Eddie dropped to his side. A continuous stream of quiet profanity now came out of Santee. “Motherfucker shot my rifle. Shit. I think it broke my fucking leg. Shit. 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. Shit. 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 motherfucking safari rifle. Then get your ass back here and blow the shit 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 bastards 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 Crapper 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.