Bat Hardin paused. The other didn’t look up from his work.
Bat said, “Ferd, there’s a scrambler on us. All electronic communication devices are disrupted.”
Ferd looked up, his face registering surprise.
Bat said, before going on, “I doubt if that bug of yours is operative.”
Jeff Smith and Al Castro came hurrying up. Smith had a white pillowcase tacked onto a broom handle with thumbtacks.
The Southerner said, “Any special instructions, Lieutenant?”
Bat shook his head. “Play it by ear. Tell them we’ll go back. Tell them we pledge not to take any action against them, to the extent we can. Obviously, the Mexican authorities are going to get after them, in view of the casualties both sides have already taken. But so far as we can, we’ll avoid prosecuting. Promise anything. Armanruder offered money, but he’s hysterical. Those men out there aren’t bandits.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeff said. “Come on, Castro.” The two leaned their guns against a mobile home and stepped out into the open, the improvised white flag held high. For a moment they stood there#longdash#obviously awaiting the impact of slugs before those out beyond could distinguish that they were seeking a conference.
Bat Hardin, his hands cupped to his mouth, was yelling, “Hold fire, hold fire, everybody!”
The firing of the defenders fell off. So did that of the attacking force. At least the flag of truce was being recognized. Bat hadn’t been sure it would.
Smith and Castro began to walk forward. Shortly, down from one of the nearer knolls came two others. Even at this distance, the hair of one was obviously gray.
“Don Caesar,” Bat muttered. He turned and called to Ferd, “Make the rounds. Get Tom Benton and a couple of the other men to go with you. Round up all the ammo we have, not already loaded into the guns. Take it into the enclosure of the auxiliaries and inventory it. Separate it into piles by caliber and gauge. Also inventory every gun we have, rifle, pistol, shotgun, by caliber and gauge. We’ve got to take rigid steps to conserve our munitions. We’ll dole it out slowly.”
Dean Armanruder came up, still quaking, his eyes glaring. He said shrilly, “What do you mean? What do you mean? We’re surrendering. We’ll do anything they say. I’ve got money. We can buy them off.”
Bat ran his eyes over him and said finally, slowly, “Mr. Armanruder, those men out there think they’re fighting for their country, their culture, their women and even their religion. It parlays up to quite a motive for fighting. On top of that, it hasn’t been easy for them to organize this and put it over. They’re not going to have a second chance, and they know it. The Mexican authorities are going to land on them like a ton of bricks. They’ll have to or Uncle Sam will take measures. So they’ve got to put this over this time. Their strategy is obvious. They’re going to make an example of us so frightful that no American mobile home would dream of coming to Mexico, and those already here are going to make a beeline for the border and never return.”
“You’re insane!”
“I hope so,” Bat growled.
Several score of the men, guns in hand, had gathered around to watch after Smith and Castro who had by now met the delegation from the other side.
Bat said to them, “We’ve got one thing in our favor. They’ve got to finish us quickly. Somehow they’ve blocked the road both in front and behind but they can’t keep that up indefinitely. A police patrol or someone else will stumble on what’s happening. If we can stick it out until morning, we’ll have it made.”
Art Clarke said, “Great, but when night comes they’re going to bring that bazooka into range, and then we’ve had it.”
Bat said, half angrily, “That’ll be all, Clarke. Don’t put the damper on morale. They probably only have a few rounds for it. The thing’s an antique. It’s unlikely they could have rounded up more than few charges.”
“We hope,” Luke Robertson muttered.
Jeff Smith and Al Castro were on their way back. All stood in silence, waiting. More of those who had been in the foxholes came crowding up.
The two reentered the perimeter of mobile homes. Both of their faces were strained.
Bat said, “Well?”
Jeff Smith looked him in the face. He took a deep breath and said, “They’ll grant no terms. They wouldn’t even allow the women and children to come out under a truce flag. The old one said it was less brutal, in the long run, to make this example so crushing a one that it would be done once and for all.” Smith snorted his disgust. “He sent his apologies, but said there was no alternative.”
XVI
“So,” Bat said. “A massacre.” He turned to the assembled men. “Return to your positions. So long as they’re still at this distance, restrain your fire. Only veterans and highly experienced marksmen with long-range rifles are to fire at all. Hold your small arms and shotguns until they’re at point-blank range, which possibly won’t come until nightfall.”
Dean Armanruder shrilled, “No. No, don’t listen to him! Don’t shoot back at them! We’ll all surrender. We’ll go out with our hands up, in a body. They’ll accept our surrender!”
“Like hell they will,” Bat said in disgust. “Get back to your positions, men.”
“Shut up, Hardin!” the former magnate yelled at him. “You’re removed from your position as town police officer. I’m in command here!” He began going from group to group, yelling at the men, some of whom looked sheepish now.
Somebody grumbled, “Maybe he’s right. If we all went out with our hands up…”
Jeff Smith looked at Bat Hardin.
Bat said, “Sergeant, put him under arrest and take him into the inner circle. Post a guard over him, one of the older men we can spare from the firing line. If he attempts further to destroy morale, shoot him.”
Smith said, “Yes, sir.” He turned and grabbed Armanruder by the arm and hustled him away, jerking at the restraint and protesting hysterically.
The vigilantes were firing again, beginning to edge in again, dashing from one clump of cactus, or other cover, to the next. The circle about the mobile town was slowly narrowing.
Bat began making the rounds again, encouraging the marksmen, continually urging the conservation of ammunition. “You’ll get your chance soon enough,” he snapped to those with short-range weapons.
He came to Ferd Zogbaum who was seated nonchalantly in a foxhole, looking out over the field. He held a double-barreled shotgun in his hands but wasn’t firing it.
Bat said, “See you got yourself a gun.” He began to go on, to resume his constant patrol.
But Ferd looked at him strangely and said, “Bat, I’ve got a funny feeling.”
Bat Hardin stopped and squinted at him.
“How do you mean?”
Ferd looked out over the field again and said, choosing his words carefully, “I have a premonition that that scrambler, or whatever you called it, is awfully nearby. Well, say within a couple of hundred yards or so.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t. I just have that feeling.”
Bat went on again, crouching, going from one foxhole to the next.
He came to Sam Prager who was crouched in a comfortably deep one-man entrenchment. Bat hunkered down on his heels and said, “Sam, tell me something about scramblers.”
“Not much to tell,” Sam said. “You wouldn’t understand the workings unless you had some background in electronics.”
“I haven’t. How wide a range does one have?”
Sam scowled. “According to what kind you have. The military have some real doozies, blanket a wide, wide area.”
“But would our pals out there be apt to have anything like that?”
Sam looked up into the sky, scowling still. “Well, no, now that you mention it. And they don’t even have a helicopter.”