Abe, barely hearing him, continued to slash, feeling the life slipping out of the Bantag. He begged for him to die quickly, to end it.
Togo pulled him back. “Enough, Lieutenant, he’s finished! Now by all the gods let’s get out of here!”
Togo rolled back down into the ravine, but Abe stood up, still holding the blade.
A gutteral challenge echoed from the next ravine, where they had spotted the fire.
“Lieutenant!”
He saw a shadow standing up, then another.
“Lieutenant!”
Abe looked back down at the body, which was still kicking spasmodically.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, and leapt back down into the gully.
“What the hell is going on?”
It was one of the men from the watering party.
“We’re on the move,” Togo hissed.
Togo led the way, running up the ravine, Abe and the returning soldier following. They met the men still filling canteens.
“We’ve only got half of them full,” one of them cried.
“No time,” Togo snapped, and he sprinted on.
Abe waited as one of the men plunged another canteen into the muddy pool. Drawing his revolver, he turned, looking for Bantag. The seconds dragged out.
“Finished!”
The soldier began to stand up. There was a blinding flash, the roar of a rifle shot shattering the stillness. The man with the canteen seemed to lift into the air and was flung backward.
A Bantag stood atop the ravine. Flash-blinded, Abe turned, crouched and fired, then fired again. He caught a glimpse of the Bantag crumbling, clutching his stomach.
The man whom he had been guarding was dead, arms spread wide, half a dozen canteens flung out on the ground beside him.
The water, the precious water.
He snatched up the straps of the canteens and started to run.
As soon as he had turned his back on the dead man, a mad panic took hold, and he ran blindly, weaving his way up the ravine. He heard another rifle shot, this one directly above. He blindly raised his revolver, fired again, and kept on running, slipping on the muddy ground.
He came around the next turn in the gully and almost screamed with fright. In the moonlight he saw the glint from a gun barrel.
It was Sergeant Togo, weapon leveled straight at him.
Togo lowered the gun, then a split second later raised it and fired.
Abe turned and saw a Bantag directly behind him. He hadn’t even heard his pursuer closing in. The Bantag spun around, clutching his shoulder.
“Come on, sir!”
Togo sprinted off and this time Abe followed, keeping close. Ahead he could hear his men running. They were reaching the top. Above the lip he could see the butte, the Great Wheel overhead.
Strange, the night was so crystal clear. The fact that he had time to recognize that struck him as curious.
The gully where they had been began to curve away from their mountain fortress. The quarter mile of open prairie that they had crept across before now separated them from safety.
The men ahead had slowed, not sure what to do.
Togo didn’t hesitate. He turned to look back, crouching low. “Full out now, boys. Don’t stop for anything. If a man goes down, grab his water, but he’s on his own. Now run for it!”
The group started off.
Abe looked back, saw flashes of torchlight in the ravine, deep voices calling. He started to run. Togo was in the lead, but something compelled Abe to keep to the rear, following his men. He heard the clatter of hooves, and from his left saw several Bantag coming up out of a deep gully, urging their mounts forward.
At the sight of them everyone redoubled their efforts, the men gasping, canteens slung over their shoulders, banging on their hips. For a second Abe was tempted to let his own canteens drop, to cut them loose, but he hung on to the precious load and to the haversack brimming with cartridges.
At first it seemed that the riders had not seen their prey. Then they turned and started straight for them.
From atop the butte he saw a flash. A second later the sharp crack of a rifle shot echoed. A waste of a precious round.
The riders closed in, one of them standing in his stirrups, and though he could not see, Abe knew the man had a bow and was drawing it.
One of his men went down, clutching his leg, canteens clattering.
There was a flash of a pistol. Togo was firing, and though he missed the rider the horse reared and turned away. The other two continued to follow them. An arrow slashed past Abe, the rider pressing in, both hands off the reins, tossing aside his bow and drawing a scimitar.
Abe crouched, both hands on his revolver. He cocked it and waited. As the Bantag closed in, he emptied his cylinder. Horse and rider crashed to the ground in front of him He turned, but the third rider was gone, where he could not tell.
Holstering his empty revolver, Abe ran up to the downed trooper, who was clutching his thigh and gasping.
“Can you run?”
The man looked up at him wide-eyed.
“Take the water!”
His English was broken, thick with the brogue of the Gaelic.
Ignoring Togo’s orders, Abe put an arm under the man’s shoulder and helped him up.
“Run!” Abe hissed.
The two set off, staggering and weaving. He was tempted to throw off their canteens, but the butte looked so close, so damnably close, and he pushed on.
He could no longer see Togo and the others.
He heard hoofbeats, looked over his shoulder, and saw four more riders coming in at the gallop.
“Run, damn it, run!” Abe cried. The wounded trooper gasped, cursing in Gaelic, staggered alongside him, hopping on his one good leg.
The pursuit came closer, thundering. He could hear their wild shouts and sensed they were filled with a mad joy, the joy of the hunt and the kill.
The wounded trooper started to push him away, shouting for Abe to run. Abe turned, pulled his revolver back out, raised it at the lead rider and then remembered that it was empty.
He stood there, stunned. The rider filled his world, a darker shadow in the darkness of night.
The rider tumbled backward, falling, illuminated by a brilliant flash.
A volley crackled around him. Half a dozen troopers came up at a run, crouching low, carbines raised. One of the men grabbed Abe, pushing him forward. Another scooped up the Irish soldier, the two of them shouting at each other in their native tongue.
Abe felt his legs turn to liquid, and for a second he was frightened that he had wet himself in terror, but then realized he was soaked with sweat.
Barely able to walk, he accepted the helping hand of a trooper for the last fifty yards to the butte, the ring of skirmishers closing in around him.
Scrambling onto the base of the mountain, he collapsed behind a barrier of rocks piled up over the last three days as a rough stockade covering the west side trail of the mountain.
In the shadows he looked around at his companions. Men were gasping, bent over. The wounded man was sprawled out, cursing while his companion pulled out a knife and slashed the trouser leg open to examine the wound.
“I told you to leave the wounded behind, sir.”
Abe, knees raised and head between his legs, looked up. Togo was holding a precious canteen, and he offered it. More than a day had passed since his last sip of water, and he eagerly took the canteen, the canvas cover slippery with mud. It was uncorked and Abe tilted his head back. The muddy drink seemed like the finest he had ever tasted. He took a long gulp, then remembering how precious the liquid was, he stopped and offered the canteen back.
Togo squatted at his side. “Go ahead, Lieutenant, take another drink, you need it.”
Abe struggled to refuse but gave in, but this time allowing himself only a sip before recorking it.
“Damn it, sir, that was rather stupid if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Abe took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Sergeant Togo, if I remember the way things work in this army, I’m supposed to be in command, not you. I wasn’t going to leave a man out there to be butchered.”