What would I do?
Cassidy craned his neck and took in the whole physical area where they fought. To his right, a ridge lifted above the common denominator plain; the plain actually rose to meet the ridge, beyond which distant mountains could be glimpsed. He didn’t have the luxury of speculating on what might lay immediately over the rise.
He just needed the high ground.
Cassidy crawled forward, wondering where Roland had disappeared. He had his doubts about Frenchmen and, as yet, this one was not changing his mind.
Riordan was fast. Cassidy had trained his .45 on the man and talked while Delcambré had stepped out of the truck cab with a rifle. As soon as he saw the muzzle on Delcambré’s weapon come up, Cassidy had pulled the .45 up and opened the truck door to get out. When Cassidy’s left foot touched the road, Riordan kicked the door into him and accelerated his motorcycle down the road at such speed that Roland’s shot missed.
Cassidy shoved the door away, dropped the pistol and grabbed his .45-.70, took careful aim at the motorcycle and blew a hole in the back tire. The BMW skidded wildly on the rocky road and Riordan leapt off the machine as the wheels caught and it began to flip sideways. Riordan had the presence of mind to grab his rifle from its scabbard then rolled when he hit the ground.
“The son of a bitch disappeared!” Cassidy exclaimed.
“He is very good at that,” Roland agreed. “I suggest you take cover.”
“He has to be dazed. Let’s get up there and grab him.”
“After you,” Roland said with a wide smile.
Cassidy grabbed his pistol off the truck seat and holstered it. Holding the rifle close to his chest he went down the road at a dead run.
Riordan’s first shot went through the crown of his hat and snapped it off his head like magic. Cassidy threw himself behind the biggest rock within a meter. It wasn’t a very big rock since he couldn’t fit all of himself behind it.
A quick glance behind showed no sign of Roland Delcambré. Cassidy aimed toward where he last saw Riordan, and waited.
A bullet, so close to his head it sounded like a hummingbird in full flight, buzzed past. Another bullet whined above him.
Where the hell is he?
Cassidy carefully surveyed the ground immediately around him. The terrain was flat on both sides and gained elevation up to the rise. With Riordan ahead of, and above, him, he didn’t have a chance of flanking the bastard.
Where the hell is Delcambré?
Cassidy had the largest rock within five meters. Engine noise behind him suddenly registered.
This is either a very good thing or a very bad thing.
Without really thinking about it, he rolled over and over toward a larger rock five meters distant. After the fourth roll he felt disoriented and stopped, completely in the open. The engine sounds were louder and he scrambled over to the rock.
Blood pounded in his head but he felt relieved to have some decent cover.
Rifle fire behind him added to his decision to just stay put for a moment. He watched the area from where Riordan had last fired, and waited.
He heard Roland shout, “Que est vous?” and heard the answer: the damned Freekorps. Then Riordan shouted from somewhere in front of him. The damn terrain made it sound like his voice was everywhere.
The voices behind him suddenly ceased. The quiet stretched too far into his nerves to be comfortable.
“Are you soldiers with me?” Riordan shouted.
A voice Cassidy didn’t recognize answered, “Sorry, Major, this is your fight. But we’ll watch.”
“Bastards!” Riordan shrilled. “After all I’ve done for you!”
Cassidy realized he knew where Riordan was, off to his left side, and started inching toward him.
“Riordan, you have dropped our balls in the dirt for the last time. I hope they hang your ass!”
Cassidy grinned and quickened his pace. In moments he was out of the roadside dirt and rocks and on softer, quieter sphagnum moss and lichens. He stopped to rest in a shallow depression, wishing he could take a quick nap on this delicious bed.
He heard a scuffing sound and raised his head to look Riordan in the face less than a meter away. Immediately Cassidy threw himself forward and used the .45-.70 to block the rifle Riordan quickly tried to aim. They parried, both swinging their weapons at the other, both still on their knees.
A furious battle of rifles as quarterstaffs ensued. In an effort to gain height, Cassidy shuffled to his right and his knee came down on a sharp stone. For the briefest moment his attention diverted to the piercing pain in his knee and in that moment Riordan clipped the side of his head.
Cassidy, stunned, rolled away and Riordan, still in the fierce heat of the fight, swung his rifle back and with all his force brought it down where Cassidy’s face lay blinking at the sky.
Cassidy jerked to his right. Riordan’s rifle stock hit a rock the size of two doubled fists and shattered.
“Damn!” Riordan shouted.
Cassidy reared up and swung the .45-.70 at the Irishman’s head and missed when Riordan fell onto his back, scrambling for his pistol.
Cassidy pulled back the hammer on the .45-.70 and aimed at Riordan’s head. “I know you’re not from the Great Plains, but I’m sure you’ve heard of a buffalo gun.”
Riordan pulled his hand away from the pistol and held it in the air. His other hand lay on the ground, shaking with desire and exhaustion.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of ’em.”
85
9 miles east of Delta on the Russia-Canada Highway
Lieutenant Alex Strom of the International Freekorps wondered how to end this once and for all. Riordan and the other guy could fight all night at this rate. Yet Roland Delcambré sat behind him with a weapon.
The three truckloads of mercenaries behind Delcambré had no idea what was going on. They merely waited for Strom to give them direction. He finally decided to call Roland’s bluff when suddenly a tank reared up over the ridge and slammed down on the road surface. The dusty, faded paint depicting a Kiowa war shield adorned the front of the machine.
“Shit!” Strom said, dropping off his elbows onto the ground. “I know when I’m licked.”
Three more tanks followed. All stopped and their cannon and machine guns pointed at the vehicles carrying the remnants of the International Freekorps. Riordan and the other man stared at the machines. Roland’s friend lowered his weapon and stepped back from Riordan. Both gasped in exhaustion.
“I’m getting out of here,” Gagne said. “Don’t wait up. You have a good life, Alex. Roland, can I leave?”
Delcambré nodded and Strom watched Gagne slip away from under the car and disappear off to the right. One of the FPN gunners fired a quick burst in that direction but made no indication he had hit anything. Strom wondered if they’d hang him.
A man about his father’s age climbed down off the lead tank. He had the air of command about him and wore two small silver devices on his shoulders. He stopped in front of the man Riordan had fought with and extended his hand to pull him up.
“Once again Yukon Cassidy gets his man.”
Riordan, still lying on the ground, quipped, “But he didn’t beat me!”
Cassidy glanced down at him. “That can be arranged.”
Soldiers poured over the ridge and surrounded Strom’s scout car and the three trucks. Strom nodded when one of the soldiers deftly plucked the pistol off his belt and the two carbines out of the car. The officer walked over to the scout car.
“Name and rank?”
Strom decided the devices were representations of the sun that meant the man was a brigadier general. He stood at attention.