Eric Flint - Time spike

Ignoring strange sounds coming from somewhere in the distance and the occasional tear of exhaustion that dripped down her face, she tried to picture the way Hulbert looked when he left the prison. A moment later she was asleep.

Chapter 41 Jerry Bailey hissed between gritted teeth. A little over two weeks back. the soft-spoken guard hadn't so much as twitched when Hulbert, Carmichael and Keehn used him as bait when they were hunting. But today, looking across the open area toward the pre-Mound Indian village, his face was pale and he'd broken into a sweat. The village was less than a hundred yards from where he and Rod lay hidden. And even though things were quieter now, the screams of the children and the sobs of the women could be heard too well. The Spaniards had beaten them to the village. Hulbert didn't bother answering or use the binoculars tucked into a leather case attached to his belt. They were close enough he could see every gory detail of what was happening. The smell of burned flesh was heavy in the air, mixed with the stink of whatever the Indians had used to make their huts instead of grass. Two of the huts were burning fiercely. De Soto's men must have tossed the bodies into the huts and set them aflame, as a quick and simple way to get rid of them. Knowing the bastards, Rod was sure they hadn't bothered to make sure everyone they tossed in was dead already. Now, the same bastards were busy ensuring the people they had captured would remain docile slaves. They'd only kept alive the younger adults and the children, to begin with. Old slaves-even middle-aged ones-were of no interest to them. It looked as though they'd beaten all four of the males with whips, and at least one of the women. The six women had been separated out from the rest of the captives, who were all tied together with ropes around their necks. They'd be providing entertainment for the conquistadores that evening, presumably. "We need to move, Rod," Bailey said. "Now. Those people can't take any more." The lieutenant shook his head. "No. We wait for the signal. They've stopped whatever killings and atrocities they were carrying out because they're getting ready to leave. But it'll be at least twenty minutes before the Spaniards start moving out." Andy Blacklock had divided his forces in half and placed one group-they were calling them platoons for lack of a better term-under Rod's command. Hulbert and his platoon had been ordered to stay in place, just out of sight behind the screen of trees surrounding the clearing where the village was located. They were to hold their fire until the captain signaled. Privately, Rod thought Andy was being too cautious, but he hadn't put up an argument. Right or not, the man was the boss, and these were battlefield conditions. Still, he thought his own platoon could have handled the situation by themselves. They had modern repeating rifles and Rod knew from personal experience just how slow and clumsy matchlocks were. Besides, leaving aside the weaponry, the more Rod saw of these famous conquistadores, the lower became his opinion of them-militarily, not simply morally. They might be tough as nails individually, sure, but they seemed no more disciplined than a street gang. And even less well organized. The one group of Spaniards milling around closest to Rod numbered about sixty or seventy men.

They seemed to be under the command-if you could use the term at all-of a committee of four or five sergeants. And the sergeants seemed to spend most of their time arguing with each other. Arguing about what, it was hard to know, given the crude nature of the operation.

Probably arguing about whether to rape the women now or wait until nightfall. Hulbert, realizing he was holding his breath out of sheer anger, forced himself to resume his normal slow, easy breathing. Andy, where the hell is that signal? Blacklock had gone one way, off to Hulbert's left, and Watkins and his Cherokees and the U.S. soldiers off to the right. The two leaders were working partway around the big clearing, far enough to encircle it as much as possible without running the risk of getting into a crossfire. The plan was simple enough. Andy figured-with Watkins' smile confirming his guess-that the Cherokees could get in position faster than his own people. So, once Andy was ready, he'd give the signal. The signal would be as simple as the plan. Blacklock and his platoon would just start shooting. No warning, nothing. Whatever lingering thoughts any of them might have had about negotiating with the conquistadores went up with the flaming huts. Even Andy, with his incredible self-control, had reached the limit. "I want all of them dead," he'd said quietly. As even-tempered as the man was-he was something of a legend, that way, among the prison guards-there was no mistaking the fury lurking beneath the words. "As many as we can manage, anyway. And we're not taking any prisoners, either. We never did get anything worth getting out of that one shithead we caught." Rod had spotted Watkins' expression, when Andy said that. The Cherokee chief seemed to be suppressing a smile.

Ross didn't have any trouble figuring out the reason. Not knowing what else to do, Andy had decided to leave the prisoner in the town when the expedition set off. Stephen McQuade was still back there too. The man's wounds were healing, well enough, but he wasn't in good enough shape yet to participate in any battles. On the other hand, he wouldn't have any trouble using a knife. For that matter, neither would Susan Fisher, on a trussed-up prisoner. Between the two of them, had Rod been in that Spaniard's boots, he'd have much rather faced McQuade. There was something implacable about the little Cherokee medicine woman. By the time they got back, McQuade and Fisher would have discovered whatever it was that Spaniard knew. Their notions of suitable interrogation methods were decidedly nineteenth-century frontier. Rod was quite sure of that. He was just as sure that the man would be dead. He'd come to like the Cherokees, as he'd gotten to know them. But he didn't much doubt that under that sophisticated surface, at least when it got provoked, there was a spirit just about a savage as any Apache or Comanche's. A fusillade erupted, coming from the area where Blacklock had taken his people. An instant later, the gunshots sounding much deeper, came a fusillade from the Cherokees and Sergeant Kershner's men. "Fire!"Bailey shouted. Rod had told Jerry to give the signal. He didn't want to be distracted from his own immediate task.

Moscoso was there. Rod had spotted him almost at once. Not hard to do, since he was one of the arguing sergeants. Hulbert had never stopped tracking him with his rifle since. He was tempted to gut-shoot the bastard, as angry as he was. But he didn't break training and habit.

The sniper's triangle was his target. The shot took Moscoso right above the breastbone, rupturing the aorta. Blood spouted everywhere as he went down. He wasstill tempted to gut-shoot the bastard. But that was pointless. Moscoso was dead and they didn't have ammunition to spare. In the distance, maybe a hundred yards from the village and over two hundred yards from Hulbert's position, there was a man on horseback surrounded by several other horsemen. That might be de Soto himself. It was worth hoping for, anyway. Rod had kept him under surveillance also. He went down. Then, the horseman next to him. Then, the one on his other side. Shooting from a prone position with a rifle at this range-about two hundred and twenty yards-Rod Hulbert might as well have been called the Grim Reaper. He took down two more of the horsemen in that center group, before the rest scattered. Thereafter, it was slower work. Hulbert concentrated on the horsemen he could see at a distance, ignoring the bulk of the Spanish troops milling around outside the village. The closest of those soldiers weren't more than a hundred yards away, and the farthest not more than two hundred. Any guard could hit that target, especially as bunched up as they were.