“Don’t move!”
McLean turned and darted away, crouching low and throwing himself sideways into a dense patch of oak.
“ Shoot ‘im! Shoot ‘im!” a voice called out behind him, and a shot cracked and ricocheted off a trunk to his left. McLean stumbled and ran into an oak tree, leaving a lump on his forehead, and managed to crawl away several more yards through undergrowth without being shot.
He felt like an idiot. All his precautions were for nothing. They had his horse, his equipment, and his rifle. Even if he could live through the night, it would be a grim journey back to the ranch with no food, no gun, no horse, and no bedding.
He scrambled to his feet and hurried through the trees to the edge of the grove, then checked for movement out in the open. Seeing none by the meager starlight, he ran across the open ground and into another clump of woods.
He still had a folding knife and his handgun, along with a few bits and pieces of kit that he’d had on him for surveillance: his binoculars, a water bottle, a handkerchief, and some small items in his pants pockets. He took out his pistol now and readied it. He was breathing heavily and knew he wouldn’t be able to shoot straight after his frantic escape. He took a moment to steady himself and try to think. Which way should he go? Would they expect him to head west? Should he double back?
While he still stood there, a patrol of four men with guns came around a clump of trees and spotted him. The moon was just over the horizon now and it added enough illumination to the starlight that he wasn’t so invisible any more. These men were on his left, and the first ones to shoot at him were still behind somewhere. He could only go straight ahead toward a hill, or right into some dense brush. He opted for the brush.
Another crack rang out and he felt the whip of a bullet streaking by closer than he liked. The sound of crashing footsteps rushing through the woods behind him revealed his first pursuers’ proximity. It was a desperate moment; they were closing in on him, and if there were more in the hills ahead of him, he’d be completely boxed in. His luck had run out.
Reaching another deer trail that led around the side of a hill to the west, he sprinted. Stealth didn’t matter any more. He could be shot at any moment and needed distance more than anything.
As he ran, he wondered if Bosin had been killed or captured. If so, it was probably McLean’s fault. His horse must have given away the fact that someone was lurking in the hills around the prison, someone with an outlawed rifle. The patrol that found his camp had probably sent runners to bring reinforcements to flood the hills while a few stayed behind to ambush him. Apparently others had run into Bosin, hence the distant shots.
Crossing by the mouth of a small draw, he saw a man coming down the ravine toward him. It wasn’t Bosin. The man shouted something at him. McLean ran faster, trying to make some trees on the side of a hill ahead. With this new pursuer on his heels and the rest just behind, though, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. There were probably soldiers all over the area now, and even more forming a cordon at all the entrances into the hill country.
He needed to take out at least one of his enemies, the nearest one. That would give him a few precious seconds and slow the rest down; no one would be eager to be at the front of the line rushing through the darkness toward someone they knew was armed and ready.
He looked for a rock or hillock he could get behind for shooting cover. There wasn’t a good one. There was a small ripple in the ground ahead that he could lie in and shoot from, but it wouldn’t provide real cover. If the men at his back got into shooting positions of their own, they’d nail him in the back whenever he tried to rise and keep going. Or just plug him in the face as he lay there.
Instead of diving for cover he kept running up the hill and reached his gun backward
McLean turned and darted away, crouching low and throwing himself sideways into a dense patch of oak.
“ Shoot ‘im! Shoot ‘im!” a voice called out behind him, and a shot cracked and ricocheted off a trunk to his left. McLean stumbled and ran into an oak tree, leaving a lump on his forehead, and managed to crawl away several more yards through undergrowth without being shot.
He felt like an idiot. All his precautions were for nothing. They had his horse, his equipment, and his rifle. Even if he could live through the night, it would be a grim journey back to the ranch with no food, no gun, no horse, and no bedding.
He scrambled to his feet and hurried through the trees to the edge of the grove, then checked for movement out in the open. Seeing none by the meager starlight, he ran across the open ground and into another clump of woods.
He still had a folding knife and his handgun, along with a few bits and pieces of kit that he’d had on him for surveillance: his binoculars, a water bottle, a handkerchief, and some small items in his pants pockets. He took out his pistol now and readied it. He was breathing heavily and knew he wouldn’t be able to shoot straight after his frantic escape. He took a moment to steady himself and try to think. Which way should he go? Would they expect him to head west? Should he double back?
While he still stood there, a patrol of four men with guns came around a clump of trees and spotted him. The moon was just over the horizon now and it added enough illumination to the starlight that he wasn’t so invisible any more. These men were on his left, and the first ones to shoot at him were still behind somewhere. He could only go straight ahead toward a hill, or right into some dense brush. He opted for the brush.
Another crack rang out and he felt the whip of a bullet streaking by closer than he liked. The sound of crashing footsteps rushing through the woods behind him revealed his first pursuers’ proximity. It was a desperate moment; they were closing in on him, and if there were more in the hills ahead of him, he’d be completely boxed in. His luck had run out.
Reaching another deer trail that led around the side of a hill to the west, he sprinted. Stealth didn’t matter any more. He could be shot at any moment and needed distance more than anything.
As he ran, he wondered if Bosin had been killed or captured. If so, it was probably McLean’s fault. His horse must have given away the fact that someone was lurking in the hills around the prison, someone with an outlawed rifle. The patrol that found his camp had probably sent runners to bring reinforcements to flood the hills while a few stayed behind to ambush him. Apparently others had run into Bosin, hence the distant shots.
Crossing by the mouth of a small draw, he saw a man coming down the ravine toward him. It wasn’t Bosin. The man shouted something at him. McLean ran faster, trying to make some trees on the side of a hill ahead. With this new pursuer on his heels and the rest just behind, though, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. There were probably soldiers all over the area now, and even more forming a cordon at all the entrances into the hill country.
He needed to take out at least one of his enemies, the nearest one. That would give him a few precious seconds and slow the rest down; no one would be eager to be at the front of the line rushing through the darkness toward someone they knew was armed and ready.
He looked for a rock or hillock he could get behind for shooting cover. There wasn’t a good one. There was a small ripple in the ground ahead that he could lie in and shoot from, but it wouldn’t provide real cover. If the men at his back got into shooting positions of their own, they’d nail him in the back whenever he tried to rise and keep going. Or just plug him in the face as he lay there.
Instead of diving for cover he kept running up the hill and reached his gun backward
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