Swords and Saddles by Jack Campbell Page B

hand again. “Halt! We are United States Cavalry.” He doubted those charging toward the cavalry could hear him over the sound of their own horses, and in any case the attackers seemed oddly unconcerned by the steady lines of carbines facing them.
    Drawing his pistol, Benton waited as the horsemen grew closer, the earth shaking from the pounding of their horses’ hooves. “Mark your man and aim your shots,” he called, riding slowly across the back of the second line of dismounted cavalry. “Standby. First Platoon, fire!”
    The kneeling rank fired their weapons in a rippling volley, immediately afterwards breaking open their carbines to eject the spent cartridge from the breech and reload as Benton called out his next order. “Second Platoon, fire!”
    The shortest pause to allow the first rank to finish loading. “First Platoon, fire!”
    “Second Platoon, fire!”
    The volleys crashed out and the horses of the attackers went wild, bucking frantically, bolting and panicking. Armored men fell everywhere, some dead or wounded from hits by the heavy .50 caliber carbine bullets, other losing their seats and being hurled from the saddle by horses gone berserk. The attack had dissolved into total chaos, the survivors of the first four volleys fleeing as fast as they or their mounts could tear across the landscape.
    “Company B, cease fire!”
    Sergeant Tyndall stared at the remnants of the attack, shaking his head. “It’s like those horses had never heard a shot fired, cap’n.” His horse, like all cavalry mounts, had been trained not to flinch at the sound of gunshots. “And why can’t those men keep their seats?” Then his expression cleared. “They don’t have stirrups. Just like Indians. But those ain’t any Indians I ever saw.”
    Looking past the ruin of the mounted charge, Benton could see the infantry which had been assailing the city frantically coming down off of their ladders and running through their camp, not to form a defensive line but away from the cavalry, joining their mounted comrades in panicked flight.
    Sergeant Tyndall watched the rout, scratching his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. I guess we won. Now what do we do, cap’n?”
    Benton wished for a moment that he had someone superior in rank to ask that same question. But there seemed only one realistic course of action. “Company B, mount up.” He waited until the soldiers in the rear had brought forward the horses and the cavalry once again formed two mounted lines. “Bugler, sound advance. Let’s go get a better look at that city. Sergeant Tyndall, make sure the wagons close up with us.”
    They rode at a walk, wheeling the lines to bypass to one side of the dead and dying horsemen, but close enough for Benton to get a good look at some of them. He saw blond hair, brown hair, and black hair, skin and facial features which resembled mostly European but sometimes Asian, and weapons and armor which seemed out of the early middle ages or late Roman Empire.
    This was all inexplicable, yet Benton knew he had to lead his company through whatever was going on. Already emotionally a bit numb, Benton focused tightly on the routines and procedures which needed to be followed now.
    As the cavalry lines approached the city, they rode through the empty tent camp of the former besiegers, who were still visible in the distance but running for all they were worth. On the walls of the city, defenders were waving swords, spears and axes over their heads and cheering. “Company B, halt! I guess we’d better find out who these people are and where we are, sergeant. Lieutenant Garret, hold the company here while the sergeant and I go parley.”
    Benton rode toward the walls, Sergeant Tyndall on his horse just behind. Spotting a cluster of figures near some blue banners embroidered with many-pointed stars, Benton headed that way, assuming they would be the leaders of the defenders. Holding up his right palm again, Benton checked his horse just under