P Deutermann - Spider mountain

“Especially if you and mother-of-the-year out there are selling their innards.”

“Hey?” he said, almost pleasantly. “We need to stop wasting time here. You and the demon spawn in there are history anyway. Or here’s a deal-you get to walk away, take your chances with the black hats in the fog. You do that and I’ll make sure those kids go to the county.”

“Under their own power or in plastic bags?”

“They don’t know anything, sport,” he said. “We don’t need them dead-just out of here.”

“Oh, right, Special Agent,” I said. “I have your word as a murderer on that, do I?”

He didn’t answer that. Now I knew why the DEA team had never succeeded in getting at the Creigh operation, and how Grinny had known what we were up to with such precision. Son of a bitchl

I tried to see through the fog to locate them, but they were still just voices in the mist, framed by flickering torchlight. She must have her whole damned crew out there, I thought. Minus the two trolls up at the glass hole.

“So how come you didn’t pop me when you had the chance, Special Agent?” I called. “Up there on the mountain tonight?”

“‘Cause yer mine, you son of a bitch,” Grinny shouted back. “I ain’t afeared’a no law. We buy and sell law up here. I want your hide for Rowena. Fair’s fair.”

“So that’s the deal, Baby?” I called. “You were just taking orders?”

Greenberg didn’t answer, and I noticed that the nebulous points of light out there in the fog seemed to be separating. I slid back into the barn, pulled the lantern over, and cranked the wick down to its lowest position.

“Well, shit, what’s it goin’ to be, lawman?” Grinny called. “Feelin’ a mite skeered, are ye? Ain’t like it was out on the road, is it, when you kilt my sweet baby Rue.”

“Your sweet baby Rue shot at me and lost,” I said, desperately trying to think of what to do.

“Cut her down, clear’n simple,” she replied. “Blowed her head clean off. You gonna burn for that. You’n ’em gully rats in ‘ere.”

As if to confirm that observation, a bolus of orange light rose into the fog and then came down in my direction as someone threw a torch at the shed. It landed on the tin roof with a clatter, then rolled off and landed in some grass. The fog had dampened the grass, but it wouldn’t stay damp for long. I had to do something.

“C’mon, sport,” Greenberg called. “That trash in there isn’t worth all this. C’mon out here and palaver-the money in this thing is positively amazing.”

Fucking unbelievable, I thought. Children as sausage. I wanted to scream.

I threw back my head and howled like a frustrated wolf. Nothing happened. I did it again, and then both of my shepherds joined in. I went out the door in a crouch, moved to the right a few feet, and howled again. The shepherds came to the door and got into it in earnest. Some of the black-hat dogs howled back, thrilling the mountain fog. While the animals were doing their thing I sprinted straight out toward the torchlight, shotgun cocked and pointed forward, until I could make out some figures spread out in an arc, holding torches. One of them was much wider than all the others, and I didn’t hesitate: I stopped, knelt, raised the shotgun, and fired right at her, then let go the second barrel at the shortish figure standing next to Grinny. Then I jinked sideways while all hell broke loose back there in the fog, with guns going, dogs barking, and several torches hitting the ground as the black hats scattered.

I blasted back through the barn doors, jacking new shells into the shotgun. The shepherds dove in behind me, and then rounds started to smack against the walls and bang off the tin roof. I leaned around the doorjamb and fired two more shells into the darkness out front and then pulled the doors closed. Then I frantically began piling the hay bales into two rows, extending from the tunnel door to the front door, creating a channel between the two. A rifle bullet went by my head close enough to make me wince, and I could dimly hear shouting out front in between gunshots. The kids were flat on the ground, their eyes squeezed shut, grimy little hands over their ears. A bullet blew up their water bucket.

I piled the bales up three high, then partially opened the front doors and fired two more rounds in the direction of the torches. I knew I wasn’t hitting anything, but I fired low, hoping the sounds of buckshot slashing through the weeds would encourage the black hats to at least back away. Then I went to the tunnel door, reached over the row of bales, knocked the pitchfork away, and tripped the latch.

Four seriously ugly dogs charged into the makeshift run between the bales and bolted right out the front door, which I slammed shut behind them. Then I yelled at the girls and the shepherds to come with me. I swept them all into the tunnel and shut the door before the dogs outside figured out what had happened. I hadn’t had time to the grab the lantern, so we were in utter darkness. I switched on my flashlight, reloaded the shotgun with my last two shells, and then herded my little crew of terrified children up the passageway, the shepherds running ahead. Behind us I could hear bullets hitting that door. I should have barred it somehow, I realized.

My plan was to get out to the crack in the ridge while the bad guys dealt with whatever damage I’d done with the shotgun. I was pretty sure I’d hit Grinny, and hopefully also Greenberg, if that had been him next to her. I’d done the last thing they would have expected: gone right at them while my shepherds distracted them and their cur dogs, two-legged and four-legged.

We reached the stone-wall door and slipped through it. I made the girls hold hands to keep them together. Every one of them was crying, but they moved obediently. The lever post was broken, so I couldn’t close the door, but I didn’t think anyone would come through for a few minutes, anyway. What I didn’t know was whether or not there was a sentinel or two at the hillside entrance to this tunnel. As we trotted along through the dust in the silent tunnel, I wondered how badly I’d injured the fat lady. With all that blubber, she might not have been really hurt at all. On the other hand, it just took one pellet between the eyes to have the same effect as a. 38-caliber bullet. One could always hope.

We reached the crude stairway up to the hillside tree. I gathered my desperate little band and told everyone to be quiet. I went up the stairs and listened. Then I turned out my light and pushed the trapdoor open a little. I couldn’t see anything but gray darkness, then realized that that was because the fog was up here on the hillside, too. I would not be able to see any guards, but then they should not be able to see me, either. I beckoned Frick and hoisted her through the trapdoor.

“Find it,” I told her quietly, and she disappeared into the fog. It would take her about a minute to figure out that she didn’t know what she was looking for, but if there were other dogs out there, we’d both know it before then. She came back a minute later, panting but not alarmed.

I got my little crew out of the tunnel and to the base of the lone pine tree without incident. The kids were holding hands in a chain of grimy death grips and staring out into the fog as if they expected Grinny to materialize like some kind of giant succubus. As did I. Then the gunfire resumed down at the Creigh cabin.

I listened, but my brain wasn’t comprehending. What were they shooting at? Were the black hats getting ready to charge the shed? And if so, why? It’d be much better to simply burn it and all the evidence. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a street-sweeper and I knew what had happened: The cavalry had arrived.