The scout threw himself down at the shot. Valentine, a few yards behind Gonzalez, was breathing too hard to trust himself to shoot accurately. He shifted his grip to the barrel of the rifle and wound up as he dashed forward.
The long camouflage strips hanging from the Quisling's sleeves caught in his rifle's action. As he struggled with it, Valentine swung his gun baseball-bat style, using the momentum of his charge to add further force to the impact. He struck the sniper full in the stomach, emptying the man's lungs with the harsh cough of a cramping diaphragm. Valentine dropped his gun and drew his parang from its sheath on his belt. As the gasping Quisling writhed at his feet, Valentine stepped on the man's back and brought the blade down on the vulnerable back of his neck once, twice, three times. The blows felt good, sickeningly good: a release of fear and anger. The body, its head severed, twitched as the man's nervous system still reacted to the blow to the midriff.
Valentine moved to Gonzalez, who now sat up, shaking and swearing in Spanish.
"Vamos!" Gonzalez said through clenched teeth. "Get to the horses. I'll catch up."
"I need a breather, bud," Valentine said, and meant it. He listened to the distant horses. They were far off, maybe far enough.
"No, sir... I'll catch up."
"Let's get a tourniquet around your arm. I don't want you leaving a blood trail. I'm glad your legs are still working," he said, tearing a rag off the sniper's gillie suit, which served that purpose admirably. His hands flew into action with quick, precise movements, binding the wound. "Now hold this," he said, twisting a stick around the knot. "Does that arm feel as bad as it looks?"
"Worse. I think the bone's gone."
"Just hold it for now. We'll get you a sling once we get to the horses," Valentine said.
"Valentine, this is loco. Loco, sir. I can't get far like this. Maybe I can find an old basement or something, hole up for a few days."
"No more arguing, hero. Let's go. The posse is on its way. I'll take your rifle."
They walked, then jogged toward the fence line. Each step must be agony for him, Valentine thought. They made it past the skulls and to the ravine.
Two horses waited, reins tied to a fallen branch. Valentine's Morgan had a note tucked in the saddle. Valentine uncurled it and read the soft pencil letters: "Followed orders- good luck-God bless-R.H."
Same to you, Sarge, Valentine thought. He felt lonely and helpless. But it would not do to let Gonzalez see that.
"Harper's moving west. Let's go southwest. If they have to follow two sets of tracks, maybe it'll confuse them. I'm sorry, Gonzo, but we've got to ride hard. I'll help you into the saddle."
He tightened the girths on both horses and lifted Gonzalez into his seat.
"I'll take the reins, Gonzo, you just sit and enjoy the ride."
"Enjoy. Sure," he said with a hint of a smile, or perhaps an out-of-control grimace. v They rode up and out of the ravine, Gonzalez pale with pain.
Of all the strange dei ex machinae, Valentine least expected to be rescued by a livestock truck.
Valentine, after an initial mile-eating canter across the hills, slowed out of concern for his scout. Gonzalez could not last much longer at this rate. They spotted an ill-used road, in bad shape even for this far out in the country, and moved parallel, keeping it in sight.
The pair crested a hill, resting to take a good look ahead before proceeding farther. Gonzalez sat in his saddle like a limp scarecrow tied to the stirrups.
Valentine saw a little cluster of farms along a road running perpendicular to their path. Miles off to the west, a series of high bare downs marched southward. To his right, a small creek twisted and turned, moving south to where it crossed the road under a picturesque covered bridge. The bridge appeared to be in good repair, indicating the road might be in frequent use.
"Okay, Gonzo," Valentine said, turning his horse. "Not much farther now. We're going to walk the horses for a while in that stream. I want to pick us up an engine."
"Are we going to give up the horses?" Gonzalez croaked.
"Yes. You can't go on like this. By the way, do you know how to drive?"
"Maybe. I've worked a steering wheel a couple of times. You would have to shift, though. Can't you drive?"
Valentine shrugged. "I used to play in old wrecked cars, but I don't know what the pedals do."
"Sir, let's keep to the stream for a while. Get somewhere quiet and find an old house. Lay up for a while."
"They might know by now what direction we went. We have to assume they want us, even if we didn't see anything. Remember, we killed one of theirs. They won't brush that off. According to that old Gustafsen, they've got some manpower concentrated there, so they have the men to do a thorough search. We need to move faster than they can get organized, which won't be easy since they probably have radios. That means an engine. From the tracks Harper made, and ours, they're going to be looking for us west. If we turn east, we might get ahead of whatever containment they'll use."
Valentine hated the idea of giving up the sturdy Morgan. His horse had proved a sublime blend of speed and stamina. But the odds against them were also increasing, making a risk the only course of action giving them a chance to escape.