1632

The doctor turned away. 'And now I've got some badly injured people to deal with. I think I've tattered the Hippocratic Oath enough for one day.' In a mutter: 'Christ, Nichols. 'First, do no harm.' '

Guiltily, Mike remembered Harry Lefferts. And the farmer and the woman he assumed was his wife. He started after Nichols, ready to lend assistance. Then stopped and turned, looking for Frank.

Jackson was standing by a large fireplace, slowly examining the interior of the room. Most of the farmhouse seemed to consist of a single chamber, although Mike could see a slender staircase-more like a ladder-leading to the upper story. Very little light filtered into the farmhouse, since the few windows were tiny. But Mike could see that the place was a complete shambles. The thugs had obviously been looting, along with their other crimes. Now that he'd seen how thoroughly the farmhouse had been ransacked, Mike realized that the farmer had been tortured in order to reveal whatever hidden treasures he might possess.

Not much, from the looks of this place. For all its size and painstaking construction, the house was poorer-looking than any farm Mike had ever seen. There wasn't even any interior lighting. Nor plumbing, from what he could tell. No glass in the windows. Even the floor was simply packed earth.

Frank's eyes met him. 'I'll see to this, Mike. Tony's already checking upstairs. You go help the doctor.'

Outside, Mike found Nichols working on the farmer. The doctor, having apparently gone through all the bandages in the first-aid kit, had removed his suit jacket and was tearing his shirt into strips. He was now bare from the waist up. For all that Nichols was in late middle age, there was almost no fat on his wiry musculature. The hard black flesh, covered with a thin film of sweat, gleamed in the sunlight.

Mike looked around. Darryl was tending to Harry Lefferts. Lefferts also had his shirt off, and was goggling at the wound in his side. It was quite spectacular-his entire thigh and hip were soaked with blood, along with his ribs-but Mike didn't think it was really serious. The wound was already bound with a bandage roll. The bandage was bloodstained, but Mike thought the bleeding had stopped.

'It's just a flesh wound,' he heard Nichols say. Mike turned. The doctor had cocked his head toward him. 'I treated Harry first thing. He'll have a truly amazing scar to boast to his grandkids about, but the bullet just traveled along one rib before passing out. No internal bleeding, so far as I can tell.'

Nichols' head jerked toward the woman. She had rolled over onto her side, her hands covering her face. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, in fetal position. She was sobbing quietly and steadily. Her shabby dress had been pulled back down over her legs and two jackets were covering her further. The miners who had contributed those jackets-Don Richards and Larry Masaniello-were squatting nearby. Their expressions were confused and distressed. Beyond what they'd done, they obviously had no idea what other help they could give her.

'She'll be all right,' murmured Nichols. His face tightened. 'As much as any gang-rape victim, anyway.' He looked back down at the farmer. 'But this guy might not make it. There are no major arteries severed, but he's lost an enormous amount of blood.'

Mike squatted by the doctor. 'How can I help, James?' He saw that Nichols had bound up all of the farmer's wounds. But blood was already soaking through the cloth. The doctor was tearing more strips from his ruined shirt, ready to add new bandages.

'Give me your tuxedo jacket, for starters. See if there are any blankets inside. Anything to keep him warm. He's in shock.'

Mike took off his jacket and handed it to the doctor, who spread it over the farmer. Then Nichols blew out his cheeks. 'Get me an ambulance, so we can take this poor guy to a hospital. Short of that, I've done all I can here without medical supplies and facilities.'

The doctor raised his head and slowly studied the surrounding area. 'But somehow I've got a bad feeling that ambulances and hospitals are going to be hard to come by.'

His eyes met Mike's. 'Where the hell are we, anyway?' He managed a smile. 'Please don't tell me this is what West Virginia's really like. My daughter's been pushing me to move my practice here.' Again, his eyes ranged about. 'Not even that movie Deliverance was this crazy. And that was somewhere in the backwoods, if I remember right. We're only an hour and a half from Pittsburgh.'

Mike copied the doctor's examination of the surrounding area. Softly: 'I don't think we're in West Virginia anymore, Toto.' Nichols chuckled. 'Nothing's right, James-not the landscape, not the trees, not the people, not-' He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the farmhouse which loomed behind them. 'There's nothing like this in West Virginia, I'll tell you that. For all the poverty of this place, the farmhouse itself is no rickety shack. Anything that big and well-built and old would have been declared a historical monument fifty years ago.'

He leaned over and seized one of the thugs' guns, still leaning against the farmhouse. After a quick scrutiny, he held it out for Nichols.

'You ever seen anything like this?' The doctor shook his head. 'Neither have I,' mused Mike. 'Ken Hobbs says it's a matchlock. He'd know, too. He's made a hobby of antique weapons his whole life. They haven't made guns like this in-oh, must be two hundred years. At least. Even by the time of the American Revolution, everybody was using flintlocks.'

He eyed the weapon's bore respectfully. 'Look at this thing, will you? Must be at least.75 caliber.'

He started to add something else, but was interrupted by Frank, coming out of the door.

'All clear,' he said. Jackson seemed as unflappable as ever. Some of that was simply his personality, but some of it was due to the fact that the union's secretary- treasurer was the only one of them besides Nichols who had real combat experience.

Mike examined the other men he could see. All of them except Jackson and Nichols, now that the fight was over, were starting to react. Lefferts was lying on his back, clutching the bandage to his side and staring at the sky. The young miner, who had been so murderously ruthless in the heat of the action, seemed like a stunned steer. His eyes were wide, empty of all thought. Kneeling next to him, Darryl's head was slumped between his shoulders. He was gripping his knees so tightly that his knuckles were white. Off to the side, near the rape victim, Don Richards and Larry Masaniello were no longer squatting alertly with their guns in their hands. Both men were now sitting flat, their legs sprawled out in front, supporting themselves with their hands. Their weapons were lying on the ground. Both men were breathing heavily. Richards was cursing softly. Masaniello, a devout Catholic, was muttering the Lord's Prayer.

Mike blew out his breath almost like a whistle. 'I think most of us are in a bit of shock, James. Except you and Frank.'

The doctor barked a little laugh. 'Don't kid yourself. Sometime tonight I'll wake up in a panic. So will Frank, I imagine.'

Jackson, leaning against the door post, shook his head. 'Not tonight. Not tomorrow night, either. But the day after that'll be real bad. I'll get the shakes, sure as shooting.' He surveyed the scene grimly. 'Christ, this was a worse firefight than anything I saw in Nam.'

He shrugged himself off the doorpost. 'But at least we did almost all the firing.' He stared down at Mike, who was still squatting next to the doctor. 'And how are you?' he demanded. Before any reply could come: 'And don't give me any shit, Mike. You're not that tough.'

Mike chuckled humorlessly. 'I wasn't about to claim it. Truth? I feel like a truck hit me. Still trying to figure out how come I'm still alive.' He had a flashing image of himself marching forward into the farmyard like a killing machine, cold as ice. Bang. Bang. Just like that. One dead, one-

He looked over at the body of the first man he had shot. In the shoulder. He didn't need to be a doctor to know that the man was dead, dead, dead. The magnum round must have blown right through into the heart.

Well, that's why you bought that monster in the first place. Stopping power, they call it. Jesus!

He pursed his lips, trying to decide exactly how he felt. Frank cut through the fog.

'Don't,' his friend said. 'You won't make any sense of it today, Mike. Trust me. Let it go for a time.'

'Truth,' echoed Nichols. The doctor rose to his feet. The motion reminded Mike that he was supposed to look for blankets.

'Sorry,' he muttered. Mike got up and started toward the farmhouse door. 'Frank, did you notice any blankets while you were-'

Suddenly, a shout came from above. Tony Adducci's voice. Mike looked up. Tony was leaning out of a small upper-story window, pointing his finger.

'We got more trouble!' he exclaimed. Mike followed the pointing finger. There was a small dirt road leading away from the farmyard, bending around a grove. From the ground, Mike couldn't see anything past the trees.

Apparently, Adducci could see over them. 'There's a-ah, hell, Mike, I swear it's true-there's a stagecoach coming this way, escorted by four horsemen. They aren't more than a quarter of a mile away. Be here any second.'

His voice rose with excitement. 'With about another twenty men pounding after them on foot! Some of those are carrying goddamit huge spears! I kid you not- spears, for Christ's sake.'

Leaning over the window sill, Tony glared down at the dead thugs lying in the farmyard. 'Look just like these bastards. So do the ones riding the horses, for that matter.'

Mike stared in the direction Tony had pointed. The dirt road was more in the nature of a cart path. Two furrows worn into packed earth. The trees blocking his sight of the area beyond were twenty yards away. But Mike could now hear the sound of pounding hooves.

Seconds later, four horsemen came into view around the trees. These men were also wearing helmets and cuirasses, with swords scabbarded to their waists. Mike could see what looked like very large pistols slung from the saddles.

The lead horseman spotted him and shouted something. All four riders drew up the reins, bringing their mounts to a skittering halt. A moment later, they were followed around the bend by a vehicle drawn by a team of six horses. The driver frantically sawed on the reins, barely bringing the vehicle to a halt before it rammed into the stationary outriders. As it was, the vehicle slewed sideways across the road. One of the wheels caught a furrow, almost tipping the thing over.

Tony had called it a 'stagecoach,' but it was like no stagecoach Mike had ever seen-not even in a movie. The vehicle, for all its elegant woodwork and ornate trappings, reminded him more of a small covered wagon.

Again, the lead horseman shouted something. As before, the words were foreign, but Mike was now almost certain that the language was German. At least, if his memory wasn't playing tricks on him.

A moment's silence followed, as the horsemen stared at the Americans. The two miners by the woman had risen to their feet and were holding their guns half-raised. So was Darryl. So were Frank and Tony. Nichols rose to a half-squat, the police pistol held loosely but easily in his hands. Even Hank, still sprawled on the ground clutching the bandage to his ribs, was groping for the riot gun. The last miner, Chuck Rawls, was in the farmhouse. Mike heard him whisper through the door: 'I've got 'em covered, Mike. Just say the word.'

Mike held out his hands. 'Hold everything! Let's not start shooting without cause!'

He could see the four horsemen reaching slowly for the pistols slung at their saddles. Mike remembered-uneasily and belatedly-that his own weapon was lying somewhere on the floor of the farmhouse.

That moment, the curtain on the side of the coach was drawn aside. A face popped through, staring at Mike. The face was that of a young woman, looking very distraught. A few strands of long black hair had escaped the cap over her head. Her eyes were brown and her complexion was dark, as if she were Spanish. She was also Mike suddenly smiled. Cheerful as could be. Strangely so, perhaps. But, then again-perhaps not. Instincts will work sometimes, after all, even when logic and reason have fled.