."

Eddie poked his head up and quickly ducked back down. "They cut the horse loose. It looks like they're about to get the wagon onto the lane."

"Okay, quick three-sixty and see if you see any movement."

Eddie looked. "I don't see anything. Probably they sent a guy ahead when they first heard us shooting, and you got him."

"What's the range to that wagon?"

Eddie took another quick look. "Three hundred yards, a little downhill. They've turned the wagon around, and I think they're pushing it this way."

"Sight in, bear down, and use the Julie loads. Aim for the center of the wagon. You should be able to punch right through it at this distance."

Eddie did as he was told, while Santee tried to fish through the bag of ammo for the .30-06 cartridges that would fit the remaining rifle.

Eddie had fired all five rounds in the rifle when he ducked down again.

"Santee? My turn to cuss. s.h.i.t. I just figured out why they chopped that tree down. They know how to stop our bullets: it just takes enough wood, and the bullet track in that tree they cut down told them how thick it had to be. They put a couple of feet of green wood planks on that wagon, and they go almost down to the ground. Without the horse they only have people to push it, so they're moving slow, but it's coming this way."

Santee handed Eddie some more bullets. "Shoot low, try to bounce one under the wagon."

Eddie shot again, then dropped back. "I think it worked. I saw one fall. I think they put him in the wagon. They stopped moving, for now at least."

"Okay. Now do as I say. Help me get up to the top of this ridge, and put the ammo next to me." Moving was clearly painful for him, and it took them a minute or two to get him set up in a good position, ammo and canteen within easy reach.

"Eddie. Get on your bike and go pick up that big motherf.u.c.king safari rifle. Then get your a.s.s back here and blow the s.h.i.t out of that wagon." Eddie started to started to open his mouth, but Santee stopped him. "No arguments. This is an order, Eddie. Last lesson in soldiering: sometimes you gotta suck it up and do what you're told."

Eddie swallowed hard, and nodded.

"I'll wait for you here." Eddie nodded again and ran down the hill.

Eddie ran into Mrs. Tippett's house without knocking, running for the parlor where some of the guns were still stored.

"Young man, what are you doing?" she said, indignant at the intrusion, and followed him.

Eddie pushed the stacks of rifles aside, searching for the big safari rifle. "Santee's been shot. He's holding off the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds by himself. I gotta get the big rifle and get back there."

He found the rifle, tore it out of its case and slung it over his shoulder, then stuffed his pockets with the big bullets. Mrs. Tippett asked what she could do to help.

"Call the cops and tell them it's out past the c.r.a.pper where the battle was-Jeff and Larry and Jimmy Andersen will know where. Sorry about this"-he pointed to the mess he'd made-"I gotta go. You call them right now, okay?" He ran out the door and jumped on the still-running dirt bike.

The trip back to Santee was the longest of Eddie's life. He was no motorcycle racer, and the little dirt bike just couldn't go fast enough. He almost wrecked it once, when the big rifle slung across his back shifted, so he slowed down some, but kept speeding up again whenever the track was straight.

As he got close to the shooting area he heard a shot, which made him speed up even more. He'd only been gone a half hour or so, but the shot meant that someone-hopefully Santee-was still alive. He rode the bike up the slope but dumped it when it got too steep. He ran the rest of the way up to Santee, who was still there, shooting over the rise.

Santee turned and grinned. He had a trickle of blood running down the side of his face, and some splinters in his hair. "Good time," he said, a little weakly. "Good timing too. I think they were getting ready to rush me, but they heard your bike. That d.a.m.ned wagon's only fifty yards away now."

Eddie was panting. He didn't answer, just loaded the hotdog-sized cartridges into the big bolt-action rifle. It held only two in the magazine and one in the chamber.

"They're shooting from the back right side of the wagon. I think there are six of them left; they're reloading fast enough to make me keep my head down. I've only got twelve rounds left, but they don't know that."

Eddie crawled up next to Santee with the big rifle and got ready to shoot over the hill, but Santee stopped him. "No, you'll break your collarbone. You have to stand up to shoot that monster. Stand below the ridge bent over, then stand up and shoot right after I do."

"Okay... ready."

At Santee's shot, Eddie stood and sighted in on the lower right side of the wagon. When he pulled the trigger on the .577 T-Rex rifle, his world exploded. It felt like he'd been kicked by a mule in his right shoulder. He went blind for a second, and the rifle flew out of his hands. He had no earm.u.f.fs this time, and his ears started ringing painfully, but he could faintly hear "Mein Gott!" from the wagon. In pain, he picked up the rifle again and worked the bolt.

Santee was now aiming over the top of the ridge, hoping the attackers would break cover. Eddie's next shot did some damage to one of them, either directly or from flying splinters, because a loud scream of pain came from the wagon. This time Eddie didn't drop the rifle, but his shoulder was so bruised by the recoil he could barely work the bolt. Just the same, he readied his third shot.

"Got the f.u.c.kers scared now, Eddie. One more time."

At the third shot, there were more screams from the wagon, and the rest of the marauders broke and started running the other way. There were only four now, and one was limping. One took off uphill into the forest, but the other three ran straight down the lane. Not being used to the Americans' long-range rifles, they thought adding distance was the most important thing to keep them from being shot. They'd made several mistakes that day, starting with raiding a farm near American territory, but this was their last. Santee fired and missed; then with his last shot, two fell down-either one bullet hit two of them, or the limping man couldn't run any further. The last man ran away weaving down the road, then off through some trees, moving away from Santee and Eddie as fast as he could.

Though Eddie's ears were ringing, he still heard the horn from the pickup full of men from the town as it raced up the hill. Santee was now lying on his back with his eyes closed, and Eddie dropped to his side in worry, but then quickly relaxed. Dead men don't alternately grimace with pain and grin.

September, 1631

Santee limped into the downtown office that served as Army headquarters, and with his cane at his side, lowered himself carefully to a chair by Frank Jackson's desk.

"Hey!" Frank said, "Good to see you up and around. Eddie thought they wouldn't let you out for another week."

"Oh, I sweet-talked 'em. How's Eddie doing?"

"He's okay. His hearing's fully back now, and he's been drilling with the other soldiers. And he's started a regular little program, showing the younger teenaged boys how to reload. So, how's the leg?"

"It's healing fine. But I sure had to lie in that G.o.dd.a.m.n bed a long time. I'd have gone nuts if I hadn't had so many visitors."

"Well, after all, you're a bona fide hero."

"You mean I'm a bona fide dumba.s.s. I got shot. If I hadn't lowered my rifle to see what I shot, like a greenhorn, I'd be called Stumpy."

"Heroes get shot too, you know."

"Bulls.h.i.t. Heroes get dead. I got lucky."

"No, really. You and Eddie accounted for seven bandits, plus you saved a farmstead. That's not just luck." Santee grunted. "Mike and I think you deserve a promotion."

Santee looked alarmed. "Oh, Jesus!" he said in emphatic disgust. "No I don't. You'll want me to take on some new job I'll hate. I like what I'm doing! Leave me alone."

"Look, you're wasted just making lists of guns and pouring powder into little sh.e.l.l cases. You know so much more than that." Frank looked him straight in the eye. "Please, Santee, we really do need you. Your experience is just too valuable for us not to tap into. What'll it take to get you to say yes?"