The American madman was now out of position. Hopefully, he was out of ammunition as well and would choose to stay down. Cass was well into the trees. Vladislav knew he was going to lose men he couldn’t afford if he rescued the maniac. Yet keeping the up-timers alive was vital. While he was considering his options, there was another new sound.
Bernie was firing again, having apparently reloaded. It was a heavy covering fire, not aimed at anyone in particular—the bandits in that area were all cowering from him now—but just intended to protect Lowry.
That should do, Vladimir thought. And now he could see that the bandits were falling back.
“Hold!” Vladislav shouted. “Don’t chase them. Hold your positions.” Vladislav hated to do it, but their job was to protect, not chase. “Back!” he shouted. “Back!”
* * *
Lying under some bushes, Cass let the adrenaline leak away from his system. He’d been an avid hunter since he was ten and a halfback all though high school. Since the Ring of Fire, he had hunted wild boar a lot. Moving fast, moving through woods, and shooting were all things he did quite well. Being shot at in return was a lot less fun.
He reloaded the shotgun, as much for something to do with his hands as anything else. His hands were shaking a bit.
* * *
Bernie’s marksmanship had been too good. The man whom Vladimir thought was the commander of the bandits couldn’t be questioned because he was dead. Bernie’s shot had gone into his chest just above the chest bone, shredding the aorta and cutting the spine—as deadly a shot as could be made. He must have been killed almost instantly.
The attackers who had been captured were run-of-the-mill bandits, collected for this. They knew very little. Just that they had been hired and paid unusually well to attack this particular group. They were to kill everyone, take as much as they could carry and burn the rest. His equipage and clothing suggested that the commander might be Polish, but anyone could have hired him. The troops were spending quite a bit of time talking about Cass’ “broken-field running,” as Bernie called it. It made up some for the things he had been saying since he arrived. If he could learn manners, he could be an asset.
“Vas’ka Kadnitsa will probably recover.” Bernie washed his hands. “But I wish we had a real doctor.” He didn’t specify what he meant by a real doctor. Another example of Bernie learning manners. By now, even the doctors at the Dacha acknowledged that they needed to go study with the up-timer doctors in Grantville. Bernie knew it, Natasha knew it, Vladislav knew it. There was no reason to harp on it.
“I have sent a man to the nearest village to report and bring more troops,” Vladislav reported. “About all we know is that it wasn’t a random attack. It could have been the Poles trying to deny us access to up-timer knowledge. That will be what most people will assume. On the other hand, it could well have been a faction in the court, perhaps someone who opposes the income tax or the constitution.”
Vladislav paused a moment, then his curiosity overcame him. “Bernie, what was that long gun Cass used?”
“A pump-action shotgun.” Bernie grinned, albeit mirthlessly. As though he knew that more information would be requested, he continued. “It’s a smooth bore weapon that can fire a solid shot or a bunch of smaller pellets every time it’s fired. Cass was apparently using buckshot. It spreads, so you don’t need to be all that accurate and is heavy enough to take a man down at close range.”
A scout rode up. He and Vladislav conferred for a moment. “We will camp a mile or so up the road. There is a good spot that can be made quite defensible. I don’t want to do any more traveling than we have to, not before we are reinforced.”
Bernie and Natasha nodded. He was the captain and knew what he was doing.
Chapter 43
Dinner had been served outside and Natasha, Anya and Sofia had gone to their tent. Cass Lowry remained at the table, drinking vodka. The American had been drinking all afternoon. Vladislav kept a close eye on him. Lowry was a dangerous man—savage in a fight, and reckless and careless even when sober. He was also apparently a drunkard, judging from the relentless way he’d been working on the vodka.
It was a volatile combination. The camp was defensible, which left the nyekulturny outlander as Vladislav’s major worry. Lowry hadn’t let loose of the shotgun all day and had been passing out insults ever since the battle. After-combat jitters, perhaps. Trying to convince everyone, especially himself, that he wasn’t afraid. Vladislav had seen the reaction before. Then Cass had gotten quiet. Vladislav expected trouble. Soon.