He paused, while another loud and very ragged not-quite-volley was exchanged. And, once again, was impressed. The big American woman was still on her horse, and took down her target with her second shot. No accident, that one. The mercenary was smashed into the snow with a bullet square in his chest, that punched right through his breastplate.
"And we don't want to seem that conveniently positioned," he added.
Old Vulpius grunted, but didn't argue the point. Jost waited for perhaps another ten seconds, watching the battle taking place below the ridge. After two of the uptimers' guards had been shot down, he decided everything was well enough established."
"Shoot!" he bellowed.
The villagers had been waiting, every bit as impatiently as their council head. An instant later, dozens of shots struck the bishop's men, cutting through them like a scythe. At that range, even with mostly old muskets, the villagers were quite accurate. They didn't have the skill of Jaegers, but they were no strangers to firearms.
It helped—a great deal—that Jost's cold-blooded delay had allowed all of the bishop's men to come out of hiding and expose themselves.
That first big volley fired, of course, the villagers were out of action for a time. Their weapons couldn't be reloaded quickly.
Jost was not concerned. The volley had hammered the mercenaries so badly that they were now completely confused. But the uptimers' guards were firing more accurately. And the big American woman, still stubbornly perched on her horse, took down another man. Jost took a moment to admire the horse.
The outcome was no longer in doubt at all.
One of the mercenaries tried to flee. Jost brought up his rifle and felled him. Then, smiling thinly, jacked another round into the chamber. He adored his American rifle, that had come to him through circuitous means.
Two more tried to flee. Jost killed them long before they could reach shelter.
By then, the villagers had reloaded. With more discipline that he'd expected, they waited for the command.
"Shoot!" he bellowed again.
A few seconds later, it was all over. A wounded mercenary staggered toward the safety of the woods, but Jost put a stop to that.
He rose to a crouch. "Best I vanish now," he murmured to Vulpius. "I certainly don't want to explain exactly how I came in possession of my rifle."
The old man nodded. Big as he was, Jost vanished into the trees like a wraith.
"No," the old man said. "They aren't bandits."
"Then what are they?" Maydene asked with exasperation. Their company had two dead guards, four injured guards, Estelle with a splint on her leg (she had fallen off her horse, but kept hold of her gun), two horses that had to be put down, and six horses that would have to be left behind. The villagers—this was Frankenwinheim, a little spot off the main road—said that they would be happy to nurse the horses back to health. Maydene wondered if they would also "forget" to bring them back to Würzburg until after spring planting, but that wasn't her problem.
"Hatzfeld's men, I think. The bishop. His brother is a general for the Austrians, you know. They don't like it that their move to get a lot of Franconia on grants from Ferdinand II has been blocked. This bunch came in through the woods. Moved into Dingolshausen about a week ago. Don't bother going the rest of the way. There's nobody there to take an oath. So we moved everybody out of the village here, up into temporary shelter in the hills. The people in Gerolzhofen wouldn't let us in. The last couple of years have been so bad that we couldn't afford to pay for the right to take sanctuary inside the walls. This year's harvest is decent enough, but we haven't sold it yet, so we haven't paid. Stinking, greedy, townsmen. We've been watching the road. If it hadn't been for the snow, this wouldn't have happened. We couldn't see well enough to know that you were coming. My apologies, gracious lady."
"No apologies necessary. What's your name?"
"Rudolph Vulpius. I'm the head of our village council." He indicated an old woman sitting on the other side of the room. "This is my wife, Kaethe."
Maydene nodded to her. "How many?" she asked.
"How many what?"
"Hatzfeld's men, I mean."
The old man looked over at a younger one.
"Two dozen, at least. That's how many bodies we have in the granary. Possibly up to a hundred. We have trackers out."
"Your casualties, here in Frankenwinheim?"
The old man cackled. "None to speak of. It helps a lot to shoot the enemy in the back."