Chapter 43 The Long Shot
Chapter forty-three
The Long Shot
Fort Desperado, midday
The soldiers were wary and restless as they went about their duties before lunch and the afternoon siesta. They spoke in hushed tones, exchanging anxious glances. “Any word from the capital?” soldiers asked whenever they passed Colt. He would shake his head.
What had he expected—a rescue party? He knew they were on their own.
So Colt had sent Corporal Mercer to the mercury mine to warn them of the danger.
He came back to report that the crew had packed up and was moving out.
In a hushed tone, he added the part about a gigantic dust cloud to the east. They had to be crawling. The only saving grace.
Colt glanced at the clock on his office wall and frowned. The morning patrol was late. The realization gnawed at him until he climbed up the watchtower where two lookouts manned their post.
“Spot anything concerning?” Colt asked.
The privates popped to attention and saluted, one crushing a cigarette under his boot. “No, sir,” they replied as one.
“At ease, soldiers.” Colt raised his spyglass and scanned the eastern horizon. Glare from the noontime sun and heat haze off the desert floor masked anything he might see. He lowered the telescope uneasily.
One man ventured a tentative word. “We’ve been watching, Captain. The patrol’s not back yet.”
“They could have stopped to rest the horses,” Colt said. He didn’t believe it. A hot wind buffeted his face, and he raised the spyglass again.
He sensed something just as it came into focus—a riderless horse racing at breakneck speed through the glare and haze. He waited a beat to see if anyone else followed. Seeing nothing, Colt slammed his telescope closed, scrambled down the ladder and stairs, straight for the gate.
“Open it partway,” he ordered. The gate guards obeyed. In dashed a chestnut mare, drenched in sweat, her eyes wide with fear. Colt recognized her and the saddle from their stables.
“Whoa, girl, I’ve got you,” he said, grabbing the reins. Then he ordered, “Close the gate and bar it.”
“Here,” said Stablemaster Castellano as he swayed over to Colt and took the reins. “She needs a proper cool-down, or she’ll founder.” Colt nodded, relinquishing the horse into his care. “No sign of the patrol?”
Colt examined the heaving animal covered in lather. “There’s blood on the saddle,” he said gravely. “This might be all we see of them.”
Big Tony met his gaze with grave concern. “What do we do?”
“We get ready.” Colt exuded confidence, but it was only a facade.
He wished Marcus were here—even Sergeant Slater.
He wanted someone to consult with, to help make a plan, but he’d sent them away for good reason.
“As soon as you get the mare squared away, start saddling every horse in the stable. If they send a scouting party this way, we can hold them off. If they all come, our only choice is to flee.”
“Yes, sir,” Tony answered. “No shame in living to fight another day. We don’t have to go down like the Alamo.”
As the sergeant led the overheated pony away, Colt thought of the heroes at the Alamo—two hundred men holding off Santa Anna’s forces for thirteen days before they fell, buying time for Houston to raise an army.
Their situation wasn’t so different. But the Alamo had two hundred.
He had sixty. And Santa Anna’s army had been fifteen hundred, not tens of thousands.
Not only could they not hold Fort Desperado for thirteen days, or even thirteen hours, but he feared they wouldn’t need to.
This army could easily go around them. Does a bear stop because a mouse is on its path?
Spotting Elias Mercer, Colt hollered, “Corporal! Ring the bell. Get everyone out here in the yard.”
Mercer’s eyes flashed, his muscles tensed. “Yes, sir.” The ex-con wasted no time yanking the clacker cord back and forth against the sides of the brass bell on its post. Soldiers dropped what they were doing and raced to line up in the yard—all but the two posted in the guard tower.
Before the dust cleared, Colt called them to attention.
“Men, you’ve heard rumors. Spread rumors.
Lost sleep. As you know, we spotted strangers across the river several days ago.
I sent word to Fort Resolute—no reply. Two days ago, we saw the army.
I sent witnesses to Dominion—no reply. Now the morning patrol is missing. ”
Worried looks and murmurs spread through the ranks. One soldier staggered out of line and vomited on the ground. Colt continued.
“It would seem we are on our own. Our duty is to defend the Red River Republic from enemies foreign and domestic. My duty is to lead you to the best of my ability in doing so. We are the only defense between the invaders and innocent civilians to the north; however, we are but fifty men, if, in fact, that patrol has been lost. We can’t defeat them, but we can distract them. ”
A soldier rocked, swayed, and fell over.
“At ease,” Colt commanded. “I know it’s hot and you’re scared.
If we stay here and they find us, we’ll all be dead in hours.
But I have a plan to slow down the enemy, give the capital time to respond, and maybe—just maybe—save most of our lives. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Three hours later
Fort Desperado had been left to the lizards, snakes, and tumbleweed, an empty shell of a forsaken outpost. The wagons and anything that couldn’t fit in a rucksack remained for the desert to claim, while the soldiers, their weapons, ammunition, and three days’ rations rode out in search of the intruders from the south.
Colt sent Corporal Mercer and another scout ahead to locate the foreign army after finding the bodies of the missing patrol. By the time a detail had buried them, Mercer returned.
“They left a trail an infant could follow,” he reported. Pointing north, he said, “They’re spread wide—two, maybe three kilometers from end to end. I think they’re trying to cover more ground, spy out the land.”
“Good,” Colt answered. “That will make our plan easier.” He pulled out a map and unfolded it atop a hunk of sandstone. “Can you point them out on here?”
Mercer studied the map, tracing a finger across it. Colt and Sergeant Castellano leaned in, holding down the corners. “The far west side is about here, and the other end, there.” The western flank would be approaching the mercury mine.
“Who’s the best sharpshooter in the bunch?” he asked Castellano. The stablemaster had been stationed there longer than anyone else.
“Private Jesse Flint, wouldn’t you say, Mercer?”
The corporal nodded. “Man has an eye like a hawk and hands as sure as Guadalupe Peak.”
“Fetch him,” Colt instructed. Putting away the map, he took a few strides to his backup horse—a sturdy dun gelding—and slid a McMillan TAC-50 long-range rifle from its case fastened to his saddle.
“You wanted me, sir?” Flint appeared older than Andrew Mendez, but not by much.
He was a lanky mixed-race fellow who’d avoided the military purge because he was already assigned to the biggest hellhole in the Republic.
Colt figured they’d just forgotten about him—out of sight, out of mind.
Either way, if he was an excellent shot, Colt was glad to have him.
“Private Flint, have you ever handled one of these?” Colt placed the sniper rifle in his brown hands.
Flint gazed at the TAC-50, admiration lighting his youthful face. “No, sir, but I’ve heard about them—best accuracy at long range there is.”
“Since I’ve heard the same about you, Private, I suspect you’ll make a winning pair,” Colt said.
“I’ve only got five magazines—twenty-five shots—so make each one count.
We’re going to race them to the mercury mines, where you’ll pick your prime spot to shoot from.
I want you to puncture holes in their balloons and airships and drop them from the sky. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” Jesse awkwardly attempted a salute, jostling the long gun with its telescopic sight.
“Mount up!” Colt called. Within seconds, the fifty men were galloping across the desert.
Hooves thundered over hardpan, the rhythm pounding up through Colt’s spine as rifles cracked in staggered bursts, the sharp tang of black powder biting the back of his throat.
The enemy line rippled as shots tore into their flank.
Confused shouts arose, turning angry, as riders broke formation to give chase.
Colt’s cavalry scattered like sparks, weaving and doubling back, saddles creaking, gunfire snapping past their ears with a wicked hiss.
In the first moments of contact, Colt’s plan held. Throw the invaders off kilter and lure them into a chase to slow their northward advance while dealing as much damage as they could.
The sharpshooter fired the .50 caliber, its report long and echoing. An overhead balloon shuddered, fabric snapping as a clean hole punched through. More shots, and the nearest airship sagged enough to tilt its guns skyward, their aim thrown wide.
Colt rode hard, handling his pony like a rodeo cowboy as a bullet whined close enough to burn. The rider beside him ducked low over his horse’s neck, spitting dust and a curse as he fired blind over his shoulder.
The garrison’s riders split, half following Colt through the open gate of the empty mining compound while the others trailed Sergeant Castellano to race to the top of the hill.
Behind them, the aggressors surged in pursuit, their return fire wild and furious, shots kicking up dirt in angry spurts around Colt’s men.
“Look up!” Colt shouted, spinning his dun gelding in a circle and pointing skyward. A basket careened toward them, its deflated silk flapping like a giant banner from its ropes. Those in the basket were too busy fighting their descent to bother shooting.
His soldiers scattered, heading for the far exit of the complex.
Its sand-colored adobe, wood, and steel walls and buildings resembled Fort Desperado.
The smell of hot metal and spent rounds clung inside the facility, mingling with the mineral bite of mercury and grit.
Like the fort, only one gate was large enough for vehicles to pass through.
As Colt’s cavalry shot out the other exit in single file, the enemy’s dune buggies and jeeps clogged the mining camp’s yard, taking time and effort to turn around.
Clear of the mine workings, Colt led his riders to rejoin Castellano. He distinguished the deep crack of the sniper rifle and glanced up with satisfaction as another balloon’s silk deflated, rolling in on itself. The first basket crashed into the mine yard atop several invader vehicles.
“This way!” Colt ordered, waving his troops westward toward a narrow canyon beyond a scrub-brush-covered rise. He glanced back as more of the interlopers peeled away from the main column, drawn in by the chase.
Up close, he’d noticed their uniforms. Desert tan wraparound tunics, rather than buttoned shirts, bore geometric patterns in muted sage, obsidian brown, and pale dust gray.
When the wind blew a pursuer’s tunic open, body armor glinted from beneath it.
Colt noticed men and women soldiers in the invasion force, all with tan skin and black hair.
They must be the Anáhuac, or whatever civilization was born from their demise.
Colt spurred ahead and signaled for his men to split, half around the right ridge and half around the left.
He and three volunteers galloped straight into the canyon as bait.
Fortunately, his riders were out of sight by the time the Anáhuac cleared the scrub-brush mound.
They gave chase on horseback, dirt bikes, jeeps, and big-wheeled buggies, bullets ricocheting off the gorge walls.
One of his fellows was hit and fell from his horse. Colt didn’t slow.
Soon, lead rained from above as his soldiers sprang their trap.
Sticks of dynamite added to the mayhem until the entire enemy patrol was wiped out.
Unfortunately, there was no time to investigate their adversaries or loot any of their equipment.
More rumbling engines and stampeding hoofbeats closed in.
Rallying his troops, Colt ordered them to scatter and meet at dusk at a familiar, abandoned oil field a few kilometers to the north.
Considering the strike a success, Colt imagined how they would follow the massive army at a distance, launch guerrilla strikes against them, or race ahead to take out bridges—anything to slow their progress.
I hope Jesse Flint made it out, he thought as his horse worked up a lather cantering across the packed sand. He’d counted at least three balloons and two airships the young man had dropped. If he makes it, I’ll pin the medal on him myself.