Worried looks and murmurs spread through the ranks. One soldier staggered out of line and vomited on the ground. Colt continued.
“It would seem we are on our own. Our duty is to defend the Red River Republic from enemies foreign and domestic. My duty is to lead you to the best of my ability in doing so. We are the only defense between the invaders and innocent civilians to the north; however, we are but fifty men, if, in fact, that patrol has been lost. We can’t defeat them, but we can distract them.”
A soldier rocked, swayed, and fell over. “At ease,” Colt commanded. “I know it’s hot and you’re scared. If we stay here and they find us, we’ll all be dead in hours. But I have a plan to slow down the enemy, give the capital time to respond, and maybe—just maybe—save most of our lives. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Three hours later
Fort Desperado had been left to the lizards, snakes, and tumbleweed, an empty shell of a forsaken outpost. The wagons and anything that couldn’t fit in a rucksack remained for the desert to claim, while the soldiers, their weapons, ammunition, and three days’ rations rode out in search of the intruders from the south.
Colt sent Corporal Mercer and another scout ahead to locate the foreign army after finding the bodies of the missing patrol. By the time a detail had buried them, Mercer returned.
“They left a trail an infant could follow,” he reported. Pointing north, he said, “They’re spread wide—two, maybe three kilometers from end to end. I think they’re trying to cover more ground, spy out the land.”
“Good,” Colt answered. “That will make our plan easier.” He pulled out a map and unfolded it atop a hunk of sandstone. “Can you point them out on here?”
Mercer studied the map, tracing a finger across it. Colt and Sergeant Castellano leaned in, holding down the corners. “The far west side is about here, and the other end, there.” The western flank would be approaching the mercury mine.
“Who’s the best sharpshooter in the bunch?” he asked Castellano. The stablemaster had been stationed there longer than anyone else.
“Private Jesse Flint, wouldn’t you say, Mercer?”
The corporal nodded. “Man has an eye like a hawk and hands as sure as Guadalupe Peak.”
“Fetch him,” Colt instructed. Putting away the map, he took a few strides to his backup horse—a sturdy dun gelding—and slid a McMillan TAC-50 long-range rifle from its case fastened to his saddle.
“You wanted me, sir?” Flint appeared older than Andrew Mendez, but not by much. He was a lanky mixed-race fellow who’d avoided the military purge because he was already assigned to the biggest hellhole in the Republic. Coltfigured they’d just forgotten about him—out of sight, out of mind. Either way, if he was an excellent shot, Colt was glad to have him.
“Private Flint, have you ever handled one of these?” Colt placed the sniper rifle in his brown hands.
Flint gazed at the TAC-50, admiration lighting his youthful face. “No, sir, but I’ve heard about them—best accuracy at long range there is.”
“Since I’ve heard the same about you, Private, I suspect you’ll make a winning pair,” Colt said. “I’ve only got five magazines—twenty-five shots—so make each one count. We’re going to race them to the mercury mines, where you’ll pick your prime spot to shoot from. I want you to puncture holes in their balloons and airships and drop them from the sky. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” Jesse awkwardly attempted a salute, jostling the long gun with its telescopic sight.
“Mount up!” Colt called. Within seconds, the fifty men were galloping across the desert.
Hooves thundered over hardpan, the rhythm pounding up through Colt’s spine as rifles cracked in staggered bursts, the sharp tang of black powder biting the back of his throat. The enemy line rippled as shots tore into their flank. Confused shouts arose, turning angry, as riders broke formation to give chase. Colt’s cavalry scattered like sparks, weaving and doubling back, saddles creaking, gunfire snapping past their ears with a wicked hiss.
In the first moments of contact, Colt’s plan held. Throw the invaders off kilter and lure them into a chase to slow their northward advance while dealing as much damage as they could.
The sharpshooter fired the .50 caliber, its report long and echoing. An overhead balloon shuddered, fabric snapping as a clean hole punched through. Moreshots, and the nearest airship sagged enough to tilt its guns skyward, their aim thrown wide.
Colt rode hard, handling his pony like a rodeo cowboy as a bullet whined close enough to burn. The rider beside him ducked low over his horse’s neck, spitting dust and a curse as he fired blind over his shoulder.
The garrison’s riders split, half following Colt through the open gate of the empty mining compound while the others trailed Sergeant Castellano to race to the top of the hill. Behind them, the aggressors surged in pursuit, their return fire wild and furious, shots kicking up dirt in angry spurts around Colt’s men.
“Look up!” Colt shouted, spinning his dun gelding in a circle and pointing skyward. A basket careened toward them, its deflated silk flapping like a giant banner from its ropes. Those in the basket were too busy fighting their descent to bother shooting.
His soldiers scattered, heading for the far exit of the complex. Its sand-colored adobe, wood, and steel walls and buildings resembled Fort Desperado. The smell of hot metal and spent rounds clung inside the facility, mingling with the mineral bite of mercury and grit. Like the fort, only one gate was large enough for vehicles to pass through. As Colt’s cavalry shot out the other exit in single file, the enemy’s dune buggies and jeeps clogged the mining camp’s yard, taking time and effort to turn around.
Clear of the mine workings, Colt led his riders to rejoin Castellano. He distinguished the deep crack of the sniper rifle and glanced up with satisfaction as another balloon’s silk deflated, rolling in on itself. The first basket crashed into the mine yard atop several invader vehicles.
“This way!” Colt ordered, waving his troops westward toward a narrow canyon beyond a scrub-brush-covered rise. He glanced back as more of the interlopers peeled away from the main column, drawn in by the chase.
Up close, he’d noticed their uniforms. Desert tan wraparound tunics, rather than buttoned shirts, bore geometric patterns in muted sage, obsidian brown, and pale dust gray. When the wind blew a pursuer’s tunic open, body armor glinted from beneath it. Colt noticed men and women soldiers in the invasionforce, all with tan skin and black hair. They must be the Anáhuac, or whatever civilization was born from their demise.
Colt spurred ahead and signaled for his men to split, half around the right ridge and half around the left. He and three volunteers galloped straight into the canyon as bait. Fortunately, his riders were out of sight by the time the Anáhuac cleared the scrub-brush mound. They gave chase on horseback, dirt bikes, jeeps, and big-wheeled buggies, bullets ricocheting off the gorge walls. One of his fellows was hit and fell from his horse. Colt didn’t slow.