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
“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.
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
