The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time by Raymond Dean White Page B
Authors: Raymond Dean White
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ranch, raking the building with machine gun fire.
Parsons had gained a lot of experience with mortars in the past few weeks, ever since a regiment-sized force claiming to be soldiers of some California King hit Provo and got their clocks cleaned, but not before leveling the school. He figured this group was probably one of the few who survived that engagement. The Lieutenant studied the angles, nudging the mortar slightly to allow for wind. He dropped in the first round personally, then spun and snatched up his binoculars to view the results.
BLAM!
The first shell blew the APC over onto its side.
KAWHANG!
The second one blasted it apart like it was made of tinfoil.
“Enfilade!” screamed Lt. Parsons and watched with pride as his men proceeded to walk a line of shells right down the ditch the enemy was sheltering in.
Back up on the ridge, Adam yelled out, “Bugler! Sound the charge!”
The line of horsemen swept down the side of the hill and out onto the valley floor.
Captain Cummins had issued the same command and her cavalry stormed out of the small valley and wheeled toward the ranch house.
The raiders, desperate to escape the deadly rain of mortar shells and seeing Captain Cummins’ troops first, fled up the valley and ran smack into Adam’s men.
At 5’7” and 145 pounds, Adam was small enough and his horse fast enough, to pull him slightly ahead of his troops. That was as it should be. In Adam’s book, a military commander was supposed to be a leader, a term he took quite literally.
As they raced into a pasture close to the house a mass of mounted marauders exploded around the edge of the moat and came right at them. The fighting was close and fierce.
Adam emptied a pistol into the group, dropping three men, before the rest were on him. He whipped out a cavalry saber and slashed right and left, fighting like a dervish, wheeling his horse about like a madman, charging any enemy within striking distance, lost in the grip of battle fever.
Like any soldier he accepted the possibility of being injured or killed. His purple hearts attested to the wounds he had taken before. Nonetheless, it came as a surprise to him when the bullet punched into his chest. He collapsed over his pommel, the saber slipping from his grasp.
He saw the raider drawing down on him for another shot but couldn’t move to get out of the way. Time stretched out into slow motion as he watched the man thumb back the hammer of the pistol that was now aimed at his head. A single action Ruger .45, he thought, amazed that he could recognize such details.
Suddenly, the man’s head exploded like an overripe melon hit by a sledge-hammer. His body turned to rubber as it twisted in a grotesque, lifeless, ballet and flopped out of the saddle to the ground.
A large rawboned hand grasped Adam’s shoulder, keeping him from following the dead man--a hand he had studied recently for clues to its owner’s character.
“Steady there, pard...Ah mean Colonel, Sir,” Walt said as he fired his Redhawk into the neck of another enemy who ventured too close.
Somehow, Adam remained conscious for the duration of the fight, nursemaided through by Walter Beeman, Ex-Lieutenant of the 101st Airborne and current recruit.
When the battle was over the folks inside the house let down the drawbridge. Walt laid Adam inside on a bed where the rancher’s wife could fuss over him while Captain Cummins brought up the ambulance wagon. Meanwhile, the troops formed a bucket brigade from moat to house and doused the fire, which had done little but scorch the exterior of the thick log walls and hadn’t even singed the slate roof.
Walt introduced Adam to the rancher and his wife and they in turn acquainted him with a Mr. Martin Dinelli, a peddler who had stopped by that morning before the attack.
“That’s his wagon and tools burning out in the yard,” the rancher’s wife mentioned as she cut Adam’s shirt off his body.
Captain Cummins, in temporary command while
Parsons had gained a lot of experience with mortars in the past few weeks, ever since a regiment-sized force claiming to be soldiers of some California King hit Provo and got their clocks cleaned, but not before leveling the school. He figured this group was probably one of the few who survived that engagement. The Lieutenant studied the angles, nudging the mortar slightly to allow for wind. He dropped in the first round personally, then spun and snatched up his binoculars to view the results.
BLAM!
The first shell blew the APC over onto its side.
KAWHANG!
The second one blasted it apart like it was made of tinfoil.
“Enfilade!” screamed Lt. Parsons and watched with pride as his men proceeded to walk a line of shells right down the ditch the enemy was sheltering in.
Back up on the ridge, Adam yelled out, “Bugler! Sound the charge!”
The line of horsemen swept down the side of the hill and out onto the valley floor.
Captain Cummins had issued the same command and her cavalry stormed out of the small valley and wheeled toward the ranch house.
The raiders, desperate to escape the deadly rain of mortar shells and seeing Captain Cummins’ troops first, fled up the valley and ran smack into Adam’s men.
At 5’7” and 145 pounds, Adam was small enough and his horse fast enough, to pull him slightly ahead of his troops. That was as it should be. In Adam’s book, a military commander was supposed to be a leader, a term he took quite literally.
As they raced into a pasture close to the house a mass of mounted marauders exploded around the edge of the moat and came right at them. The fighting was close and fierce.
Adam emptied a pistol into the group, dropping three men, before the rest were on him. He whipped out a cavalry saber and slashed right and left, fighting like a dervish, wheeling his horse about like a madman, charging any enemy within striking distance, lost in the grip of battle fever.
Like any soldier he accepted the possibility of being injured or killed. His purple hearts attested to the wounds he had taken before. Nonetheless, it came as a surprise to him when the bullet punched into his chest. He collapsed over his pommel, the saber slipping from his grasp.
He saw the raider drawing down on him for another shot but couldn’t move to get out of the way. Time stretched out into slow motion as he watched the man thumb back the hammer of the pistol that was now aimed at his head. A single action Ruger .45, he thought, amazed that he could recognize such details.
Suddenly, the man’s head exploded like an overripe melon hit by a sledge-hammer. His body turned to rubber as it twisted in a grotesque, lifeless, ballet and flopped out of the saddle to the ground.
A large rawboned hand grasped Adam’s shoulder, keeping him from following the dead man--a hand he had studied recently for clues to its owner’s character.
“Steady there, pard...Ah mean Colonel, Sir,” Walt said as he fired his Redhawk into the neck of another enemy who ventured too close.
Somehow, Adam remained conscious for the duration of the fight, nursemaided through by Walter Beeman, Ex-Lieutenant of the 101st Airborne and current recruit.
When the battle was over the folks inside the house let down the drawbridge. Walt laid Adam inside on a bed where the rancher’s wife could fuss over him while Captain Cummins brought up the ambulance wagon. Meanwhile, the troops formed a bucket brigade from moat to house and doused the fire, which had done little but scorch the exterior of the thick log walls and hadn’t even singed the slate roof.
Walt introduced Adam to the rancher and his wife and they in turn acquainted him with a Mr. Martin Dinelli, a peddler who had stopped by that morning before the attack.
“That’s his wagon and tools burning out in the yard,” the rancher’s wife mentioned as she cut Adam’s shirt off his body.
Captain Cummins, in temporary command while
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