But the pitching of the raft totally negated the value of the blasters.
They had closed to less than two hundred yards and they could see the faces of the men who hung to the bridge, agile as monkeys, gesturing toward their prey.
There were eleven of them altogether, mostly bearded, with thick, shaggy hair, swinging hand over hand, mouths open as they yelled their hatred at the oncoming outlanders.
Ryan tried with the Steyr, squeezing off a couple of shots. But they had no visible effect, beyond seeming to anger the men on the bridge.
“Try to cut ropes if we get hooked!” Ryan shouted to the others.
The raft seemed to be moving faster and faster, and the noise of the pounding waters in the gorge was deafening. Ryan tried another snap shot, snarling with delight as he saw one of the waiting men lose his grip and fall lifelessly into the Tennessee, fifty yards or so ahead of them, a crimson rose blossoming on the front of his white shirt.
The closer they drew, the more Ryan realized that the weight of the locals on the bridge had dragged it down until it was barely a dozen feet above the foaming breakers of the river. It was going to be more than possible for some of them to jump onto the raft, easier if they could snag it with their hooks and hold it for a few moments against the ferocious tug of the current.
Ryan heard the pop of Mildred’s Czech revolver, the sound of the shots almost drowned by the river. He counted three rounds, seeing another of the waiting men throw his arms wide and fall from the bridge, dropping his hook and coil of rope as he slumped to his death.
The one-eyed man turned and gave the woman the thumbs-up, getting a grin in return.
But there were still nine of them, several already lowering their iron grapnels, swinging them to the surface of the river, ready to try to hook onto the raft.
Ryan threw the rifle inside the cabin and drew the SIG-Sauer. The pain in his leg seemed to have disappeared into the background, and all his combat reflexes were tight and ready.
“Here they come!” he yelled.
Chapter Seventeen
One vital factor became instantly obvious as the first of the hooks rattled against the spray-slick timbers. The force of the Tennessee River and the weight of the raft were both far greater than the attackers on the flimsy bridge had realized.
Four or five hooks made good, solid contact, but the rushing motion of the heavy craft was hardly checked. Three of the men jumped as the bridge was pulled even lower, one of them landing off balance on the side of the raft, slipping and tumbling helplessly over the edge. He vanished into the tumbling foam with a muffled scream of despair.
The other two landed safely on the raft, one on top of the cabin, the other near the front, where Ryan was standing and waiting.
He leveled the SIG-Sauer and shot him at point-blank range through the upper chest, the force of the 9mm full-metal-jacket slug kicking him off his feet, where he also slipped over the side into the river.
Krysty shot the man off the cabin roof, putting two bullets into him from her Smith amp; Wesson, the heavy .38-caliber rounds rolling him onto the deck, where he lay screaming, both hands clutched at the double wound in his stomach. Krysty and Mildred heaved him off into the racing stream.
Ryan looked away, seeing no further threat from any of the three attempted boarders.
There were six men still hanging on to the bridge, four with their barbed grapnels dug into the raft, finally slowing its racing progress. But they had looped their ropes around the spidery bridge, which was now dipping perilously low, the cords that built it strained like banjo strings, singing above the deep thunder of the river.
“Gaia, it’s coming down!” Krysty screamed at the top of her voice.
Jak had moved from the steering oar and was busily crabbing around the raft, trying to cut through the cords that snared them. But they had become wet and taut, like bars of iron, almost impossible to slice.