P Deutermann - Spider mountain

The shotgun was sloshing around in about three inches of water, so I shipped the oar and extracted the heavy gun. I ejected the two sodden cartridges, reloaded with semi-dry ones from my pockets, and put the gun across my knees. Carrie crawled toward the back of the raft, laying her oar down in the bottom, but the current had thrown us to the outside of the big bend, and the raft crunched to a halt in some gravel. Carrie grabbed her oar, got up on her knees, and tried to push us off the gravel bar. I shifted to the port side to unload the part that was aground, and she got up into a crouch to put her body weight into the push.

Just as she succeeded in pushing us off, she grunted painfully and pitched headfirst out of the boat as the echo of a long gun came booming across the water. A second round slashed the air in front of my face, and then a third smashed a big waterspout at the bow of the raft as we swung back out into the current. I flung myself flat into the bottom of the raft and tried to see where the fire was coming from. Two more rounds came in, both raising waterspouts in the middle of the raft, which I realized was now filling with water and starting to sink. The shepherds were scrambling around in the rising water right beside me.

Then I saw them: two vehicles parked nose out on a high bank on the road side of the river, about fifty yards ahead. One a civilian van, one a cop car. I caught a muzzle flash from between them as another round ripped all the way through the fabric of the raft. The raft’s forward motion had stopped. I couldn’t see what had happened to Carrie and desperately wanted to roll out of the raft, but didn’t dare expose myself. Then I realized I was still gripping the shotgun. I tipped the barrels to make sure there was no water inside and then fired both in the general direction of the vehicles. Even partially wet, both cartridges functioned as advertised, and the shooting stopped long enough for me to roll sideways out of the raft. The dogs jumped in with me, and we started swimming awkwardly toward the same bank the shooters were on. When my knees banged on some bottom rocks I realized I could make better time by scrambling through the shallows, which were now out of the line of fire from the vehicles.

I searched back upstream in the morning twilight for any signs of Carrie but couldn’t see anything, and I knew it wouldn’t take those guys long to figure out where I’d gone to ground. I crawled up the low, stony bank with the dogs, fumbling for more shells while staying low enough not to make a good target. I didn’t like the idea of firing on police officers one bit, but had to assume that these were Mingo’s people and that they had orders not to bring back any prisoners.

We crashed into some low bushes and reeds near the top of the bank. I downed the shepherds and reloaded the shotgun. My clothes were soaked, and the hulls of the shells were definitely wet. I could only pray that they would fire if I needed them. The raft had disappeared out in the river, either sunk or floating just beneath the surface. I had one boot on, one boot gone, and no longer cared if my foot hurt.

Carrie had been hit and was probably bleeding in the shallows back upstream. I had to decide: try to get back to her or deal with these guys first. Easy decision: I had to neutralize this threat before I’d be able to help Carrie. I decided to do the unexpected and started crawling toward the two vehicles. It was tough going through all the riverbank debris. I couldn’t see the shooters, and there’d been no more rifle fire since the ten-gauge had spoken, but I knew that it was highly unlikely I’d done any real damage from that range. The shepherds came with me, staying right by my legs and crouching low.

When I’d gone about thirty feet the bushes started to thin out, and I lay down behind a hollowed-out sand embankment for a minute to see if I could hear the shooters. Then I realized they were just on the other side of the same snag-mound. I thought I heard one of the vehicles start up.

“Lucas got the woman,” a voice said. “Got her good.”

“What the hell do we do now?” a second, younger voice asked nervously. “I don’t hold with shootin’ no women, and besides, ‘at bastard’s got him a Greener.”

“We wait,” the first cop said. “Mingo’ll be comin’ on with the rest of Grinny’s boys. Then we’ll do a find-’em line and roust his ass out. He ain’t goin’ far, and she ain’t goin’ nowheres.”

“Mingo gonna take ’em in?”

“Shee-it,” the first one spat. “Mingo’s gonna take care of business. You seen what they done to Rue?”

“I heard,” the younger one said.

I could hear him adjusting his position. The embankment was at least five feet high. I was beneath it; they had to be crouching just on the other side. I settled down even deeper into the sand. These guys were deputies. Lucas, whoever he was, must be one of Mingo’s “unofficial” deputies. I was tempted to just stand up and blow them away. Tempted, hell-they’d shot Carrie without compunction or warning.

But then I hesitated. I was assuming the shotgun’s shells would work, and they’d been awfully wet going into the barrels. And where the hell was Lucas? Had that been him going to fetch Mingo? Or was he circling behind my landing spot?

I eased the heavy shotgun around from underneath me and pointed it upward. Still I hesitated. They were cops with their blood up. As far as they were concerned, they were chasing two stone-cold killers, and God only knew what Mingo had told them. It was Lucas who’d shot Carrie, not these two. At this range, any part of a ten-gauge blast would be fatal. But I needed to do something, especially if I was mistaken about Lucas leaving.

I took a deep breath, gathered myself into a one-legged crouch, duckwalked up the embankment until I saw the top of a deputy’s hat, stood up, let go both barrels into the space right between them, and then set the shepherds on them.

They both went down in a tangle of yells and snarling German shepherds. I let the dogs do their thing for a few seconds while I reloaded, and then I called them off. The two deputies were in Robbins County uniforms, and they were utterly terrified. The dogs had scared the living shit out of them without taking very much meat, and now their worst nightmare was standing over them with a ten-gauge in their bleeding faces.

“Got her good, did you?” I yelled at the older one, a black-haired man with a square, scowling face. I pointed the shotgun down into his crotch, and he started whimpering like a puppy. The younger one had pissed himself and was trying to hide his face behind his hands while backing away from the gaping barrels of the ten-gauge.

I herded the both of them down into the river after relieving them of their handguns, which I threw into the river. I told them to start swimming and they did a vigorous job of it, splashing through the shallows and out into the deeper channel. I really did want to blow their damned heads off but then heard sirens in the distance. I looked again upstream, trying to see any sign of Carrie, but the curve in the river still blocked my view.

Got her good, the man had said about Carrie. That meant he’d hit her in the core, and she was probably already gone. Shit.

The two deputies were scrambling through the shallows on the other side. I pointed the shotgun at them and they dived for cover, so I called in the shepherds and hobbled over to where the cruiser was parked. The other vehicle was gone. Fortunately, they hadn’t followed procedure and locked the doors or taken the keys, which were right where I needed them to be. I roared out of the overlook area where they’d set up their ambush and headed south down the river road as fast as I could make that puppy go. Two miles later I sailed into Carrigan County, wondering already if I’d done the right thing by not going back for Carrie. The tactical situation clearly dictated otherwise, but still…