A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [136]
“Kill the motherfuckers,” Wreck ordered.
The five other patriots poured gunfire into Red Peterson and Maud Traynor, shot up until body parts came loose.
Deep in the canyon below, the formation of Eagle Scouts closed up and tested the water in Bloody Gulch. Addition of iodine and a chemical packet would make it potable but terrible tasting.
Fortunately, the canyon walls shut out most of the sunshine and the rocks had a cooling effect on the adventurers, but it was hot!
It had been a hell of a morning! Skating over rocks, clinging to side walls—slow, torturous movement had sucked them fairly well dry in those first three miles.
Chester Skelley now limped slightly in deference to his weaker leg. His grandfather met his eyes. Both of them rolled a glance heavenward. No songs this break.
Chester Skelley knew that if they had to climb a goat trail out of Bloody Gulch, old Hank would be in some kind of trouble. Hank was chilled by the thought he had made a bad decision.
An advance party of scouts went a half mile and returned with good news that the final two-mile stretch seemed flat and friendly.
The scoutmasters argued respectfully. One of three choices: two miles up the canyon to the ranch or take the goat trail and climb on cliff sides two thousand vertical feet, or return to Montezuma Creek and truck into the jamboree.
To turn back would be heartbreaking. Perhaps prudent, but heartbreaking. They had gotten through, thus far, without a major injury. It had nothing to do with prudence but with pride.
The other masters communicated without words the feeling that Hank Skelley could never make the high climb.
“Form up the column. We will continue down the canyon to the rear of Hudson Ranch. Double file, when possible, and tell the lads, it’s only a short way now.”
From locking fear to a mad euphoria, Wreck Hudson seemed to float over a great battlefield with mighty legions at his fingertips and an impenetrable defense…as he transformed himself into a George S. Patton.
“Here they come,” Wreck whispered. He contacted his ring of machine gun, artillery, and mortar posts.
“Christ, it looks like a division of them down there,” Floyd said.
“We take no prisoners,” Wreck replied.
On they came, an ant line trudging out of Bloody Gulch toward White Wolf.
“I don’t see no weapons,” Floyd reported.
“They’ve got their machine pistols in their backpacks.”
“Looks like some of them are wearing short pants. Hey, looks like Boy Scout uniforms.”
“It’s a disguise,” Wreck growled. “They’re either Marines or Rangers.”
Now into the steep and narrow defile. Wreck looked down on the entire double line. He rolled his crazed eyes—he had them bagged in a deep well. “I’ve got less than twenty men…there were fifty last night at White Wolf! Where the fuck is my fucking brigade!”
“They shagged ass out of here.”
Wreck emitted his animal howl, fell to his knees, and held his face in his hands. Two patriots helped him to his feet. They were coming close, down there.
“Fire!”
Machine-gun fire crackled into the narrow rift, ricocheting off the walls like tennis balls. Some of the invaders went down!
Now they’ll know about Wreck Hudson! Glory! God! Glory! Jew plot foiled. Look at them fall! Fire! Fire! Fire!
The echoes of the bullets were as loud as the bullets, a hailstorm from four machine guns…mortars swished down and flamed and the earth bounced and heaved…now cannon fire far down range to blow the walls in and seal the canyon from retreat.
This is war! This is fucking war, man! I’ll get my Congressional Medal now!
The racket was so immense, it seemed to be a kind of rumbling that must have happened at the birth of the planet. A burst of small rocks spewed into the defile as machine gun bullets loosened them. Now the mortars fired into the narrowest part of the canyon, and down came boulders from basketball size to Greyhound size.
“Surprised you fuckheads! Look at them running around and screaming!”
A huge slab skidded down, bounced off the cliff wall and behind; rocks poured down like a waterfall.
The Eagle Scouts