The climb to the top of the right-hand hill was rugged, with Ryan weighed down by the jugs of gunpowder. He was panting with exertion when they reached their destination. There were a few tangled mesquite bushes at the crest, as well as patches of wildflowers with drooping petals.
Not stopping to rest, Ryan examined the lip of the ridge overhanging the gorge for cracks or faults. He found a deep split in the strata, seven steps from the edge. It was three feet deep and fifteen feet long. He and Krysty inserted the loose tendrils of fuse into the holes in the corks.
When the job was finished, Ryan stood and ran out the fuse, tossing it down the face of the hill. The powder-impregnated line was not long enough to reach the barricades, so when the time came, someoneprobably himwas going to have to expose himself and climb fifty-odd feet to light it.
Chapter Nine
The sun was a bare finger’s width above the horizon when they began to arrive. The wind wags of the Red Cadre swept across the plain. They rolled in a compact, orderly formation, from two different directions. A few hundred yards from the pass, the pirates disembarked. Ryan had expected a disorganized mass, like spooked cattle, but the men marched in ordered ranks.
Ryan stood atop the right-hand hill with Krysty and Jak. Six men stood behind them. On the left-hand hill were six men, all identically armed with long blasters. Mose Autry stood with them. Mildred, Doc and J.B. were at the fortifications below.
“There’s more of them than I thought,” Krysty breathed. “Must be two hundred.”
Ryan scanned the approaching pirates and said, “More like fifty. The manner they march in is an old Indian trick, to make the enemy think he’s hopelessly outnumbered.” He peered through the binoculars and saw well-built men with faces devoid of warmth or humor. Most of them carried muzzle loaders, but he spotted a few multishot blasters here and there among them.
John Hatcher brought up the rear. On his belt was a new scalp, the color of Eli’s hair. He cradled the M-79 gren launcher, and a bag hung from one shoulder. It looked heavy, and Ryan figured it contained the explosive rounds. A man walked beside him holding a battered, verdigris-eaten green bugle.
Turning to the men assembled behind him, Ryan said, “Remember what we planned. Pick your targets and fire. While you reload, me and my people will blaze away.”
Ryan glanced at Krysty. She had her Smith amp; Wesson in both hands, and she gave him a reassuring smile. He propped the cushioned stock of the Steyr against his right hip.
The bugler sounded a brassy, bleating note. At the same moment the pirates thundered across the plain, moving as though they were being pushed forward by a wind from death’s kingdom. They uttered strident, wordless cries. Blaster stocks slapped against shoulders, and puffs of smoke bloomed amid a staccato popping sound.
A few musket balls rattled on the stones around the defenders. The men aiming their long blasters murmured prayers and muttered curses. But most of them were veterans of frontier battles, and they waited until the first wave of pirates was clearly framed in their weapons’ sights. When they fired, it was without haste and without mistake.
At each shot, one of the Cadre either tumbled to the ground or slapped at a wound. As the men fell back to reload, Ryan shouldered the Steyr, squinted through the Starlite nightscope and squeezed the trigger. Within the crosshairs of the telescopic sight, he saw a pirate pitch over backward as though struck by lightning. Working the bolt action smoothly, Ryan fired twice more, picking his targets with care. A clear view of Hatcher was obscured by running, milling men.
Jak fired his .357 Magnum Colt Python and cursed when he missed his target. Even with a six-inch barrel, the range was too great for a handblaster.
The pirates wavered, turned, then raced back toward their wind wags. Seven of them would never sail the prairie again, and as they fled Autry drilled one of the rearmost marauders in the center of the back.