of his pants and swung it into the cab. He wedged himself in, pulled Smith to a position so that he could close the door on that side. He swerved the car and headed back. He would have liked to make his own try for the crest but he doubted that his leg would allow him and, besides, Jeff Smith had to be gotten back to Doc Smith soonest. The Southerner was bleeding like a stuck pig.
Bullets were again caroming off the surface of the vehicle. They retraced their route. Twice, Bat Hardin recognized the whoosh and trail of bazooka rockets but he had been right, they were far off the mark. Whoever was on the old-time rocket launcher was no marksman.
Luke Robertson’s vehicles were still drawn out of the way and Bat Hardin maneuvered through.
He yelled out the window, “Jeff’s been hit. Where’s Doc Barnes?”
Barnes came hurrying forward, physician’s bag in hand.
Jeff Smith, his face drained as death, looked over at his companion.
“Hey, man.”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry about that nigger thing… Bat.”
Bat shook his head. “Nothing to it… Jeff.”
Doc Barnes wrenched open the door of the car and bent over Smith.
He looked up at Bat. “He’s dead.”
Bat Hardin didn’t say anything for a moment. Two men were hauling Jeff Smith from the car, ridiculously gently in view of the fact that pain would never come to the small feisty Southerner again.
Bat said, “I’ve copped one too, Doc. See if you can patch me up a little.”
“We’ll get you out of the car and up to the hospital where I can do a better job.”
Bat shook his head. “Can’t. If I do, I’ll never be able to get back in, and I’m the only one who can drive this thing. It takes a certain know-how.” He looked at Luke. “Somebody in here tipped them that we were coming in this vehicle. Find Nadine Paskov. Have her check in the computer banks and find out who voted against me in that hassle I had with Jeff.” He added sourly, “She’s probably under some bed, somewhere. A change for her. I suspect that whoever cast that vote against me is our traitor. If she refuses to tell you, for whatever reason, slap her around a little.”
“Got it,” Luke said. “What’ll I do if I find the traitor?”
Bat looked at him levelly.
“Got it,” Luke said, and was off.
“Hold still, damn it,” Doc Barnes said. “Let me get this bandage on you. You need plasma; you dripped too much ink, Bat.”
“Oh, great,” Bat said. “Have you got some kind of pep pill instead?” He looked out over the crowd and called, “Ferd, you’re next.”
“Coming up,” Ferd Zogbaum sang out, pushing his way through the assembled men. He caught up the automatic rifle that had fallen to the ground when the men had taken Smith’s body out, and scrambled into the bloody seat next to Bat.
Bat called, feeling himself already weaker, “There’s an extra clip of ammo in Jeff’s pocket.”
Somebody brought it.
Bat Hardin activated the lift lever again and they started forward.
He explained as they went. “I can’t get the car to the crest. You’ll have to make it on foot. All hell is breaking loose over there. Don Caesar is sending new men over as fast as they can make it to defend the point. They know damn well, now, that we know it’s there, and they’ve got to defend it.” He felt his voice going weaker.
Next to him, Ferd Zogbaum was checking the clip in the gun. Jeff Smith had nearly emptied it. Ferd threw it and rammed home the spare full clip with the heel of his hand.
Bat said weakly, “Where did you get checked out on the Chinese Am-8?”
Ferd said, “I was in the big one too.”
They were approaching the knoll. From behind, the full barrage of all that New Woodstock could mount in the way of long-range rifles was firing over them, attempting to pin down any of the enemy forces on hand.
Bat ground to a halt. He pulled his two pistols out.
“Okay, Ferd. It’s all yours.”
Ferd was out of the car, automatic in hands and scurrying up the hill, slipping, sliding on the sandy terrain, going three feet up, sliding back at least one. A continual fire kicked up the dust around his feet but he miraculously remained erect. Bat, his eyes fogging, leaned out the window of the car and blasted away at anything that moved#longdash#save Ferd.
The freelance writer achieved the top, fired twice, thrice, in this direction and that, on full automatic, and finally immediately down as though toward his feet. He turned and began retracing his steps, running dangerously. He fell, rolled a score of feet, staggered erect, came on again.
“Come on boy, come on!” Bat pleaded.
Suddenly, Ferd Zogbaum stopped dead in his tracks. The automatic rifle dropped from his hands. He grabbed his head desperately and began to waver.
“The bug!”
He staggered around, completely out of control of himself, moaning in agony. A burst of automatic fire hit him.
Bat, reeling weakly himself, flicked on his phone and stuttered, “Emergency, emergency! Mexican Police. Road Dolores Hidalgo, San Miguel de Allende. Emergency emergency, emer…” And then the fog rolled in.
When Bat Hardin became conscious again, he was in the mobile clinic of Doc Barnes. He felt weak, but his mind was alert. He looked about him. Ferd Zogbaum, unconscious, was in the next bed. It was a three-bed dormitory. The other bed was empty.
Doc Barnes came in followed by Diana Sward who was wearing a nurse’s white smock. She was obviously a volunteer.
Barnes said, “You’re awake. Good.” He turned and looked down at Ferd Zogbaum.
Bat said, “How’s Ferd?”
“He’ll be all right. He took three hits, but none of them too serious. We’re taking him in for some minor surgery now.”
Bat said, “Listen, has he been unconscious all this time?”
Doc Barnes looked at him impatiently over his shoulder. “Why, yes.”
Bat said, “Look, Doc. When you were in private practice what was your specialty?”
“Why, I was a surgeon.”
“Brain surgeon?”
“No. I have done some brain surgery, but it was not my specialty.”
Bat took a deep breath. “Look, Doc. Ferd Zogbaum is going to die on your operating table.”
Di Sward blurted, “Don’t be an ass.”
He ignored her. “Doc, Ferd has an electronic device planted in his skull. Can you take it out?”
Barnes goggled at him.
Bat pursued. “He’s a paroled convict. Life sentence. He saved us all. Look, Doc. We took a lot of casualties in this fracas. All is confusion. He can die on your operating table. You can sign… whatever it is you doctors sign when a guy cashes in his chips.”
“I’m an ethical…”
“And you and everybody else in New Woodstock owe your life to Ferd Zogbaum.”
Doctor Barnes held a long silence. Finally he said, “What was he sentenced to life for? I have heard of this electronic bug before but it is the first in my experience. It should not be difficult to remove. Is he a murderer?”
It was Di Sward who said heatedly, “He’s an idealist! He has political objections to the present socio- economic system in the States.”
Doc Barnes looked at her wryly. “You seem a bit partisan, Miss Sward. However, so do I. I don’t exactly know what they are, but I too have reservations about our present socio-economic system. You are sure that Zogbaum’s, ah, crimes, are all of a political nature?”
