bullyxtreme Chapter 20 The Raid is Just Before Dawn
Chapter 20 The Raid is Just Before Dawn
"Claire," James, who had been silent, spoke up. His voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of a hammer striking a chopping board, leaving no room for doubt. "That's enough. Go and rest."
"Good! Very good!" Claire's chest heaved violently, and a cold smile squeezed out of her withered face. "She's your eyeball! I, a widow who's lost her husband, have been too talkative!" She turned and rushed into the tent.
Elsa walked to the campfire without saying a word, picked up her plate, scooped up a large spoonful of bean and meat porridge, sat down, and began mechanically poking at the salted meat chunks inside.
"Elsa..." Margaret's voice was filled with heartache.
"I know!" Elsa jerked her head up, interrupting her mother, her voice taut like a fully drawn bowstring, filled with suppressed anger. "My aunt is doing this for my own good! She wants me to become a 'lady' like her!" She spat out the word "lady" through gritted teeth, shoving the iron spoon in her hand into her flesh. "But I'm a cowboy now!"
She stood up, her back ramrod straight, her gaze sweeping intently over her parents, a defiant fire burning in her eyes: "And I did a pretty good job!"
She quickly finished the food on her plate, slammed the empty plate down, and strode towards her tent.
Only James and Margaret remained by the campfire, gazing in the direction their daughter had disappeared. Their silence was as heavy as the night, dimming even the campfire.
The sky was beginning to lighten with the first hint of dawn!
Tom Dutton, on night duty, suddenly jolted awake, his last trace of sleepiness instantly evaporated, replaced by a chilling, piercing warning that came from the depths of his blood.
Deep in my mind, a vivid picture of death unfolded before me!
Fifteen ghostly figures!
They were not a disorganized mob, but a well-trained killing squad!
Spreading out in a perfect fan shape, taking advantage of the densest grayness before dawn, it clings to the undulating wasteland terrain, silently closing in on the sleeping camp, especially the herd of cattle that holds everyone's hopes together!
The three-man vanguard almost trampled the grass less than twenty yards from Wade and Ennis's tent with their horses' hooves!
The tent was filled with thunderous snoring, completely oblivious to the butcher's knife that was right in front of them.
Further away, two more men were stealthily approaching the decent-looking wagon. Three men attempted to maneuver around to the west side of the camp, while the remaining seven men, like a patient pack of wolves, formed the main attack arrowhead in the southeast, spears in hand, ready to pounce!
Cold sweat instantly soaked through Tom's linen shirt, but his fear was crushed by a colder, steely will.
Fifteen heavily armed jackals!
The camp was completely unprepared! We must hurry! Faster!
Tom's figure slid back into the tent like a ghost disappearing into the shadows.
Without a word, only with lightning speed, he covered John's mouth with one hand, and with his other hand quickly and clearly made the "cover ears" gesture, his eyes sharp as a quenched blade: "John! The game has begun. The winner gets the candy jar!"
The little guy was still sleepy, but his instinctive craving for "games" and "candy" instantly woke him up. He covered his ears tightly with his little hands, buried his head deep in the blanket, and tensed up.
time is life!
Tom crouched down and popped out, his target the supply wagon next to him.
The heavy canvas curtain rose and fell silently, and when it reappeared, his arms were bulging with muscles, and he was steadily holding two heavy Winchester M1873 lever rifles, deadly weapons.
The cold barrel gleamed with a deathly blue light in the dim glow, while the wooden stock conveyed a sense of solidity like a rock.
He skillfully pulled the lever to confirm that the magazine was fully loaded with fifteen rounds of ammunition.
Under the last and deepest veil of darkness before dawn, he swept into his parents' tent like a gust of wind.
"James!" The voice was hushed, yet it shattered the silence like a hammer blow to an anvil. "A large number of riders! Fan-shaped encirclement! Fifteen men! Target: the cattle herd, the heart of the camp!"
Without the slightest hesitation, he shoved a Winchester rifle loaded with bullets into his father James Dutton’s large, calloused hand, and gave his Colt to his mother Margaret.
"Hold on tight! Guard John!"
Before the words were even finished, the figure had already disappeared through the gaps in the tent, leaving behind only heavy weapons and an even heavier responsibility.
"Loach!" A deep, short, commanding call reverberated through the cold air.
Almost simultaneously, the cunning figure of the Green Mule Loach darted out of the shadows beside the hitching post like lightning, without neighing or making any unnecessary movements.
Tom's movements were so fast they were like afterimages: preparing the saddle, tightening the girth, checking the reins—every action was precise and efficient.
He flipped over and mounted the mule, instantly becoming one with it, and a chilling murderous aura spread out.
"Silence! Stay close to the ground! Encircle from the south and east! The 'guests' over there are the fattest!" Tom leaned down, his lips almost touching the mudfish's ear, and gave the order with a light tap of his boot heel.
"Walk!"
The loach seemed to be infused with a fighting spirit, its four hooves bursting with astonishing power, yet strangely suppressing the hoofbeats to a minimum, like a black lightning bolt skimming the tips of the grass, rushing straight towards the southeast flank of the camp.
That place was the Death Arrowhead where the enemy's main force was concentrated, as shown on the mental map!
As they sped along, Tom's "vision" was like the eye of God, coldly scanning every target: no badge! No identification!
Beneath the worn-out wide-brimmed hat was a face weathered by wind and sand, etched with greed and ferocity; the thick woolen coat was stained with dirt, and the two Colt or Smith & Wesson revolvers crossed at his waist had gleaming grips.
The high leather boots were badly worn, and there were long guns stuck next to the saddles, Winchester, Springfield, and even an old Sharps.
The standard setup for outlaws, but their silent approach, clear division of labor, and disciplined formation far surpassed that of bandits!
Are they the persistent hyenas of Fort Worth? Or more professional predators?
Who cares who they are! They dare to extend their claws to the camp, to the Dutton family.
This wilderness will be your eternal tombstone!
A chilling killing intent, like ice, spread through Tom's chest.
Just as the loach was about to rush up a low embankment and gain an excellent shooting angle, an accident broke the balance. Wade rubbed his sleepy eyes, grumbling as he crawled out of the tent, clearly having been woken up by the urge to pee.
He stretched lazily, completely unsuspecting, with his back to the Grim Reaper's scythe at the edge of the camp!
In Tom's "vision," in the shallow ditch less than thirty yards from Wade, three riders crouching low had already steadily raised their lances!
The dark muzzle of the gun, like the forked tongue of a venomous snake, was locked onto Wade's unsuspecting back!
One of them even let out a cruel grin as he pulled the trigger with his index finger!
"You're asking for it!" Tom thought to himself.
Saving lives is of utmost urgency!
He pulled hard on the reins, and the mudskipper spun around instantly, its four hooves scraping against the hard ground with a screeching sound!
At the same time, his Winchester rifle, raised like a viper, was not aimed directly at the enemy, but pointed conspicuously in the direction of Wade in the dim morning light!
Startled by the sudden commotion, Wade instinctively turned his head, and time seemed to freeze!