Capelli reached over to hold her hand. “Neither am I.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WHAT’S YOURS IS MINE
Having successfully attacked the federal base and split his forces into three groups for the 290-mile trip home, Judge George Ramsey and twenty-two of his regulators were making their way through a narrow river gorge when the Leapers attacked. The Chimera were roughly the size of dogs, but because of their long, pointy tails they bore a vague resemblance to scorpions.
One or two Leapers would have been no match for such a large party of humans. But hundreds of the creatures were pouring out of caves in the rocky slopes on both sides of the shallow river. More than that, they had the advantage of height, and many were able to leap onto their victims from above. Once they gripped the outrider’s head with their forelegs, the monstrosities opened their jaws wide to expose needle-sharp fangs. That was the last thing some of the humans saw as they were dragged off their horses to die in the river.
The whole thing happened so quickly, and the stinks attacked with such ferocity, that Ramsey and his entire party would have been killed had it not been for drills held at regular intervals during the journey. Ramsey was mounted on a huge Clydesdale named Thunder. As the attack began, he jerked the horse’s head around and made a grab for one of two sawed-off shotguns holstered to either side of his saddle. “Form a circle!” he shouted. “Protect the pack animals!”
Ramsey’s voice was barely audible over the staccato roar of gunfire and the screams of panicked horses as their riders fired at the Chimera. Some of the stinks were blown apart, but there were plenty more, and they kept coming. Ramsey fired both barrels in quick succession. Each blast of double-ought buck struck one of the airborne monsters and produced an explosion of blood as Thunder trampled a squealing Leaper beneath his massive hooves.
Then it was time to holster the first weapon and draw the second. The first shot went wide as Thunder took an unexpected step to the right. But the second struck an already wounded Leaper full-on and blew half of its skull away.
Then Thunder was part of the defensive circle. Ramsey pulled the Clydesdale around and kneed the big animal into line. The pack mules, each of which was loaded with a portion of the loot taken from the federal facility, were milling around at the center of the formation. Some of the braying animals were tangled up by then and began to nip at each other. But none of the regulators had time to sort the mess out.
The river ran red with blood as Ramsey and the surviving members of his party fired hundreds of rounds. Projectiles chewed up both the Chimera and the surrounding landscape as each man blasted whatever was directly in front of him. Three of the horrors took a rider named Carter down. All four of them perished as a hail of projectiles chopped the surface of the river into a bloody froth.
The battle came to an end about a minute later as the last of the Leapers launched a suicidal charge and fell in successive waves. “God damn it to hell,” Ramsey said as the firing finally stopped. “It seems like there’s more of the bastards every day. Hunter? There you are! Let’s find out how many casualties we have. And why didn’t our scouts warn us?”
“I don’t know,” the hard-faced outrider replied. “But I got a feeling they were cut down without getting a shot off. We’ll find ’em upriver.”
“That makes sense,” Ramsey agreed darkly. “They might hit us again. So let’s keep our eyes peeled.”
It took the better part of fifteen minutes to count heads, treat the wounded, and get the pack train straightened out. Unfortunately, one of the pack mules had been killed and part of its cargo destroyed. Ramsey still had more than four thousand doses of Hale vaccine left, however. That was enough not only to supply all of his workers but to protect lots of other people, too. All of whom would be required to swear fealty to him.
But that was in the future. At the moment, Ramsey had other matters to attend to.
“Tully is in a bad way,” Hunter told him. “Doc took a look but says he ain’t gonna make it. Tully asked for you.”
Ramsey was reluctant to dismount. Because at 290 pounds that was a chore. But if Tully was dying, then it was Ramsey’s duty to speak with him.
Hunter accepted Thunder’s reins as Ramsey swung a meaty thigh up and over the Clydesdale’s enormous hindquarters and managed to lower himself to the ground without assistance. That was a personal victory of sorts.
One of the regulators was waiting to escort Ramsey downstream to the spot where Tully was laid out on a horse blanket with his saddle for a backrest. It was soaked with blood, as was the pressure bandage wrapped around his chest. Tully was a tough man and knew the score. The outrider managed a smile as Ramsey knelt next to him.
“Thanks for coming, Judge. It looks like this is the end of the trail for me. Please make sure that my woman gets my pay and gear.”
“I will,” Ramsey promised. “Plus I’ll tell Mr. Perkins to scrub whatever you and the missus owe to the company store.”
“That’s right kind of you,” Tully managed. He coughed, and blood trickled down his chin. Doc Laferty was there to wipe it away. “There’s one more thing,” Tully added. “A favor, if you’re willing.”
“Which is?”
“You can’t wait for me,” Tully replied. “I know that. But don’t leave me alive.”
“I won’t,” Ramsey promised, as he struggled to his feet. “Where do you want it?”
“In the head.”
Ramsey favored a British .455 Webley Break-Top revolver as his personal sidearm. He removed the weapon from the shoulder holster under his left arm and took careful aim. The report echoed back and forth between the canyon walls, sent a bird flapping into the air, and marked mile 231 of the long journey home.
Two days after the battle with the Leapers, Ramsey and his men cut through what had once been a ranch and arrived at the edge of a huge crater. It was at least a mile across and roughly 600 feet deep. The riders made their way up over the lip that surrounded the depression and then followed a circular path down to the wreck below.
No attempt had been made to hide the path—a decision that would have been fatal elsewhere. But Ramsey knew the crater and the wreckage that lay at the bottom of it to be unique. Nobody was quite sure what type of Chimeran spaceship was interred there, or how the American military had been able to bring the huge vessel down, only that it had.
And even though there were more than 300 humans living in the wreck, it had never been attacked. Was that simply a matter of good luck? Or did the ship register on the Chimeran sensors as an active installation? If so, that reflected the hive-mind’s limitations. It could see everything its minions saw but had to process all of the incoming data itself. Some things got lost, were misinterpreted, or were assigned the wrong priority. And with no one to question the hive-mind’s conclusions, such errors went uncorrected.
The party was welcomed by a pair of well-armed guards and allowed to enter the hull via a hole that had been cut through the side of the ship. The power plant was still online, although no one knew how long it would remain that way. So the air was warm and the lights were on.
The uppermost levels of the vessel were reserved for livestock, so the horses and mules were left there, as the mayor of Shipdown came up to greet Ramsey. Piers Olmey was a tall man who had a long face and insisted on wearing a frock coat.
The two of them had a long-standing relationship that dated back to the days when Ramsey had been a district judge and Olmey had been a prosecutor. They shared a stern, no-nonsense approach to law enforcement.