Seven Out of Hell by George G. Gilman Read Free Book Online Page A

into a steep-sided ravine, parallel with the course of a swiftly running stream. The two gunshots echoed along the ravine, crystal clear against the clatter of the train, which immediately began to slow with a screeching of brakes.
    “Sound like train men make trouble for Mr. Mao,” the Chinese at the rear of the car said.
    “Should have listened to your head man’s warning,” Edge responded with a sigh.
    The Chinese allowed a smile to alter the impassiveness of his smooth features. “Sometimes Mr. Mao forget to speak American. Talk to people in Mandarin.”
    “Orange Chinese for Christ’s sake,” Edge muttered.
    “How disgustingly inhuman!” the woman with the bloodstained dress exclaimed shrilly.
    The Chinese shook his head. “Mr. Mao thank all people of world should speak his language.”
    “Very unpolitic” Edge muttered.

Chapter Four
    T HEY rode hard through the hours of darkness, and whenever Captain Hedges called a halt he was thinking more of conserving the strength of the horses rather than rest for the men. Safely attired in their Confederate uniforms they kept to the main trails and turnpikes, heading north by the stars glimmering intermittently through the storm clouds. Those civilians who happened to see the group of seven riders cantering through the night seldom spared them a second glance. There was a war on and the sight of soldiery in a hurry was a common one.
    Thus, Hedges and his men did not deviate to avoid the hamlets, villages and small towns which straddled their route. And as the hour grew late there was even less risk of being challenged for the men were riding through a farming belt and the people who lived there retired early in preparation for a new day.
    When the eastern horizon began to pale with the first streaks of grayness marking the false dawn they were riding along a narrow turnpike which ran as straight as an arrow across open countryside towards a vast expanse of pine wood.
    Hedges, his own pallor wan beneath the dark brown of its natural pigmentation, turned in the saddle to survey the faces of the men strung out behind him. He saw fatigue and hunger etched in their every line, strong enough to almost cancel out the set of cruelty and lurking hatred which war and imprisonment had sculptured against their flesh. The pace he had set through the night had drained them of the meager energy they had stored from the sleep at the farm and pitifully small amount of food they had stolen from the dead Rebel’s saddlebags.
    Forrest, riding immediately behind the captain, sensed the stare from the hooded eyes and dragged his chin up off his chest.
    “You want something, Captain?” he rasped.
    It had been the first time in many miles since anybody had spoken and the other troopers dragged their attention to the head of the column.
    “Yeah,” Hedges answered. “Soon as we get in the trees up ahead, we’ll rest.”
    “Thank God for that,” Rhett muttered.
    “You’re a great guy for camp, ain’t you, Bob?” Bell answered and managed a hollow guffaw.
    They continued on down the turnpike in silence and when it plunged into the trees Hedges kept to the road for over a hundred years before he angled away, trampling the thickly growing undergrowth until the ground opened out into a grassy dell. As the men followed his example by sliding from their saddles, Seward and Douglas began to unsaddle their horses.
    “Forget it,” Hedges snapped, unhooking his canteen and drawing the razor from its neck pouch. “We ain’t staying.”
    “Aw, Captain,” Seward whined.
    Forrest looked at Hedges with questioning aggression. “We ain’t goin’ to make the Union lines in one hop, Captain,” he said softly.
    “We ain’t going to make them at all if we ride through the south looking like hobos,” Hedges answered as he unscrewed the stopper from the canteen and splashed water on his face. “Highest rank we can muster is sergeant. We run into a Johnnie Reb officer he ain’t so likely