Then men rose from the sand-covered floor of the gorge.
Chapter Five
In a thinly shaved fraction of a second, Ryan realized the mechanics of the trapthe pirates of the Cadre had lain in shallow ditches dug in the ground, covering themselves with neutral-colored blankets. Someone else, Hatcher probably, had sprinkled sand over them.
There were three men, about ten feet behind Hatcher, all armed with oversize flintlock handblasters. Before any of the pistols could spit fire and lead, Ryan took the first course of action that occurred to him. He lunged forward, kicking himself off the ground and slamming hard into Hatcher. It was like body-blocking a tree.
Hatcher didn’t go down. Snarling out a stream of profanity, he grappled with Ryan, trying to swing him into a direct line of fire with the flintlocks. The one-eyed man set his feet and resisted. There hadn’t been time to draw the SIG-Sauer when the men had risen from the ground and drawn beads on him, and now both his hands were filled with fistfuls of deerskin tunic.
Close locked, the two men wrestled and struggled, staggering on wide-braced legs. Hatcher’s arms encircled Ryan’s body, and they tightened across his spine. The pirate then jacked up a knee, seeking to crush his testicles, but Ryan managed to shift a few inches so the blow landed against his upper thigh. Still, it hurt.
Mildred’s ZKR banged like a door slamming, and though Ryan didn’t see her target, he heard a man shrill in pain and surprise.
“Cocksucker!” Hatcher hissed, and tried to knee him in the groin again.
Instead of fighting his way out of the hug, Ryan drove the top of his head into Hatcher’s face. The pirate’s head snapped up and back, blood springing from his lips. He staggered and Ryan was able to wrench himself from his adversary’s grip. He drew the SIG-Sauer and triggered it all in the same whiplash motion.
One of the pirates fell backward, his chest caved in by the bone-shattering impact of the 9 mm round. Ryan hadn’t wasted time on Hatcher. Though the man was certainly dangerous, he had dropped his musket when Ryan jumped him.
The third pirate, his face flushed with fury, eyes shining in outrage, aimed his blaster and pulled the trigger. The lock fell, the flint igniting the powder trail in the pan with a little puff of smoke and a flash of sparks. The main charge fired, noise, flame and black-powder smoke blooming from the bore. The ball spun over Ryan’s right shoulder, making a faint swishing sound.
The one-eyed man squeezed off a second shot. The bullet struck the pirate in the throat, smashing through his larynx and pulverizing his neck vertebrae. He flailed over on his back, blood fountaining from his open mouth.
Hatcher flung out his hands. “I’m unarmed, Cawdor!”
Ryan centered the bore of the blaster on the man’s forehead. “What makes you think I give a shit?”
Hatchet Jack gaped at him. When he saw the promise of his death in that single blue eye, his shoulders sagged. As they did so, the strap of his powder horn slipped off. As it fell to the ground, Hatcher closed his hand around the loop of leather, and he swung it in an eye-blurring, thrumming circle.
Hyan squeezed the trigger, but the shot went wild as the tip of the horn caught the baffle silencer and slapped the SIG-Sauer out of his hand.
Backing away, Ryan shook his stinging fingers. If the horn had struck his hand, all the delicate bones would have probably been broken. The horn was full of more than just powder.
Hatcher swung the horn in a whistling arc that passed over Ryan’s head. He began a backswing, but a fusillade of shots cracked and bullets blasted chips from the rock wall. He ducked his head and swore.
Return fire came from the opening in the gorge behind Hatcher, the reports softer than modern blasters. More of the Cadre pirates were firing muzzle loaders at Ryan’s people to keep them pinned down. They couldn’t shoot without risking their leader’s life, and the companions couldn’t shoot at Hatcher without taking the same gamble.