As they approached, he heard yelling from the beach side—from the rear of the house—where their two forward advancing teams were headed. The crunching footsteps alerted him of a small white man in a black T-shirt approaching their position with a revolver.
El Diablo signaled his man to return to the house’s front corner, and he intended to hop over the wall separating the two properties. They scrambled nimbly before the small man could look up and see them.
Scott Smith lumbered through the Kings’ side yard, pushed by hunger and growing panic over what Clyde would do with his wife. What Clyde had told him to do was wrong. These people had helped him and his wife days earlier. When he and Kathy broke into an abandoned beach house searching for food, Clyde and Judas were already there. Clyde then made his appeal to Scott to join them. His wife, Kathy, would be held as insurance. Scott never cared for Clyde, and figured he would be used as a pawn to go begging to the Kings since they’d already offered help. He had no idea Clyde was a psycho who would resort to violence. Now, he was supposed to harm these wonderful people all because of Clyde’s threats to his wife? No, I’ve got to help the Kings and find a way to get Kathy out at the same time. Maybe I could tell them wha—
“Hey gringo, where you going?” a casual voice from Thompson’s yard asked, as if inquiring about the time of day. His rifle aimed at Scott and camo uniform affirmed his true purpose. A metal rod punched Scott’s back, racking him with pain. He turned just enough to see a giant hulking Mexican behind him.
“Give him your gun,” commanded El Diablo. Scott supplicated to the giant, who grabbed his arm and squeezed with such force that Scott yelped like a small fawn caught in a hunter’s snare.
“We should go in now and kill them all,” said Gigante in Spanish to El Diablo.
“No,” El Diablo responded calmly. “Let’s see what happens. These gringos may kill each other and do our work for us.”
Gigante nodded. There was a reason El Diablo had been second in command of Rodrigo’s men… Diablo’s men, now. Gigante was glad for this and knew they would prosper as long as Los Diablos Verdes in the sky lasted. El Diablo let Gigante kill many people, an activity that filled him with more pleasure than the women. “If all of them die, can I at least kill this one myself?” he begged his boss.
“Yes, he’s yours.” Then El Diablo scowled, looking toward the yelling from the beach.
Gigante snickered while facing Scott, who still whimpered at the viselike hold on his arm, and wondered if this little man knew what was coming.
29.
Preparing for a Fight
Frank Patton kept weary watch on the enemy through his binoculars from his position below the steeple of St. Matthew’s. The Episcopal cathedral’s bell tower was the highest point in Fort Laramie. After the first warning, Frank had rushed out of their meeting to the steeple, busting through the trap-door entrance just as Rohrbach was blasting his second warning of the foe’s approach to the northern gate.
It was a group of ten men, all heavily armed. They stood silently in the middle of the road in front of the gate’s entrance, waiting.
“They’re obviously not here to exchange recipes,” Frank said to himself.
“They’re everywhere.” Rohrbach’s voice shook worse than his hands.
“Calm down Jeff, we’re prepared for this.” Frank knew that came out less convincingly than he’d hoped as he continued to scan their walled perimeter, working his way counter-clockwise to see where else their adversary was advancing. He could see his own people on top of the western wall, running back and forth in a frenzy on its new wood walkway. Most of these people had no fighting experience. At least they knew how to use a gun… if they could just keep their cool. Frank frowned hard, lowered the binoculars for a moment to scratch the bridge of his nose, and raised them again. One of his people stopped, looked over the wall at the railroad tracks below, and then spun around on his heel, waving frantically at Frank.
“Who’s on the western wall?” Frank asked Jeff, while attempting to make sense of the man’s mouth and hand movements.
Jeff stepped back, trying to avoid brushing against Frank’s grenade, and moved to the western facing belfry window to see for himself. Their lookout was crowded, just barely enough room for two adults. Until last week, its space had been occupied by the speakers for the electronic bell-like chimes. The real church bells had been done away with back in the ‘80s.
“Oh, that’s Morty, you know, the butcher. Oh shit, he’s saying something… Okay, he’s saying, there’s ten… no, twelve… Fifteen. He’s saying there are fifteen men outside our western wall. Oh shit—oh shit—oh shit—”
“Jeff, shut up and make the announcement about our visitors on the west wall.” Frank maintained his calm as he continued to follow the wall’s line southward.
Jeff took an enormous breath and blew their announcement, bearing a remarkable resemblance to a puffer fish.
At the southwestern corner, Frank could see the heads of more invaders hustling from the rail yard through the parking lot, just outside of the wall. He followed the southern wall, working his way east, until he came to the 5th Street gate. On top was Sandra also waving at him, her face wracked in distress. She held her palms out, and then pointed to what was approaching from her position.
“We have enemy at the southern gate too,” Frank informed Jeff, translating the hand signals he had set up for their sentries.
Her forefinger and middle finger, pointed downward, mimicked two legs walking on the palm of her other hand. Then she balled her hands into fists and shot out all ten fingers.
“There are ten men approaching our southern gate….”
She balled her hands into fists again and extended nine of her ten fingers, then pantomimed like she was holding a rifle and pointing it at Frank.
“…no, make that nineteen men, all with weapons…”
And then she thrust both hands and arms into the air. She was asking what she was supposed to do next.
“Make the announcement. We’re surrounded.” Frank dropped the binoculars, letting them hang from the strap around his neck, and exhaled as he hung his head.
A fourth long blast followed by ten short blasts echoed throughout the town, telling the occupants that they were surrounded. Most of them ran to their posts, some ran for cover, the remainder ran without purpose, having forgotten their training and not knowing what else to do.
“Mel, we don’t have two to three days left. Hook up the Executioner now,” Carrington called across their workshop, grabbing his and Melanie’s rifles.
“Damn straight. We can do it. Is your other project ready?” Melanie shouted from their bedroom, pulling a fresh shirt over her head and buckling her gun belt. The heavy silver revolver poking from the holster pulled at her rig as she caressed its wood handle, instantly bringing to mind the rapist she sent to hell another lifetime ago. She took a deep breath, readying herself to commit violence once again: whatever was necessary to protect Carrington and their new friends.
“I think so. Let’s go.” He handed Melanie her rifle at the door. A look passed between them, one of mutual concern and then much more. It was love. They stood transfixed by one another’s gaze for almost a minute of non-awkward silence. Carrington’s lips curled into a smile as he caressed her cheek. Then they each grew somber. Now their looks said “this may be goodbye.” She leaned forward, softly kissing his lips. Then she bolted down the street to where she had been working earlier. Only a few of her crew were there waiting.