1632 by Eric Flint Read Free Book Online

sent flying, straps flapping. For good measure—there would be no mercy here—Harry pumped another round, stepped forward, and shot the paralyzed man sprawled against the farmhouse wall. The range was not more than three feet. This time, the helmet stayed on—but only because the man’s head was removed entirely. Blood gushed out of a severed neck, painting the rough stones with gore.
    Mike caught a glimpse of motion, somewhere in the darkness within the farmhouse. He ducked.
    “ Harry—down! Fire in the hole! ”
    Mike’s warning probably saved Harry’s life. The young miner was lunging aside when the gun in the farmhouse went off. The bullet took him in the side and knocked him down, yelping. On the ground, Lefferts clutched his ribs, still yelping. But there was more surprise and outrage in the sound than anything else. Mike was pretty sure the wound was superficial.
    “Cover me, Frank!” he yelled, racing to the side of the door. He could hear Frank’s Winchester firing again. He couldn’t see the shots themselves, but knew that Frank would be firing through the door, driving back whoever was inside. In the corner of his eye he saw James Nichols and Tony Adducci leveling their pistols and firing shots into the small windows alongside the farmhouse. He could hear the wooden shutters splintering.
    Once he reached the door, Mike pressed himself against the farmhouse wall. He was on the opposite side of the door from the farmer. The man was unconscious, now, soaked with blood and sagging. His weight—he was a middle-aged man, heavy in the gut—was tearing his wrists badly. Blood spurted everywhere.
     Christ, he’ll bleed to death. Mike’s decision was instant. He sprang across the doorway to the farmer’s side, momentarily exposing himself to fire from within the farmhouse. But there was no gunshot. Two quick powerful jerks withdrew the knives. As gently as he could, Mike lowered the man to the ground.
    That was all he could do for him at the moment. Mike hesitated, then, for a second or two. The interior of the farmhouse was so poorly lit it was impossible to see anything inside. Caution and his Army training urged him to wait until his companions could come up in support. On the other hand—
     All these guns are those weird antiques. Single-shot muzzle-loaders. I’ll bet that son of a bitch hasn’t had time to reload.
    Again, decision was sharp, immediate. Mike dove through the door and landed rolling.
    Good decision, bad luck. His enemy hadn’t had time to reload. Unfortunately, Mike rolled right into him.
    For a moment, everything was chaos. Mike felt a body landing on top of him. The surprise, as much as the collision, jarred the pistol out of his hand. Frantic now, he lunged to his feet, hurling the man off his back.
    Tried to, at least. The man, whoever he was, clutched Mike like a wrestler. Mike snarled and slammed his elbow backward.
     Damn! He’d forgotten the cuirass. His left elbow was aching from the impact. But at least he’d knocked the man loose.
    Mike had never been in a gun battle before in his life. He had a boxer’s training and instincts, not a gunfighter’s. He didn’t even think to look for his pistol. He just pivoted and drove a right cross into his enemy’s chin.
    Eight pro fights. The first seven had been won by knockouts, none of them later than the fourth round. Mike had quit the game because he’d realized he didn’t quite have the reflexes. But nobody had ever said he didn’t have the punch.
    The thug, whoever he was, sailed across the room and slammed against a heavy table. His jaw hung loose, broken. His head lolled to the side.
    That dazed helplessness brought no mercy. Neither that, nor the fact that the man was quite a bit smaller than Mike. This was not a fight governed by Marquis of Queensbury rules. Mike bounced forward on his toes and