“What?”
“If something should happen to me,” Orson said, “would you send word to my mom for me?”
It was the last thing Rudabaugh would have expected Orson to ask.
“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“Just in case,” the Mole persisted, “get word to my mom. Tell her I was thinking of her at the end.” He paused. “We’ve always been kind of close.”
“Will do,” Rudabaugh pledged. He stared northward. “Here they come!”
G.R.D.’s and soldiers were moving through the yards of the residential neighborhood, alert for trouble.
Rudabaugh kept his eyes just high enough to note their proximity.
When the nearest troopers were 20 yards away, he lowered his head and prepared to strike a match.
Orson was watching Rudabaugh, awaiting his cue.
Rudabaugh counted to ten, then lit the match and applied the flame to the first charge. He drew back his right arm, and then threw the bundle as hard as he could. Instantly, he curled up, putting his hands over his head.
Orson followed suit.
Seconds later, when the twin explosions came, the flatbed shook and shimmied, and for a moment Rudabaugh thought it would collapse under the stress. His ears felt like they were going to burst. Clumps of sod, dirt, grass, and other debris rained from the sky, pelting his body and stinging his skin, even through the fabric of his wool clothing.
Orson was coughing, choking on the dust.
Rudabaugh looked up, startled to discover a severed human arm lying on the pipe next to his left elbow, the tattered remnant of a green fatigue sleeve clinging to its shredded flesh.
A great brown cloud was hovering over the area.
Rudabaugh rose to his knees, the stock of the Winchester Model 94 Standard pressed against his right shoulder. He detected an indistinct form moving on the ground to his left. The Winchester cracked, and there was a strident screech accompanied by a faint thud as a body toppled to the earth.
“Where the hell are they?” someone bellowed below.
“I can’t see them!” another soldier replied.
There was a slight scratching noise from the right.
Rudabaugh turned, his eyes beholding a lizard-like G.R.D. climbing the conduits toward him, its baleful gaze fixed on him with malevolent intent.
He aimed and pulled the trigger.
The G.R.D. was struck in the forehead. Its arms flung wide, it was catapulted from the pipes and tumbled to the ground.
The dust cloud was commencing to disperse on the breeze.
Several dark figures were vaguely visible in front of the flatbed trailer.
Orson rose to his knees and cut loose with the M-16, his burst attended by screams and shouts and curses.
“Dammit! Where are they?” a trooper demanded.
Rudabaugh spotted a pair of G.R.D.’s to his left, slinking in the direction of the flatbed. He fired twice, each shot connecting and slamming them to the ground.
“I think I see them!” a soldier cried. “They’re up there!”
Rudabaugh hastily slid backward. “Let’s go!” he called to Orson.
“Over here!” somebody bawled.
Orson rose and turned, about to clamber over the side of the uppermost pipe.
Rudabaugh, already down to the middle row of culverts, glanced up and saw Orson’s right shoulder explode outward as a slug penetrated him from behind. The Mole’s head snapped back, and he was propelled from the pile of pipes, his legs and good arm waving frantically as he dropped to the ground.
No!
Rudabaugh released his grip, falling the rest of the way and landing on his feet. He quickly knelt alongside Orson.
The bearded Mole was on his stomach, writhing in torment, his M-16 a few yards away, his shotgun still slung over his left shoulder.
Rudabaugh grabbed Orson’s left shoulder. “Orson! You’ve got to get up!”
Orson glanced at the Cavalryman, his face contorted in pain.
“Can you get up?” Rudabaugh pressed him, looking both ways to insure their foes weren’t nearby.
Orson nodded, grunted, and heaved to his feet. He swayed for a moment, but recovered, his right arm hanging useless at his side.
“Hurry!” Rudabaugh led the way, running, bearing due south. Blade’s orders had been explicit: engage the enemy at the perimeter, then retreat to the town square.
Orson did his best to keep up.
Rudabaugh adjusted their path, heading a bit to the east. He looked over his right shoulder as they neared a white picket fence.
Soldiers and G.R.D.’s were pouring around both ends of the flatbed trailer.
Rudabaugh was almost to a gate in the middle of the fence. He motioned for Orson to continue, then spun and snapped off a shot at their pursuers.
They ducked for cover.
Rudabaugh whirled and ran for the gate.
Orson was already on the other side, crouching behind the fence.
The troopers near the flatbed darted into view and unleashed a volley from their M-16’s.
Rudabaugh was framed in the gate opening when the hail of bullets plowed into the fence, splintering wood in every direction, and something tore through his left calf, sending a sharp spasm up his body and causing his leg to buckle. He sprawled onto his knees and rolled to the left.
He’d been hit again!
The soldiers and G.R.D.’s were charging across the yard toward the picket fence.
His fingers trembling, Rudabaugh removed his second charge from the pillowcase and lit the fuse. He didn’t bother counting to ten this time; his only concern was providing them with enough cover to obscure their escape to the town square.
Orson was doubled over and gasping for air, on the verge of hyperventilating.
Rudabaugh tossed the bundle of dynamite with all of his strength.
Predictably, the resultant blast sent a cloud of dirt and dust up, shrouding the picket fence and the immediate vicinity in an ambiguous brown haze.
Time to get their butts in gear!
Rudabaugh lurched to Orson and pulled him to a sitting position.
“Orson! Snap out of it!”
Orson’s eyes were dazed, his mouth slack.
Rudabaugh rudely shook him. “Orson! I’ve been hit! I need your help!”
Orson blinked his eyes, responding to the plea for aid. “You too?” he mumbled.
“I need you!” Rudabaugh reiterated.
Orson shook his head, striving to eradicate his wooziness. He glanced at Rudabaugh, noting the crimson hole on the Cavalryman’s left calf.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Rudabaugh urged him.
Orson nodded and stood. He slid his left arm under Rudabaugh’s right shoulder and heaved, straining to hold Rudabaugh erect. “I’ve got you,” Orson stated. “We’ll make it.”
But would they?
Even as Orson assisted Rudabaugh in limping away from the picket fence at a rapid clip, the Cavalryman could hear the pounding footsteps of their foes on the turf behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lynx, alone on the roof of the command post, was mad as all get out!
His very genes craved to be in the battle, to be doing what he’d been designed to do: kill and kill again. Gunfire was rising from every direction.
It sounded as if a veritable war were in progress.
And here he was, on top of the damn command post, missing all the action!
That idiot Blade!
Stay behind, he had said!
Wait in reserve, he’d said!
You’ll get your chance!
That big dimwit!
Lynx was furiously pacing back and forth above the front door, listening to the shooting and the explosions and chafing to leave his post and join in the fun. He stopped and put his hands on the rim of the roof, about to leap over the side.
What was that?
He paused as the roar of a large motor drowned out the uproar of the conflict.