“Get this off me!” Mitchum ordered brusquely, wriggling.
“Yes, sir,” Whyte replied, and grabbed the reins. But as he pulled they broke apart, the leather straps severely weakened from the firestorm.
“Get a longblaster,” the colonel directed. “Shove it underneath and I can drag myself out. Hurry! My legs went numb an hour ago.”
“Gotcha,” Whyte said, rummaging around until he found a flintlock rifle that hadn’t been blown apart when its ammo cooked off from the heat. Carefully shoving the barrel under the limp beast, Whyte shoved hard upward and the half ton of deadweight slowly lifted off the ground.
Grunting from the exertion, Mitchum wriggled free, leaving his boots trapped under the beast, and rolled away. Whyte released the rifle and let the carcass drop.
“It was you,” the sec man said awkwardly. “You shot that stickie coming for me.”
“Of course,” Mitchum growled, massaging his legs and bare feet. With the return of circulation, pins and needles were making his legs tingle painfully and he rode out the return of feeling, not daring to move an inch.
“You saved my life,” Whyte said, feeling angry and confused at the same time.
“Had to,” Mitchum said, trying to stand and surprised to find that he could. His legs were throbbing like drums, but strength was returning faster than expected. Excellent. First good thing that had happened on this accursed island in months.
“You saved my life ’cause we’re fellow sec men,” Whyte said in an unaccustomed rush of pride. “Sir, I…I…”
“I shot the mutie because I needed you to move the fucking horse,” the colonel snapped, pulling the Colt Woodsman .22 from his belt. “Thanks, feeb.”
As Whyte gasped, Mitchum emptied the tiny revolver into the sec man. The small slugs drove the trooper backward, but he was still standing when they stopped coming. Blood soaking his shirt and pants, Whyte fought for breath as he tried to draw his own blaster, but the weapon dropped from nerveless fingers.
“Also needed your boots,” Mitchum said as he calmly picked up the fallen weapon and finished the job.
Shoving the massive .75 flintlock into his belt, the colonel then tossed away the useless predark revolver. Five rounds and the man had still been standing. What kind of a shitty weapon was that?
Stripping the warm corpse of footwear, blaster and ammo, the colonel got dressed and reloaded the hot blaster. Then he proceeded to search among the dead for what supplies and additional weapons he could find. When he was finished, the sec chief had a little food and no water, but a good knife, two handcannons, a single longblaster, plus plenty of shot and lead. More than enough.
“Now it’s your turn, Ryan,” Mitchum muttered as he stumbled into the forest, searching the ground for the tracks of the hated outlanders.
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