J. Curtis - Calexit - The Anthology

Boll lifted the radio again. Ryan watched the file of men. There were, unless he’d missed one or two, ten men. No horses in sight. They must have decided they would be able to sneak up better without the horses raise dust. Boll ended his brief conversation and looked at him. “You okay with being here alone?”

“You’re going down there?” Ryan looked back at the men. He’d like to be part of the force stopping them. They had hurt Pat. And now they were threatening his mom.

“You’re overwatch. I’m leaving my ‘nocs with you, and you have that rifle of yours. If you can’t make that shot, I’ll eat my hat. I know what your momma was.” Boll gripped his shoulder. “You’ll do, kid.”

“When do I know I can shoot?” Ryan felt his stomach cramp at the idea of shooting at the distant men, even while he wanted to put them down like rabid dogs.

“You’ll know.”

Ryan listened as Boll left, but he didn’t look away from the men. With the binoculars, he could make out facial and clothing details. Half the men were in Cali Border Patrol Uniforms, but oddly there were no rank markings on the dark brown shirts that lent them their nickname. Ryan knew it had a double meaning, his Mom had explained that one. He had to wonder who had thought a brown uniform shirt was a good idea, given history.

The hawk circled overhead, also watching the men with suspicion. He wasn’t playing his game with the air currents anymore. The day was getting hotter, and it was very quiet up on the lonely ridge.

Ryan set up his rifle the best he could. He didn’t have a scope on it, so he wasn’t as sure as the sheriff he could make a good shot. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to. He did, but he didn’t. He waited, and time seemed to slow to a near stand-still. The silence was broken by the snap of a gunshot. The men were directly below his hiding spot, having followed the trail where it curved up through a meadow that was full of sun-bleached grass, leaving them in the open. Boll and the others must have been in that clump of cottonwood by the creek, facing directly at the line of men.

Ryan looked through the binoculars and saw that one man had fallen. One of the ones in the stripped-down uniform. The others were scattering wildly, some headed for the cottonwoods. Two more shots, and two men fell down, the third headed in that direction zigzagged off to Ryan’s left. Three down, maybe just injured, but down, and seven more now hiding. Ryan could see that two had simply dropped into the tall grass and were lying still.

He wasn’t going to shoot someone who was just lying there. But the man who had zagged away from the ambush was now in the brush, and creeping toward the cottonwoods, keeping the brush between him and the ambushers but in plain sight of Ryan.

Ryan steadied the rifle, feeling the warmth of the metal from the sun, and the silky wood of the antique stock on his cheek as he sighted in on the man’s back. He felt sick. But he couldn’t let the man sneak up on his team. On his friends. He let out his breath slowly, held it, and squeezed the trigger. The man fell, and only then was Ryan aware of the echoes of the shot ringing in his ears.

One of the men in the grass jumped up and ran. But he was headed back in the direction he’d come from, and Ryan let him go. His hands were shaking. He put the rifle down and picked up the binocs again. No one was moving down there, right at the moment. The men who had been shot were lying still, dead or playing possum. He couldn’t tell. One of the men lying in the grass started to move, snake-like, but also headed back in the direction they had come in. After a few minutes of this he got up to a slouch and started to run, bent over. No one fired at him, and he glanced over his shoulder a few times, gradually standing upright and running until he was back in the brush.

Ryan didn’t know where five of the men had gone. Four were shot — one by his hand — and one was sitting on the ground on the trail, just his foot in sight. He waited.

Boll appeared out of the cottonwoods, walking straight like he wasn’t afraid of anything. He stopped, looked around, and shouted something. Ryan couldn’t make out the words, just sounds, from his vantage point. The big man was carrying his pistol by his side, but it was pointing down. He ambled up to the first man and looked down at him, then headed for the next one, calling over his shoulder. Jon and Ed appeared at the edge of the woods, both carrying guns at the ready.

Ryan kept watching while the three men swept the meadow and reached the brushy trail. Ed and Jon were covering Boll, who was still walking like he ruled the world. They reached the sitting man, and Boll hauled him into sight, one beefy hand on the man’s uniform collar. He put cuffs on him, and they started walking back toward the men lying down in the meadow. Ryan felt dizzy, and put his face down on his sleeve for a second, then he went back to keeping a watch.

They had two prisoners, now, one of the shot men sitting up was being handcuffed to the one who’d sat down and given up. Ryan could see a movement on the trail back up-valley, and then heard a short volley of shots. The other team must have found the runners who were retreating from the ambush. Ryan relaxed a little. He watched helplessly while Jon and Ed shouldered their guns and picked up the man he’d shot, one under each shoulder, and carried his limp form over to the others. Once Boll had all four in one place, he lifted his radio. Ryan assumed he was talking on it, since he couldn’t hear anything. Then Boll looked up, straight at him, and waved his hat.

Ryan got the horses and headed slowly down the hill, leading all of them. He felt really shaky and sick, now. He was half-afraid there would be a man hiding in wait for him, but the woods were quiet until he made his way into the meadow. Boll was standing with the prisoners and bodies, but Jon was lounging in the shade. Ed was nowhere in sight.

“Aha. Good job, Ryan.” Boll met him with a clap on the shoulder. “We’ve got a chopper comin’ for this lot. Even if there are other snakes, we’ve got a headless rattler to wave in their faces and prove we can fight ’em, and show the world who’s doin’ this to our folks. Now that we’ve got ’em, I don’t plan to lose ’em.”

“Yeah.” It would really suck if this were all for nothing. “Did the other team…?”

“Got ’em all.”

Ryan felt the relief wash over him. “So the Fritz place is safe.”

Boll nodded. “And others. This one,” he pointed at the man who’d sat down on the trail, ‘has been singin’ like a bird already.”

Jon ambled up. “Are we goin’ to go check on the ranch?”

Boll nodded. “You two ride on in. Ed and I will wait for the ‘chopper.”

“We’ll wait.” Ryan was surprised by how firm his voice came out. He was still shaking internally. “We’ll go when it’s all done.”

Jon nodded at him, but for once didn’t crack wise. Boll just smiled. “Reckon that’s a good idea, Ryan.”

Ryan looked at the cluster of men behind them. “How many dead?”

“Two here, one at the other team’s position.” Boll reported, then half-turned. “You didn’t kill your man, Ryan.”

Ryan’s knees shook. “I wasn’t sure. I broke protocol and didn’t aim for his head or chest.”

“He’ll never walk right again.” Jon put in, his voice grim. “Not any more than he’ll rape again.”

Ryan recoiled. He had been mentally avoiding that word since his vague conversation about Pat with the sheriff.

Jon went on remorselessly. “Put a shot right through the hip and pelvis, came out through his balls.”

Boll held up a hand. “He doesn’t need the gory details.”

Jon looked Ryan in the eyes. “You want to court my daughter, son, you have my permission.”