were staring down at Frost. All of them with approval.
“Remind me not to lip off to him at the Happy Trails, next time he says I’ve had enough,” murmured Frank Jackson. “Always heard he was a hell of a shot.”
Mike straightened up, remembering the girl. His eyes ranged down the creek where she had fled.
“She’s probably half a mile away, by now,” said Hank. He pointed southwest, across the creek. “I saw her scramble over to the other side. Creek must be low. She went up somewhere into the trees.”
Hank’s face twisted into a ferocious scowl. “The whole back of her dress had been ripped off, Mike.” He glared at the corpse lying on the pavement. “I think those guys were trying to rape her.”
Mike’s eyes went to the corpse. Then looked at the wall and the unseen territory beyond. Thin columns of smoke were still rising.
“Something bad is happening here, guys,” he stated. “I don’t know what it is. But it’s bad.” He pointed at the corpse. “I don’t think this is all of it.”
Frank stalked over to the corpse and stooped over it. “Look at this weird armor. What do you think, Mike? Some kind of crazy survivalists or something?”
Mike shrugged. “I’ve got no idea, Frank. But if there were two of them, there’s no reason can’t be more.” He gestured at Dan. Dr. Nichols seemed to have the blood flow stanched. “You heard the chief, guys. He deputized us, and told us to do whatever’s got to be done.”
The miners nodded, and crowded a little closer.
“So get your guns, boys. I know damn well you’ve all got something stashed in your vehicles. We’re going hunting.”
As the men started moving toward their trucks, Mike reconsidered. “Except you, Ken. You’ve got to get Dan back to the high school. They’ve got a clinic.”
Seeing the elderly Hobbs’ look of suspicion, Mike elaborated curtly. “Don’t argue with me! It’s not your age, dammit. You’ve got the only van here.” He pointed at Frost. “Better than tossing him into the bed of a pickup.”
Mollified, Hobbs nodded. “I’ll get my gun. Leave it with you guys.”
Mike heard Nichols murmur something to his daughter. A moment later the doctor was rising.
“Sharon can do as much for him right now as I can,” he said. “It’s just a flesh wound. Big one, but nothing worse. She’ll go back with him to the clinic.”
Mike cocked an eyebrow. Nichols smiled thinly. “I’m coming with you.” Nichols nodded toward the wall. “Like you said, something bad’s going down here. I suspect you’ll need me down the road a ways.”
Mike hesitated. Then, studying the hard, rough face—a very thin smile that was—he nodded. “Okay with me, Doc.” He looked down at Frost. “Can you get that holster off him? You better have a weapon yourself.”
While Nichols occupied himself with that task, Mike went over to his own pickup. It was the work of a few seconds to haul his gun from its place of concealment behind the seat. And a box of ammunition. He hefted the big .357 magnum. The weapon was a Smith & Wesson Model 28 Highway Patrolman fixed-sight revolver, tucked into a clip holster. Fortunately, Mike had insisted on dress pants using a belt instead of suspenders. He attached the holster to the belt and shoved the ammunition in the rented tuxedo’s deep pockets.
Then he went over to Dan’s Cherokee and took out the shotgun. He also found two boxes of ammunition. One of them contained rounds for the .40 caliber. The other held double-ought buckshot. The same rounds would be in the shotgun’s magazine. He pried out a half dozen shotgun shells and stuffed them in his pants pockets. The box of .40-caliber ammunition he kept in his hand. Between the revolver and all the ammunition, he felt like a
“Remind me not to lip off to him at the Happy Trails, next time he says I’ve had enough,” murmured Frank Jackson. “Always heard he was a hell of a shot.”
Mike straightened up, remembering the girl. His eyes ranged down the creek where she had fled.
“She’s probably half a mile away, by now,” said Hank. He pointed southwest, across the creek. “I saw her scramble over to the other side. Creek must be low. She went up somewhere into the trees.”
Hank’s face twisted into a ferocious scowl. “The whole back of her dress had been ripped off, Mike.” He glared at the corpse lying on the pavement. “I think those guys were trying to rape her.”
Mike’s eyes went to the corpse. Then looked at the wall and the unseen territory beyond. Thin columns of smoke were still rising.
“Something bad is happening here, guys,” he stated. “I don’t know what it is. But it’s bad.” He pointed at the corpse. “I don’t think this is all of it.”
Frank stalked over to the corpse and stooped over it. “Look at this weird armor. What do you think, Mike? Some kind of crazy survivalists or something?”
Mike shrugged. “I’ve got no idea, Frank. But if there were two of them, there’s no reason can’t be more.” He gestured at Dan. Dr. Nichols seemed to have the blood flow stanched. “You heard the chief, guys. He deputized us, and told us to do whatever’s got to be done.”
The miners nodded, and crowded a little closer.
“So get your guns, boys. I know damn well you’ve all got something stashed in your vehicles. We’re going hunting.”
As the men started moving toward their trucks, Mike reconsidered. “Except you, Ken. You’ve got to get Dan back to the high school. They’ve got a clinic.”
Seeing the elderly Hobbs’ look of suspicion, Mike elaborated curtly. “Don’t argue with me! It’s not your age, dammit. You’ve got the only van here.” He pointed at Frost. “Better than tossing him into the bed of a pickup.”
Mollified, Hobbs nodded. “I’ll get my gun. Leave it with you guys.”
Mike heard Nichols murmur something to his daughter. A moment later the doctor was rising.
“Sharon can do as much for him right now as I can,” he said. “It’s just a flesh wound. Big one, but nothing worse. She’ll go back with him to the clinic.”
Mike cocked an eyebrow. Nichols smiled thinly. “I’m coming with you.” Nichols nodded toward the wall. “Like you said, something bad’s going down here. I suspect you’ll need me down the road a ways.”
Mike hesitated. Then, studying the hard, rough face—a very thin smile that was—he nodded. “Okay with me, Doc.” He looked down at Frost. “Can you get that holster off him? You better have a weapon yourself.”
While Nichols occupied himself with that task, Mike went over to his own pickup. It was the work of a few seconds to haul his gun from its place of concealment behind the seat. And a box of ammunition. He hefted the big .357 magnum. The weapon was a Smith & Wesson Model 28 Highway Patrolman fixed-sight revolver, tucked into a clip holster. Fortunately, Mike had insisted on dress pants using a belt instead of suspenders. He attached the holster to the belt and shoved the ammunition in the rented tuxedo’s deep pockets.
Then he went over to Dan’s Cherokee and took out the shotgun. He also found two boxes of ammunition. One of them contained rounds for the .40 caliber. The other held double-ought buckshot. The same rounds would be in the shotgun’s magazine. He pried out a half dozen shotgun shells and stuffed them in his pants pockets. The box of .40-caliber ammunition he kept in his hand. Between the revolver and all the ammunition, he felt like a
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