The Oilman's Daughter (17 page)

Jonathan cocked his pistol. A sheen of sweat had broken out on his face, but his hand didn’t waver. There was steel in him yet. “Trust me, I won’t.”

They hurried back into the house to peek out the front windows in time to see the carriages drawing close. Phinneas counted at least ten heads in Stetsons, homburgs, and fedoras. All pasty white city folk, probably the kind of thugs who’d shake down a neighborhood shopkeeper for a cut of the take. “Draw the curtains tight. Don’t let ‘em see inside.”

Frank slid the thin cotton curtains closed. They could still see the shadows of the carriages as they ground to a halt.

Jonathan grabbed Phinneas’s arm. “They’re going to try to take Cecilie again. We cannot let that happen.”

Phinneas raised the shotgun and lined the sight with the first of many heads he intended to fill with buckshot. That old hunger for battle filled his veins again, making the burden of gravity fall away. His thirst for the tang of gunpowder, that dry mouth, pulse-in-temples sensation, which had driven him through countless battles on the
Ethershark
, made him certain that each of these shells would find its rightful owner. “If we do our jobs right, lad, we won’t have anything to worry about.”

The carriages drew to a halt outside of the farmhouse, a good fifty feet away. The first wasn’t much more than a wagon with a steam engine built onto it, but it boasted unmarked wood paneling on the van that hid whoever was inside it. Jonathan was less concerned with the first carriage. It was the second one that terrified him. It was all rivets and iron, with the name
Loomis Armored
painted on the side. That meant the damn thing was bulletproof. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a cupola was bolted onto the roof of the cargo hold, and Jonathan could see a man crouched behind the circle of iron plate with a six-barreled belt-fed machine gun on a pintle mount. “It’s a damned tank,” he whispered to Phinneas, trying to keep the vibration of panic out of his voice but finding it impossible, especially with his inevitable death close enough to breathe cold air onto his neck. “What the hell am I supposed to do against a tank with this thing?” He held up the six-shooter the Clays had given him.

“Ain’t ye a Texas cowboy? Yer folks have been robbin’ trains since the first tracks were laid. Think like a criminal for once in yer useless life, rich man.”

“We didn’t ever rob any trains. We built the goddamn things. You’re the robber around here.”

“Hush. They’re comin’.”

Frank raised his rifle with nervous hands, making the barrel shake so much that Jonathan thought he’d be lucky to hit the broad side of a barn with it, but he could sympathize with the kid. “You done much hunting out here, Frank?”

“J-jest crows, mostly.”

“Well, those men are going to take a lot more from you than just an ear of corn. You’re fighting to protect your family, your farm, and your livelihood. Don’t you forget that,” said Jonathan. “Be as brave as you can. We’ll be right here to cover you.”

“Yessir.”

Giving Frank a pep talk managed to help him calm down a little as well, and Jonathan breathed deep and let the cool cloak he’d discovered during his fight on the
Albatross
slip over his mind. The three men raised their weapons: one shotgun, a pistol, and a Spencer rifle that must have been a Civil War relic. At least, it was a bolt action. When he’d first seen it in Frank’s hands, he’d feared it was a muzzle loader, at which point it wouldn’t have made more than an excellent club.

The carriage drivers stayed behind the wheels of their machines, and the cupola gunner remained at his post, but nine more men climbed out of the carriage vans, making Phinneas’ original estimate of a dozen accurate. In a city, they might have been wearing fancy suits with guns hidden in violin cases, but in the heat of the fields, they’d left their jackets behind and rolled up their sleeves. They sweated and slapped at the flies that surrounded them in clouds. Three of them carried Henry rifles, while the others either had pistols or shotguns in hand. At least their hats made them stand out a bit more against the dusty air and dry greenish gold of the fields.

Jonathan had a sinking feeling that this would be last battle. He’d been luckier than God Himself through most of this, escaping a crumbling space station in the nick of time, and even managing to survive a fiery plummet to Earth, but staring down this army of men outnumbering them four to one, he was certain this was where his luck would end, leaving his father to put the pieces together in a world that was going to be changing very soon. It was a world Jonathan very much wanted to be a part of, but his path appeared to be leading him elsewhere. Nevertheless, he took aim at one of the fellows with a Henry and waited for Phinneas to give the go-ahead.

“Jonathan,” whispered Phinneas. “Four of them blokes are heading for the barn. Give ‘em a reason not to.”

Jonathan aimed through the window and squeezed the trigger, burying a .45 caliber bullet in the heart of the man with the Henry. His finger spasmed against the trigger as he fell, cutting down one of his companions. In the brief second of stunned distraction, Phinneas fired the shotgun, peppering another man in the face, but probably not with lethal results.

Then the attackers got their wits about them and opened fire on the farmhouse. Jonathan threw himself to the floor as bullets crashed through the windows and walls. Glass, splinters, and plaster hailed down upon him in a choking cloud. He glanced back to see Phinneas and Frank crawling away from their window as lead stormed through it. Jonathan rolled across the floor, wondering why the fellow with the chain gun hadn’t opened up yet. There was still one window facing the front yard, and it had been broken in by the attackers as well, but they were still concentrating their fire where they’d probably seen the muzzle flash of Jonathan’s first shot.

He crouched down beside the window, getting up his nerves, and then popped up to fire a quick shot, nailing another Henry man in the throat. The sight of blood spurting from the wound would be with Jonathan many a night if he made it out of this alive.

One of the men outside shouted an order in his native tongue. The incoming fire dropped as the attackers backed away and sought cover behind the armored carriage. Jonathan reloaded the two bullets he’d fired, his fingers trembling. At least his aim was steady. Frank jumped to his feet, aimed, and fired the Spencer from the center of the front room. The weapon’s roar nearly deafened Jonathan, but he saw one of the retreating men fall, howling and grabbing at the bullet wound in the back of his leg.

Phinneas dragged the boy back to the floor once more. “Ye damn fool! Stay down unless ye want to get yerself killed!” He peeked over the edge of the window and ducked back down right away, motioning for Jonathan to approach him.

The three men met in the center of the room. “I count four down, two permanently,” Jonathan said.

“Aye, lad. Ye’re a bloody deadeye, make no mistake about it. We might save our bacon yet.”

“I’m not worried about the bacon. I’m worried about Cecilie,” said Jonathan. “And about that damned chain gun. Why haven’t they used it yet?”

The moment he spoke those words, he knew he shouldn’t have, for a new thundering chatter began as .50 caliber bullets tore through the farmhouse in a steady line. Neither walls nor furniture nor even the cast-iron stove could halt the massive slugs. Boards disintegrated before the leaden onslaught. Frank screamed and dropped the Spencer, trying to burrow his way through the very floor until his fingertips were bloody. Jonathan felt like joining the boy in desperation, but he’d brought this mess here. It was his job to help clean it up.

Phinneas shouted something, but the roar of the gun drowned out his voice. The air transformed into a choking slurry of dust and splinters and cotton from the shredded furniture. At last, the pirate grabbed onto Jonathan’s arm and pointed toward the kitchen, and then Jonathan understood. The back door led to the garden and chicken coops. With that armored gun carriage, the house wouldn’t present any protection. None of the three men would be able to see whether or not the barn was under attack. Indeed, one of those chain gun bullets could drop low enough to carve a giant hole in any of them at any moment and they wouldn’t ever have a chance. Outside would be just as dangerous, but at least they’d be able to see. Jonathan grabbed hold of Frank and started dragging him toward the kitchen door.

At last the chain gun stopped and the house itself groaned as if it was in pain. The bullets had torn through so many structural members that the roof and walls might crash down at any moment.

“They’ll rush the house now,” whispered Phinneas. “Make sure we’re deaders. The bloody bastards might already be in the barn for all we know.”

Jonathan nodded. “Give me the shotgun. And take that rifle. Keep Frank behind you.” He crawled up to the kitchen door and sat with his back against it, resting the shotgun against his left hip and the pistol raised in his right hand. Despite the ringing in his ears, he heard the footsteps in the dirt outside and knew he would only have a moment.

Someone yanked open the door and Jonathan fell backwards into the dirt, staring up at a surprised man wearing red suspenders. Jonathan put a shell into the man’s brain and then looked left to see the last Henry man, his eyes wide. The man yanked on the trigger and the drum cartridge jammed on the first bullet. Jonathan squeezed the shotgun trigger and blew the man’s guts out into the dirt.

The shotgun’s stock had dug so deeply into his thigh with the recoil that he didn’t even know if he’d be able to walk. “Aw, hell, that hurts!” Jonathan yelled.

A man shouted, “Hit ‘em again, Smitty!” The chain gun opened up once more. Half the chickens had already died in the initial assault, but now the rest of the birds exploded into a storm of bloody feathers. Jonathan crawled between the coops, one gun in each hand. Every time he moved his left leg, pain shot through his hip. He glanced back and saw Phinneas and Frank just behind him. Although conversation was impossible with the din of the machine gun, he raised his eyebrows at Frank.

The boy nodded. His cheeks were muddy from a mixture of tears and dust, but he looked as if he’d found a semblance of acceptance. Jonathan passed him the shotgun, and Frank switched with Phinneas so once again he clutched the Spencer.

Just as he cleared the coops, Jonathan saw the barn doors burst open. Grant rode out on a horse, teeth bared, his eyes wide as saucers as he clutched a pottery jug with a flaming cloth dangling from it. The surviving men started shouting when they saw him.

“Quick, cover him!” shouted Phinneas. He fired the shotgun at the nearest attacker. From this distance, the pellets wouldn’t have done more than sting, but it was enough to get the man to flop to the ground and crawl for cover. Frank raised his rifle at last and fired a wild shot that ricocheted off the armored carriage’s boiler.

At least the attackers finally felt threatened enough to seek cover behind the carriages. The fellow in the cupola ducked down as well. Jonathan suspected he was loading a new ammunition belt. He popped off a shot toward the cupola to keep the man honest about staying under cover.

Grant hurled the jug at the armored carriage. It crashed onto the roof, and it was as if he’d unleashed hell itself. Fire exploded outward in all directions, reeling of burning kerosene and a sharp chemical odor. The fuel stuck where it hit instead of splashing off the carriage. The man in the cupola jumped out and fell screaming, a human torch.

Grant’s horse bucked him off in fear of the flames and galloped off into the fields. “Pa!” shouted Frank, and ran to his father.

The armored carriage driver bailed out and ran toward the second carriage, shouting and waving for it to back away. Jonathan realized why the man was so fearful. That raging inferno spreading would heat the boiler beyond its tolerances in seconds.

Nobody was far enough away from a boiler explosion to be safe.

“Protect the women,” Jonathan called to Phinneas, and ran after Frank. He slid down into the dirt beside Grant and fired a couple bullets toward the men who’d gathered behind the second carriage as it pulled away from the burning one.

“That was the bravest thing I ever seen anyone do.” Jonathan and Frank helped Grant up to his feet. “Come on, that boiler’s going to go any second.”

His ears popped and a blast of heat scorched him and sent him flying through the air. His pistol spun out of his grasp as he crashed into the dirt, smoke rising from his clothing. A white hot piece of iron sliced into the ground right in front of him. He scooted back away from its dangerous heat and became aware of a keening wail in his ringing ears. He glanced back and saw Frank cradling his father in his arms, staggering away from the blast site. The boy’s clothing had burned almost completely away and his skin was charred in some places and the angry red of burns in others. He’d been peppered with shrapnel from the explosion, but the trickles of steaming blood from his arms and legs were mere scratches compared to the horrible trauma Grant had suffered on his back.

Jonathan realized that the father must have sacrificed himself to protect his son. He struggled back to his feet, his hip shooting twinges of pain with every move. A blur of motion in his peripheral vision made him jerk back in reflex. His leg folded and he fell, and that motion likely saved his life. One of the attackers swung a section of shattered fence post at Jonathan’s neck, and Jonathan rolled to one side as the heavy plank struck the earth. He lashed out with his foot, more out of instinct than any real skill, and caught the man’s ankle. The man yelled and staggered back for a moment, giving Jonathan time to get his feet under him again. He glanced around, trying to find his errant pistol amid the smoldering shrapnel of the boiler.

The fellow swung the post at Jonathan’s waist, making it whistle even over the roar of the flames. Jonathan jumped back. His hip burned like the fuel bomb had broken upon it. He dodged another swing and his foot came down on a piece of debris. His ankle turned and he sprawled onto the dirt once more. The man raised his club, yelled like a caveman about to defeat an enemy, and Jonathan knew he was done for.

A gun roared and instead of smashing Jonathan’s skull into paste, the man’s fence post tumbled into the dirt between Jonathan’s legs and the man fell beside him, his lifeless eyes staring at whatever laid beyond this world. He looked up to see Phinneas lowering the shotgun and nodded his thanks at the pirate.

Then came the sound Jonathan most feared: Cecilie screaming. “Phinneas! Help me!”

Jonathan saw two men wrestling Cecilie into the back of the second carriage. She fought them like a wildcat, hissing and spitting, until one of them checked her across the jaw with the stock of his rifle. She slumped and they threw her in.