striking the ground and wagon like deadly rain.
Iggy sat on his horse some way up the hill, relishing the cat and mouse game as his archers pinned down the survivors huddled under the steam engine and the four wagons stranded where the road reached the floor of the valley.
He giggled quietly as the thought struck him that the longer he held up the final assault, the greater the chance that the wagonmaster might try some futile attempt to break out. It would be much more amusing if they tried something. Just sending in Oltha’s hillbilly butchers seemed an anticlimax after the rush of the downhill chase.
He noticed Oltha between him and the bowmen, riding purposefully in his direction. Iggy kicked his horse and rode down to meet him.
‘What’s the trouble chief, you lookin’ f’ me?’
‘Soonly my warriors become restless.’
‘Yeah, wha’s the hurry? We got all day.’
‘We come to fight, not watch.’
‘Aw, let the bastards sweat for a while, they can’t move.’
‘We finish it now.’
‘Leave it, we ain’t had no fun with ’em as yet.’
‘We are men, we fight, we move upon them now — now!’
‘Lissen…’
‘Now.’ The chief began to look dangerous. No point in looking for trouble this early. Iggy shrugged.
‘Send in the slaughter crew then. I’ll use the battle wagons to give coverin’ fire if you need it.’
‘No need of that, the men become impatient for the rush of the manslayer. We finish it.’
Oltha wheeled his horse and galloped to give the orders to his foot men. Iggy turned round more slowly to where Winston had assembled his men around the two wagons.
‘Wha’s happenin’ chief, why the hangup?’
Iggy halted.
‘No hangup ol’ buddy. Oltha’s a-sendin’ in his butcher boys. All we have t’ do is wait.’
‘We ain’t a-goin’ in?’
‘No point in bein’ heroes, just move in easy when they’ve taken care of business. You take two men an’ make sho’ nobody else gets the strongbox, ri’? An’ detail two guys to pick up the pieces from the dead, an’ what might be left in the wagons’ gun racks, okay?’
‘Sho’, Marty an’ Gay Dave stick by me, an’ Pig an’ Rummy, you get the guns.
The arrows fell, volley after volley, making their unique eerie hiss. Eddie pressed himself as far back as possible into the driving box of the upturned wagon. Across from him, he could see the puller’s wheels. Were the outlaws going to keep them pinned like this forever? Eddie was tempted to make a run for it. Maybe a suicide dash would be better than letting a psychopath hill chief play with him like this. Then, almost in answer, the arrows stopped. Eddie tensed for the dash back to the engine. For a moment there was silence. Eddie, a gun in each hand, made his dash. Halfway across the space a furious shouting began. Hesitating, Eddie glanced round. Running tribesmen were coming from every direction. Two, one brandishing a knife, the other a long axe, ran round the side of the upturned wagon. Eddie fired one barrel of his shotgun and they went down. Turning, he found a tall rangy hill man with an ugly scar down one cheek between himself and the puller. He rushed Eddie, swinging a double-handed axe. Eddie sidestepped, ducked and chopped him with his gun barrel. The man fell but started to rise again and Eddie finished him with his second barrel.
Then they were everywhere; Eddie threw down the shotgun and fired a rapid burst from the repeater. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Charlie backed up against the engine, wielding his gun butt like a club. The burst of fire cleared a space in front of Eddie for an instant, then the clip was exhausted and the tribesmen pressed towards him. In a momentary flash before he was overwhelmed he saw Hoover running desperately, his green coat flapping like useless wings and, still clutching his hat and travelling bag, pursued by three laughing outlaws.
Then they swamped him and Eddie saw nothing.
Although the men shouted and
Iggy sat on his horse some way up the hill, relishing the cat and mouse game as his archers pinned down the survivors huddled under the steam engine and the four wagons stranded where the road reached the floor of the valley.
He giggled quietly as the thought struck him that the longer he held up the final assault, the greater the chance that the wagonmaster might try some futile attempt to break out. It would be much more amusing if they tried something. Just sending in Oltha’s hillbilly butchers seemed an anticlimax after the rush of the downhill chase.
He noticed Oltha between him and the bowmen, riding purposefully in his direction. Iggy kicked his horse and rode down to meet him.
‘What’s the trouble chief, you lookin’ f’ me?’
‘Soonly my warriors become restless.’
‘Yeah, wha’s the hurry? We got all day.’
‘We come to fight, not watch.’
‘Aw, let the bastards sweat for a while, they can’t move.’
‘We finish it now.’
‘Leave it, we ain’t had no fun with ’em as yet.’
‘We are men, we fight, we move upon them now — now!’
‘Lissen…’
‘Now.’ The chief began to look dangerous. No point in looking for trouble this early. Iggy shrugged.
‘Send in the slaughter crew then. I’ll use the battle wagons to give coverin’ fire if you need it.’
‘No need of that, the men become impatient for the rush of the manslayer. We finish it.’
Oltha wheeled his horse and galloped to give the orders to his foot men. Iggy turned round more slowly to where Winston had assembled his men around the two wagons.
‘Wha’s happenin’ chief, why the hangup?’
Iggy halted.
‘No hangup ol’ buddy. Oltha’s a-sendin’ in his butcher boys. All we have t’ do is wait.’
‘We ain’t a-goin’ in?’
‘No point in bein’ heroes, just move in easy when they’ve taken care of business. You take two men an’ make sho’ nobody else gets the strongbox, ri’? An’ detail two guys to pick up the pieces from the dead, an’ what might be left in the wagons’ gun racks, okay?’
‘Sho’, Marty an’ Gay Dave stick by me, an’ Pig an’ Rummy, you get the guns.
The arrows fell, volley after volley, making their unique eerie hiss. Eddie pressed himself as far back as possible into the driving box of the upturned wagon. Across from him, he could see the puller’s wheels. Were the outlaws going to keep them pinned like this forever? Eddie was tempted to make a run for it. Maybe a suicide dash would be better than letting a psychopath hill chief play with him like this. Then, almost in answer, the arrows stopped. Eddie tensed for the dash back to the engine. For a moment there was silence. Eddie, a gun in each hand, made his dash. Halfway across the space a furious shouting began. Hesitating, Eddie glanced round. Running tribesmen were coming from every direction. Two, one brandishing a knife, the other a long axe, ran round the side of the upturned wagon. Eddie fired one barrel of his shotgun and they went down. Turning, he found a tall rangy hill man with an ugly scar down one cheek between himself and the puller. He rushed Eddie, swinging a double-handed axe. Eddie sidestepped, ducked and chopped him with his gun barrel. The man fell but started to rise again and Eddie finished him with his second barrel.
Then they were everywhere; Eddie threw down the shotgun and fired a rapid burst from the repeater. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Charlie backed up against the engine, wielding his gun butt like a club. The burst of fire cleared a space in front of Eddie for an instant, then the clip was exhausted and the tribesmen pressed towards him. In a momentary flash before he was overwhelmed he saw Hoover running desperately, his green coat flapping like useless wings and, still clutching his hat and travelling bag, pursued by three laughing outlaws.
Then they swamped him and Eddie saw nothing.
Although the men shouted and
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