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found out later one woman had twisted her ankle but no one else was hurt.
I didn't crawl, I ran, crouching low, trying to remember the height of the
fence. The thin red line of a tracer bullet suddenly emerged from a hole in
the tarp several meters in front of me. I crouched lower and tried to run
fester.
And then I was on the loading dock of the sawmill building. I could see that
the militia were down the
hillside and at the foot of the bridge before they could stop, and they had
knocked down the toll barrier.
One rider - it was my cousin John - had his horse turned around and was waving
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to the rest to do the same.
Major Andreadis grabbed his arm. "All your people safe?"
"Two militia down. You can't do anything to help them right now, but keep your
kit handy." He pulled me to a stack of lumber. "Keep your head down and you
should be able to see safely." Yes, there were wide-enough gaps between the
boards to get a good view of the Square.
I could see the nomads. How many there were I couldn't say, but it seemed like
hundreds. Horses were jumping the fence now. the leading rider was standing up
in his saddle, holding one of our bright red fire extinguishers in his right
hand. I heard myself saying, "Yes, they must really be worried we're going to
burn down the bridge."
The nomads were galloping across the yard in a ragged formation, as
if some men had gotten impatient and tried to pass their leaders. The ones
in front had submachine guns out but were not firing.
No targets?
"Now look," said the Major. The front of the formation became a confused mass
of horses swerving or sliding to a halt. "The horses can see the tarp now."
Horses galloping from the rear were beginning to collide with milling horses
in front. I saw two steeds go down together with high-pitched screams and
another horse buck, throwing its rider.
Andreadis had been right. "A horse will not jump an obstacle unless he's
confident his rider knows what the two of them are doing. If the rider
hesitates, the horse will refuse to jump."
The entire front rank of horses had refused, and the following horses, even
had they wanted to jump, were caught in a traffic jam.
The rearmost riders, seeing the crowd ahead, were reining in. Shortly all
the nomads were in the
Square, milling around aimlessly.
A mule broke loose from the mob and calmly trotted up to the cashier's window.
Our portable water pump was tied to his packsaddle. I could hear someone yell,
"Give him a refund!"
Andreadis told me "Cover your ears." I did. He pointed his automatic rifle to
the sky and fired off an entire magazine in one burst.
"What was that for?" I asked, when his gun was finally quiet.
"To distract them. Look," he said, pointing. Cross had his wagons moving
across the far end of the
Square. Yes, there seemed to be enough wagons to block off the end. As each
driver parked his wagon touching the one ahead of him, he yanked the emergency
brake, nailed the brake lever in place, and ran for cover.
The nomads were neatly boxed in, with buildings to either side, a solid line
of wagons blocking the rear exit, and the tarpaulin baffling them in front.
"Now let's see if cavalrymen are as dumb as advertised," said Andreadis.
"They can escape, can't they?" I asked.
"Of course. Hop off the horse, cut down the tarp with a knife, then the horse
can step over the fence and go where he wishes. Or walk the horse
through the lumberyard and out the side door. But cavalrymen are
strange. They don't dismount except to get laid, and they'd do that in the
saddle if they could."
One of the nomads shouted an order and the leading horsemen fired their
submachine guns at the tarp.
They succeeded in turning the tarpaulin into a fishnet but it stayed in place.
A 5X10 is five centimeters wide and ten centimeters thick and that is more
wood than a submachine gun bullet can cut through.
"I need a white flag so I can hold a parley with their commander," said
Andreadis. "What do you have?"
I gave him the largest bandage in my medical kit.
Sixty-two nomads surrendered; two had been killed falling from their horses.
Half a dozen nomads were injured. I was to spend the afternoon setting broken
bones.
Both of the militiamen who had fallen in the square - Scott Panden, a
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blacksmith from the town, and
David Older, a local farmer - had been trampled to death. Was I responsible
for their deaths? Or had
they honestly known they were risking their lives when they led the nomads
into the trap? And had they agreed to do so, for the sake of nothing more than
the toll on the Bridge?
I asked Andreadis about it. he said," How could you be responsible? Your
working with the tarp meant they were risking their lives for something they
thought valuable, and since the livelihood of your town depends on that damn
bridge, I would say it was valuable. And if you had refused, I would have put
someone else in your place, and your friends would be just as dead." I'll have
to think about that.
A very subdued and unmagnificent Suleiman was now standing in the Square,
discussing terms with the Mayor.
Andreadis asked me, "Do you still think it was a dumb plan?"
"Yes. I don't see how it worked."
"The tarp was just to keep the horses from seeing the ground, so
that they would hesitate," he answered. "The wagons - once, back on
Terra, some farmers marched on their capital to protest something. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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