James was reading a worn paperback he'd found back in a nameless town the convoy had rumbled through.
The outlaw's boots grated on rock. James froze.
"Easy," Ben whispered. "I've been watching him for a couple of minutes."
"How's he armed?" James whispered.
"Pistol in his hand. How's the book?"
"Good. You want him?"
"Yeah. I'll let him get a little closer."
"Damn, Ben! I'm supposed to be guarding you, remember?"
"Read your book."
"Somehow I seem to have lost my concentration."
Ben chuckled softly. "Here he comes. He's about to make his play." i The outlaw inched closer. Ben's fingers tightened on the Thompson.
"Taking his sweet time," James muttered.
"And he hasn't got much of that left him," Ben replied.
James smiled.
The outlaw brought his pistol up and jacked backthe hammer. Ben lifted the powerful old Thompson submachine gun, leveled it, and pulled the trigger, holding it back.
The .45 caliber slugs took the outlaw in the chest, raking him from left to right, making little bloody dust puffs as the slugs impacted. He was flung backward, arms outstretched, his pistol dropping from suddenly lifeless fingers.
Ben and James rose and looked around them, listening. The battle appeared to be over.
"Call in our people," Ben said. "Let's get the hell out of here."
High up in the still-dusty air of the slope, the outlaw Flash lay unnoticed and very, very still. And he wasn't about to move until these crazy bastards and bitches got long gone outta there.
Flash was so frightened he had both pissed and shit his jeans. He wore no underwear.
Dust, dirt, and small rocks covered him. As long as he didn't move around, he'd be safe.
High above him, he could see the buzzards circling.
Flash suppressed a shudder. He hated buzzards. He had seen how the bastards tore at dead flesh, and he knew they always went for the eyes and kidneys first.
Flash just wanted to cry.
And Flash hadn't done that in more than twenty years. Not since he'd stood before that judge in juvenile court. After Flash had killed his sister.
Flash had put on quite an act that day. Flash had blubbered and snorted and wiped snot away with the handkerchief the judge had ordered given him. Stupid old bastard. Since he was a juvenile, Flash had spent three years in a country-club prison and then walked out, a free man.
Thanks to the almost-total asininity of juvenile laws ... back then. Before.
Only thing Flash had ever regretted about the whole mess was that his sister had died before he could fuck her again.
Stupid cunt.
Flash heard the Rebel trucks crank up and begin moving out, backtracking around the now-blocked highway. But Flash wasn't about to move-not just yet. Ben Raines was such a sneaky son of a bitch he probably left people behind to shoot any outlaw who might have survived.
One of the few times in his life Flash was right.
Flash lay very still for more than thirty minutes after the battle. He counted seven shots that shattered the dusty stillness, and knew that seven of his buddies had bought it.
Goddamn these Rebels! Flash thought. They just don't, by God, play fair.
"Let's go!" Flash heard a man shout.
Flash heard two vehicles crank up and drive off. Still, he lay quietly for another hour. Only then did he move. Three hours later, after jerking a pair of jeans off a dead outlaw and changing out of his own shitty jeans, Flash stumbled into the outlaw's base camp.
He was worn out, almost hysterical with fear. He babbled out his story.
"Everybody is dead?" Piano shouted at the nearly exhausted Flash.
"Ever'body," Flash confirmed it.
"We gotta change out psyco ... psycol...
way of doin' things," Long Tongue said.
"I agree with whatever it was he said," Utah Jack looked at Long Tongue.
"Don't panic!" Booger shouted down the sudden babble of voices. "Now, goddammit, just ever'body hold it down for a minute."
The gaggle of human filth quieted down.
Another outlaw leader, nicknamed Pisser, said, "You got a plan, Booger, I'd sure like to hear it. "Cause I'm about a minute away from pullin" my boys out and gettin' the hell away from that area."
Other leaders, including Utah Jack, Stud, Big Luke, agreed with Pisser. Loudly and profanely.
"Now, boys," Grizzly said, calming the group, or at the very least, quieting them. "Okay, we took a lickin'. No doubt about that. But since ol' Flash come staggerin' in, I been thinkin'. And I'm thinkin' our big mistake is that we don't act like Ben Raines."
"What do you mean?" Piano asked.
"I mean the mainest thing is, we got to think like Ben Raines. We can't just say "okay" to the first plan we come up with. We got to really study a bunch of them."
"I think I know what you mean," Utah Jack said. "We're screwin' up by each of us actin' on our own. Is that part of it?"
"That's right!" Grizzly said. "The mainest thing is, we got to start actin' like soldiers!"
"Does I get to be a general?" Skinhead slobbered the question.
"No," Grizzly dashed his hopes. "But you do get to be an officer."
"I thought a general was an officer?" Skinhead drooled.
"It is," Piano said. "Now shut up."
"They's degrees of generals," Grizzly said.
"But another mainest point is this: there can't be but one top general. One man givin' the orders."
"Who is that gonna be?" Popeye asked.
"We're gonna have to vote," Grizzly said.
"But I got another idea to do first."
"Whut?" Sonny Boy asked.
"Let's get the hell outta this place!"
Chapter Thirty-one.
Not one Rebel had been wounded in the ambush.
No loss of life among the Rebels. "That's the way I like it," Ben told James as they rode the deserted state highway in Colorado.
They were circling, trying to pick up the trail of the outlaws.
They were on Highway 9, now just a few miles outside of Kremmling. "Pull over here," Ben told James. "Let's wait for the scouts'
report."
The convoy halted near the banks of the Colorado River, on the south side. Ben and James walked down to the river's edge.
The men stood there for a moment, silent, each with their own thoughts.
James broke the silence. "How are we going to handle Hartline, Ben?"
Ben shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I think we're going to have to slug it out with him."
"I don't have to remind you that he's got us outgunned."
Ben nodded his agreement. "Yes, and it's going to be costly for us. I've thought of and discarded half a dozen plans. Including the use of planes."
"They wouldn't have a chance. Hartline's got plenty of SAM'S."
"Sure does." Ben sighed. "Long-range intel says he's making no plans for a bug-out.
I didn't think he would. What he's planning on is these outlaws knocking a hole in our ranks.
That's why I'm not going to jack around with them. But this ambush was easy. I have a hunch they're going to get cautious; smarten up some."
"As much as they're capable of," James said, grinning.
"Colonel, our western patrol has gone silent," Khamsin was informed.
"How long have you been trying to reach them?"
"All day, sir."
Khamsin shrugged. "They have met Allah. They have done well. Have you tried to contact Hartline?"
"Yes, sir. He says his eastern-based warlords have ambushed Ben Raines, and probably inflicted heavy casualties on the Rebels."
"Probably? Sam doesn't know for certain?"
"Apparently not, sir."
"Sam is getting careless. We're going to have to be very careful in our dealings with Sam Hartline.
From what our, ah, newest convert has told me, General Ben Raines and Sam Hartline are old enemies. That gives me some cause for alarm.
What has the woman told you?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Are you certain she has anything to tell us?"
"Yes, sir. One of our patrols stole her out of the Rebels' base camp in Georgia. She is the wife of one of the Rebels now fighting in the west."
"Oh. Interesting. Truly his wife, blessedby Allah?"
The IPA member shrugged. "Who knows, sir.
These remaining Americans are such a godless bunch."
"What is her name?"
"Nina. She is the wife, or mistress, whatever, of one Ike McGowen."
"Ike McGowen?" Colonel Khamsin's brow furrowed in thought. "That is one of Ben Raines's field commanders and closest friends."