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 damned 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 earmuffs 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 fuckers 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?”