Josh had an edge, though. There were two of them and only one of Tremaine. Josh peered out once more and then sprinted from behind the truck and made it to the edge of the shack.
“Rufus,” he hollered. “On the count of three.”
“Start counting,” Rufus shouted back, tremors of fear in his voice.
Three seconds later Josh opened fire on Tremaine, the bullets pinging off the Jeep’s frame. Rufus hustled to the back of the truck. He was stopped there, however, when Tremaine managed to fire a burst between the truck and the shack. The air smelled of gunfire, and of the sweat of frightened men.
Josh and Rufus looked at each other, and then Josh cracked a smile, sensing the rising panic in his brother.
“Hey, Vic,” Josh yelled out, “how ’bout you throw down that damn widowmaker and come on out with your hands up?”
Tremaine responded by blowing a chunk of wood off the shack a little above Josh’s head.
“Okay, okay, Vic, I hear you. Now, you be cool, you hear me, little buddy? Don’t you worry, we’ll bury you and Rayfield. Ain’t gonna leave you for the bears and shit to chew on. That’s bad shit. Animals eating dead bodies. You saw that in Nam, didn’t you, Vic? Or maybe you was running too fast the other way to see that.” While he was talking, Josh was motioning for Rufus to stay put and then pointing around the shack to show his brother what he was going to do.
Rufus nodded to show he understood. Josh was going to try to flush the man into his brother’s field of vision and let Rufus cut him down. Rufus gripped his gun and slipped in a new clip, grateful that his brother had taken the time to show him how. He was having trouble breathing; his arms felt heavy holding the gun. He was afraid that he would not have the nerve, the killer instinct, much less the skill to shoot the man down, even if Tremaine came at him, firing with that damn machine gun. Rufus had fought many men in prison in order to survive — with his hands only, even though his opponents had always been armed with a shiv or piece of pipe. But a gun was different. A gun could kill from a distance. But if he didn’t shoot, his brother would die. And for once he could not pray to God to help him. He could not speak to his Lord for assistance in killing another.
In a half crouch, Josh made his way across the front of the shack, stopping at intervals to listen intently. Once he dared to raise his head up to one of the windows, in order to perhaps see through it and out the rear window to where the Jeep was, but the angle was wrong and his view was blocked. Josh was totally focused now. The fear was still there, it was very much there, but he had done his best to transform it into adrenaline, to heighten every sense he possessed. He pointed his pistol directly in front of him, knowing full well that if Tremaine had figured what his plan was, his best course of action would be to slip out from behind the Jeep and come around the shack the other way, with the result that he would meet Josh head-on somewhere in the middle. Machine gun against pistol, a hundred rounds to one, meaning Josh would die, and then so would Rufus.
He moved forward another foot. Then he heard the machine gun open fire again and listened as the bullets tore into the pickup truck. He raced forward and rounded the corner. While Tremaine was busy firing at Rufus, Josh could outflank him and silence the sonofabitch once and for all.
This plan vanished when he went around the corner, for Tremaine was standing there, his pistol pointed at Josh’s head. An astonished Josh stopped so abruptly that his feet slid in the gravel and his legs went out from under him. This was fortunate, since the bullet slammed into his shoulder instead of his brain. His momentum carried him forward and his legs clipped Tremaine’s, and they went down hard, both their pistols sailing out of reach.