The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (4 page)

At the edge of the plateau the dark canyon of the Yurung-kash became visible in the distance. Looking back, Tohkta could see the first of the Han Chinese scouts fanning out as they discovered themselves facing open ground. There was one more thing that the young Tochari could see and it was this that gave him hope. The high ridges behind the soldiers were invisible…invisible because of falling snow. The storm was headed toward them, but what was more important was the amount of snow that would build up in the pass. At fourteen thousand feet it wouldn’t take long for the way back to Sinkiang to be closed for the season. Perhaps the weather would take care of one of their troubles.

He reined around and whistled to his men. “The invaders must not be allowed to return to the desert,” he told them. “God brings a storm to answer our prayers, but they will try to reach our village. Even now Batai Khan may be crossing with Yakub’s herds. We must hold the Chinese here to give our men time to clear the bridge, and we must hold them here to give the father of storms time to fill the pass.”

They tied their horses where the trail dipped into the gorge. The bridge was a long way down and beyond a bend, but through the trees and rock Tohkta could see animals straggling up the trail on the other side. Good. If they could hold out for an hour Batai Khan would have the resistance organized and the trail to the bridge would become a trail of death for the Chinese. All Tohkta would have to do is get down the trail and across the bridge with fourscore soldiers at his heels.

Tohkta called for the boy who had helped Tola Beg and one other. He gathered up the nine rifles that Ibrahim had taken from the fallen troops in the pass; he weighed them heavily with ammunition also.

“Go to Batai Khan,” he said. “Have him give these rifles to the best marksmen among our people. We must guard the bridge like in the stories of old, he will know what to do. Now go!”

He turned to the remaining men. “Go with them and prepare. Basruddin, Ibrahim, and Loshed; these I would keep with me.”

“And I,” said Tola Beg. When Tohkta began to protest he raised a hand. “Do not tell me I am hurt. It is only pain, I can still shoot farther than any man here and my hands are steady.”

“All right.” Tohkta shook his head but smiled. “Let us go see at what distance your lightning can strike.”

B
ASRUDDIN AND
I
BRAHIM CRAWLED
, flat to the ground, into the plain of ice and boulders. Tohkta, Loshed, and Tola Beg found their way to a group of rocks and carefully prepared a shooting position for the old hunter. Just over a hundred yards behind them they set up another position at the head of the Yurung-kash trail.

Though the plateau was flat, it angled downward away from them. The oncoming Chinese were clearly visible, and while they had some cover available, they could not use it and advance at the same time.

When they were nine hundred yards off, Tola Beg squeezed off his first shot. It struck at the ground just before the first horse, which reared and panicked.

“It was low. Six or seven feet.” Tohkta, watching through the hunter’s spyglass, advised him.

The rider had fallen from the horse even as the others scattered out, dismounting. As the fallen rider got to his feet, Tola Beg shot him through the thigh.

“The leg…two feet low.”

The fallen rider, the man shot through the leg, was lucky, for Tola Beg now had their range. The yak hunter’s next three targets died instantly, felled by bullets they didn’t even hear.

Soldiers dove for cover; in moments the top of the plateau was empty but for standing horses. Tohkta had spotted where Chu Shih had gone to ground, and from that shallow depression he saw a flicker of movement and, a moment later, could hear the distant sound of a barked order. The hand of Chu Shih went up and gestured right and left. Instantly, six soldiers moved the one way, and six the other, advancing to flank Tohkta’s small party.

But Tohkta had planned for this. He opened up on the men to the right and Loshed joined him. While they lacked the practice of the old hunter, both had good eyes, and soon they forced their targets further off down the top of the plateau, out of range.

Occasionally shots clattered in the rocks around them, but their cover was good and the range extreme. Several of the main party had pushed the advance and were struggling to set up a machine gun. “They have come far to die,” Tola Beg said, and squeezed off two shots.

Out upon the granite a man screamed and died. And then the six flankers to the left ran into Ibrahim and Basruddin, belly down in the snow. Tohkta could not see all that happened, but within a moment five of the Chinese were dead; the last shot down as he ran panic-stricken back toward the main body.

Tohkta and Loshed cheered…and then the machine gun opened up. Tracers flew, like flickering meteors, the snow and earth around Basruddin shredded, the bullets throwing up gouts of mud then blood as the gun crew expertly worked their weapon. The heavy throbbing of shots ended, then the bullets were striking around them!

Tracers flashed toward the rocks. Loshed howled, a bright red line appearing on the back of his hand. Tola Beg twisted out of the way, grimacing as his back spasmed. Three times dust jumped from his heavy sheepskin coat and then there was blood on his lips. Tohkta dropped behind a rock trembling. He glanced at Loshed.

“The old hawk is dead.” Scattered flakes of snow drifted from the dark sky.

“Basruddin, too, and maybe Ibrahim,” Tohkta said. Behind them the machine gun lashed the rock, and ricochets whined off into the clouds like banshees. Then the fire tore high into the air to drop down and the end of its arc spattering like heavy rain inside their fort of rock. The gunner worked the falling bullets back and forth.

How can you fight this weapon? Tohkta damned himself for a fool. You couldn’t raise your head, you couldn’t even take cover. It took the random inaccuracy of rifle ammunition at long range and used that to its advantage, peppering a whole area with fire. Under its protection Chu Shih’s soldiers would be advancing.

“Run to the horses,” Tohkta commanded. “Our other position is useless. Get to the bridge. We will put our trust in God and Batai Khan. Let us hope that one or the other is ready for us.”

They ran. First Loshed, then Tohkta, who paused a moment to scoop up the ammunition of Tola Beg and to touch his cold form once on the back. They ran with bullets hitting all around them, but the light was going and with the oncoming storm, snow filled the air. Then a rifle opened up seeking out the oncoming soldiers from the rocks at the head of the trail, covering them as they ran. They came to the horses, sliding down the hillside, landing in trampled snow. Ibrahim was waiting for them. He grinned. “I killed two more. They will be Basruddin’s servants in heaven!”

Stepping into the saddle, Tohkta could clearly see the advancing Chinese, spread out in a skirmish line. The squad with the machine gun was struggling forward with the heavy weapon, the altitude weighing them down as much as the ammunition and tripod. Behind them, almost hidden by the swirling veils of snow, Chu Shih was bringing the horses up.

They came on, relentlessly. They had passed the point where they could retreat through the pass; in the time it would take to get back to that notch in the mountains it would be too late. Chu Shih’s only hope for either victory or survival was to press on, find the Tochari village with its warm felt tents, its supplies of fuel and food. Nothing could survive upon the high plateaus. Tohkta knew then that he hated them, hated them with a wild hatred mingled with fear, for that slender, whiplike man was relentless as a hungry wolf, fierce as a cornered tiger. His men might whimper and wish to go back, but he drove them on.

A group of mounted soldiers thundered forward, through a gap in the line of advancing troops. Tohkta wheeled his horse, and the three of them plunged down the switchbacked trail. The horses skidded on the icy gravel; Ibrahim’s mount slid and its shoulder struck Tohkta in the leg, sending both horses and riders into a painful collision with the rock wall.

Then the firing began from the head of the trail. With a wild glance thrown back up the slope Tohkta saw a knot of soldiers gathered there, rifles aimed almost vertically down at them. Flame stabbed from the gun muzzles, but then the soldiers were pushed aside and a squad of Han horsemen with Chu Shih in the lead took to the trail.

Tohkta, Ibrahim, and Loshed clattered through a straight stretch. The bridge was only one hundred yards off to their right, but it was still far below them. A bullet snapped past him and, looking up, Tohkta saw the first switchback lined with kneeling soldiers all firing down at them. Closer still, Chu Shih and his band of horsemen came on, less than a half-dozen switchbacks above.

Bullets ricocheted off the rocks. One caught Loshed across the top of the arm and he laughed, smearing his wounded hand with blood and waving it at Tohkta as they turned their horses into another level. Then a bullet caught him in the side and another pierced the spine of his horse and he was falling, the horse was falling, from the narrow trail and disappearing into the rocks hundreds of feet below.

At that moment a fusillade of rifle fire exploded from concealed points along the trail leading up to the Tochari village. Soldiers fell from the top of the trail, and in a moment the Chinese and the villagers were pouring volley after volley into each other in the thundering confines of the gorge.

Reaching the shelf where the bridge stanchions had been fastened to the rock, Tohkta dropped from his horse and was met by Batai Khan and four warriors armed with old rifles. Ibrahim turned his horse tightly in the narrow space.

“They follow us closely, Grandfather!” Tohkta pointed up the trail. But the four men had pressed forward, and as the first of Chu Shih’s horsemen came into sight they fired, sending the first horse screaming over the cliff edge, its rider still astride, and collapsing two more in a struggling mass, blocking the trail.

Above, the machine gun opened up, forcing the defenders on the trail to cover and allowing soldiers to crowd their way onto the trail again. In the gray light of the gorge tracers whipped like hellfire, streaking in all directions as the burning bullets bounced from the rock and whirled away into the oncoming night.

The nearest soldiers were advancing again; using the dead horses as cover, they rained fire on the shelf, leaving few areas of even partial safety. Chu Shih was, whatever else he might be, a leader. Yet better than any of them he knew how desperately he must cross the bridge and take the village.

Tohkta nestled the stock of the rifle against his cheek, measuring the distance. He squeezed off his shot, and the man at whom he fired froze, then fell. The snow fell faster. Blown particles stung like bits of steel upon their cheeks. The Chinese above moved in. One paused to crouch against the rock wall. Ibrahim shot him, and he rolled down the trail to their feet.

At the top of the trail more soldiers made their way down the switchbacks, covered by the machine gun. They came in short, quick dashes, utilizing the slightest bits of cover. Ever they drew closer. Occasionally there would be the crack of one of the captured rifles or the dull boom of a muzzle-loader from the villager’s side of the gorge and often a soldier would fall, but always this would instantly attract a lash of resumed fire from the machine gun.

“W
E MUST GO
, Batai Khan,” said Tohkta. “We cannot hold out here.”

“Yes,” agreed the old man, and motioned to his companions to cross the bridge. He dropped into their place and, as they ran into the open, dropped the first soldier to raise a rifle. Ibrahim shot and Tohkta was beside him firing and reloading, but the second Tochari on the bridge was down and as the others bent to pick him up another was shot and fell into the crevasse. Then Ibrahim ran, pounding across the swaying bridge.

The old man put his hand on Tohkta’s arm. “Go,” he said. “Go, Tohkta Khan. I will stay.”

It was not lost on Tohkta that Batai Khan had used the leader’s title. He shook his head.

“No,” Tohkta protested. “Our people need you.”

“Go, I say!” He glared at Tohkta from his fierce cold eyes. Then in a softer voice, he said, “Would you have me die as an old horse dies? I cannot stop them,” he said, “but the bridge can.”

Tohkta stared at him, uncomprehending. Then it came to him, and he was astonished. For an instant he was filled with despair as he realized what tremendous cost had gone to the building of this bridge, the long struggle with the mountain and the river, the backbreaking toil. “You would destroy our bridge? It cost four years to build!”

“What are four years of work against four thousand years of freedom. In time, you can build another bridge.” Even as his grandfather spoke, he knew it was what they must do. The despair left him.

Together they knelt and fired, retreated a few steps, then fired again. An icy wind roared down the tunnel of the gorge, and the bridge swayed before it. Down the cliff trail they could see them coming now, many dark figures, blossoming with fire. Bullets struck about them.

Batai Khan was hit, and he fell, losing his grip upon the rifle, which fell into the void. Tohkta bent to lift him but there was a gleam in the old man’s eye. “Leave me here! You must destroy the bridge and silence the devil gun.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“Tohkta Khan, go with God!”

Batai Khan tore loose and fell to the stone. Snow drove down the gorge, obliterating all before them. And Tohkta ran though his heart was crushed.

On the bridge the howling wind caught him. The ropes flexed and jumped with every step and bullets tore through the rope and wood around him. Soldiers depressed the muzzle of the machine gun, holding the tail of the tripod high, and tracers tore at him. One left a smoldering hole in his sheephide jacket, another left a slice like that of a knife upon his calf.

Then he was across, he fell, and was struggling to rise when he felt small hands lift him. It was Kushla. Ibrahim was there, reloading his Chinese rifle.