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He looked around at the preparations Bat had ordered and which were now fully underway and said, “I understand you were in the Asian war. What was your rank?”

Bat took him in. He said, wearily, “First lieutenant, when it ended. I was in for several years.”

Jeff Smith cocked his head a little. “You don’t look like the type that’s been through OTS.”

Bat said impatiently, “I was battle-commissioned during the Delta debacle.”

Smith nodded. “I was at the Delta. 8th Airborne. Staff Sergeant. What are your orders… sir?”

Bat took a deep breath. “Move around the circle, locating any other veterans we have. Spot them strategically. Be sure they all have the best weapons we have, even if you have to confiscate them from the others… Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.” Jeff Smith turned and crouched, the crouch of the combat soldier in action, and hurried in the direction of the perimeter.

Luke Robertson and Al Castro came up at a trot.

“Wow!” Al shouted, over the blast of the shotguns, the snip of twenty-twos and other small-caliber gunfire, the snap of sporting and converted surplus military rifles.

Bat rapped, “Al, get around the circle. Cut down on this goddamned fire. We’ll be out of ammo in half an hour. Cut the fire down to men with longer-range rifles and our best shots. Cut those goddamned shotguns out. They can’t reach a fraction of the range these guys are at. The same with those damned twenty-twos. They can’t dent a man unless you can get him in the head. Hold ’em down till they’re close enough to hit ’em in the head.”

“Right, Bat.” Al scooted away. He too crouched the way Jeff Smith had crouched when he ran, almost double. Bat grunted inwardly. He hadn’t known it. Evidently, Al Castro had seen a bit of combat himself in his time.

There was a whoosh of sound and beyond them a mesquite tree erupted in flame and explosion.

Bat closed his eyes in pain. “Holy smokes,” he protested. “A bazooka.”

Luke said, pointing excitedly, “It came from over there on that knoll, Bat.”

Bat Hardin began gnawing his lip in agitation. “That’s an old model, probably far back as the Second War. God only knows where they got it. But it’s out of range. Listen, Luke, go around and locate our best riflemen. They’ll know who they are. Get our best long-range rifles into their hands, those with telescopic sights. The hunting buffs have some of them. Pin that bazooka down. If they get within range, we’re mincemeat.”

Luke was off, scurrying low as he left the semi-security of the inner circle of auxiliary vehicles.

Bat Hardin cast his eyes around the complete circle of the horizon. They’d been jumped in an isolated spot indeed. Now he realized that the detour had been a plant. Don Caesar’s men had directed them out here. He also realized why they hadn’t been seeing other vehicles along this by-way. Somehow, the enemy had blocked it off. In all directions now they were surrounded. Single men and small groups were edging closer, darting in, scurrying around for cover. Closing in, closing in. But the fire had fallen off. Evidently, the anti-American vigilantes hadn’t expected this efficient a defense.

Bat had been busy, hadn’t been able to follow the combat incident by incident. He suspected that the Mexicans had taken a few casualties at the hands of the better shots, the war veterans and the amateur hunters among the art colony residents.

His lips thinned back. “Come in and get us, you bastards,” he muttered.

Two men went by with an improvised stretcher. Doc Barnes came hurrying out of the hospital and bent over the victim.

Bat called, “Is he hit bad?”

Barnes looked up. “It’s Thompson. He’s dead.”

Bat winced. Fred Thompson had the biggest family in New Woodstock. Five children.

Bat said to the stretcher bearers, “Bury him immediately. We don’t want any of our dead lying around where they can be seen. Bad for the morale.”

Little Chuck Benton came up excitedly. “Mr. Hardin, what should I do?”

Bat looked at him. The boy was eleven or twelve. He began to order him to the shelter of the school, then pulled up. He said, “Get a bucket of water and a dipper or cup, son. Go around to the men. Combat is dry work.”

“Yes, sir.” The youngster scurried off.

Bat looked after him. “Gunga Din,” he muttered meaninglessly.

Crouching low, as Smith, Castro and Robertson before him, he left the shelter of the auxiliaries and scurried for the perimeter of mobile homes, his carbine in hand. He began touring it, barking orders for more rapid digging of foxholes.

Art Clarke came hurrying up to him, a more than usually large gun in hand. Bat Hardin recognized it. He snapped, “Isn’t that a Chinese Am-8? Where in the hell did you get it?”

Even in this excitement, Clarke seemed slightly embarrassed. He said, “War souvenir.”

“Fully automatic? How many clips do you have for it?”

“Yeah. It’s the Canton model. Two clips.”

“How much spare ammo?”

“I’ve got possibly two hundred rounds.”

Bat looked quickly around, spotted the man he could use and yelled, “Milt Waterman! Over here.”

The tall, gangling young fellow who usually drove the administration building when New Woodstock was rolling, came hustling up.

Bat rapped, “You two, get into that hole over there. Get that automatic rifle set up. Milt, you keep the spare clip loaded. Art, you let loose a burst of fire from time to time. A longer burst than you’d expect from a gun that light. I want to make it look as though we’ve got a machine gun. Wait a minute. After you’ve let loose a couple of bursts from this side, go to the direct opposite and do the same. Make it look as though we’ve got two machine guns. Keep moving back and forth. But go easy. Stretch out that ammo as much as you can. Don’t fire unless you’ve got a fairly good chance of winging your man.”

“Got it,” Art Clarke said and took off to follow orders.

Bat went on.

Diana Sward was sitting on the ground at the rear of her mobile studio. She had a sporting rifle in her hands and her elbows were on her knees as she periodically and with great coolness squeezed off a shot.

“Watch the ammunition,” Bat told her, beginning to go by.

She grinned up at him, her eyes shining. “I think I nicked at least one. You know what this reminds me of? A wagon train, surrounded by Sitting Bull’s braves.”

“It is,” he said grimly and hurried on. He heard a bee buzz past his head. That had been a close one.

He came to Dean Armanruder’s mobile mansion. Armanruder, his back tight against the side of one of the sections, his face pasty, screamed at him.

“Do something!”

Bat looked at him quizzically. “What? We’re doing all we can. They’ve got a scrambler out there somewhere. We can’t call for help.”

“Surrender! Tell them we’ll do anything! We’ve got money. Anything they want!” The older man was panting, the stink of fear on him. “Tell them we’ll do anything they say.”

Bat Hardin shook his head as though in an attempt to clear it. Two more of the men without guns went by, carrying one of the hospital stretchers, an inert form on it.

Jeff Smith was approaching from the opposite direction to the one in which Bat had been circling the perimeter.

Bat said, “Sergeant, you and Al Castro. Improvise a white flag.” He added sardonically, “My compliments to Don Caesar and ask him for his terms.”

“Yes, sir.” Crouching, Jeff Smith headed for the inner circle of auxiliaries.

Bat moved on. He passed Ferd Zogbaum who was digging coolly and efficiently a small trench. He had an army surplus entrenching tool. There were quite a few of the efficient compact tools in town, Bat knew.