Collection 1980 - Yondering (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour

turned to look at Dugan. “How old are you, kid?”
    “Twenty-two,” Dugan said, and he lied. He was just past sixteen.
    “You look younger. Anyway, go through their pockets, whoever’s dead. They won’t mind, and you’ll need whatever there is.
    “Don’t go near the army or a big town. Head for the seacoast and stay out of sight. Anybody you meet out here will try to stop you. Don’t let it happen. You get away—you hear?”
    Jerry lifted the bottle in a toast. “Tomorrow we die!” he said.
    “Today, you mean,” Slim said.
    The Biscayan came up from the cellar with a machine gun. It was brand-spanking-new. He went down again and came up with several belts of ammo, then a box of them. He set the machine gun up at a shuttered window and fed a belt into it.
    Dugan looked at the automatic he had picked up. It was in good shape. He found another in the cellar and several spare clips. He loaded them.
    Scattered shooting broke into a steady roar. A shell exploded not too far away.
    Slim had found two Spanish versions of the Colt pistols and loaded them. He strapped them on, pleased. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to get good and drunk, and then I’m going to open that door and show them how we do it down in Texas!”
    He emptied half a bottle of the wine and looked at Dugan. “You ever been in Texas, kid?”
    “I worked on a ranch there—in the Panhandle.”
    “I grew up on a ranch,” Slim said. “Rode for a couple of outfits in New Mexico before I started out to see the world. I knew this would happen sometime. Just never figured it would be here, in a place like this.”
    He picked up the bottle of wine and looked at it. “What I need is some tequila. This here is a she-male’s drink! Or some bourbon an’ branch water.”
    Dugan took his rifle and walked to the window. He helped the Biscayan move the machine gun to a more advantageous position, a little closer, a little more to the left. He checked his rifle again and loaded two more and stood them close by. From a crack in the shutters he studied the route he might get a chance to take. It must be done before the whole country was overrun by the Moors.
    Suddenly Jerry moved, the dried blood still caked in his stubble of beard. He crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the trapdoor from the ditch. Then he stopped, breathing hoarsely, waiting.
    Dugan had heard nothing above the occasional rattle of distant rifle fire as the Riffs began to mop up. Suddenly the trapdoor began to lift, very cautiously, then with more confidence. When it had lifted about a foot, a big Riff thrust his head up and stared into the room. All the occupants were out of his immediate range, and he lifted his head higher, peering into the semidarkness. In that instant Jerry swung the empty magnum. The solid bop of the blow was loud in the room, and the man vanished, the door falling into place. Jerry jerked it open, slammed it back, and leaped down into the hole. There was a brief scuffle, and then Jerry came back through the trapdoor, carrying a new rifle and a bandoleer.
    Now the crescendo of firing had lifted to a loud and continuous roar, and Slim started to sing. In the tight stone room his voice boomed loudly.
     
    Glorious! Glorious!
One keg o’ beer for the four of us!
Glory be to heaven that there isn’t
ten or ’leven,
For the four of us can drink it all alone!
     
    The Biscayan took down the bar and threw the shutters wide. Below them and away across the tawny hill the Riffian trench was suddenly vomiting up a long line of men. From behind the parapet before them a scattering fire threw a pitiful challenge at the charging line.
    Dugan wiped the sweat from his eyebrows and leaned against the edge of the window. He was sagging with incredible exhaustion, and his body stank from the unwashed weeks, the sweat and the dirt. He lifted the rifle and held it against his swollen cheek and began to fire.
    Behind him Jerry and Slim were singing “Casey