Cover Of Night

"Ten-four." Billy replied, and Teague replaced the radio. God, he was about out on his feet, but he had to keep it going for a few more minutes, at least. He had to walk out there where Toxtel and Goss could see him, so that meant he needed to suck it up. He hadn’t given them radios because he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw their asses, plus he didn’t want them to hear everything he and the guys said. He’d be walking in on them without warning.

The bad thing was, even after he was away from them, he wouldn’t have a chance to lie down until he felt better; about the best he could do was swallow some aspirin and hope the headache eased.

Right before he emerged from the trees and underbrush, he called softly, "Incoming." Made them feel like they were on some military op, or something. Pitiful. He’d been on some fucked-up ops in his time, but nothing as harebrained as this.

Toxtel and Goss had taken up positions within five yards of each other, which was another dumb-ass thing to do, but since Teague hadn’t figured there would be any action at the bridge, he’d let them do what they wanted, let them think they were still in charge.

Neither of them turned to look at him as he approached; they were still wired on adrenaline, muscles tight, as they waited for someone to try to sneak across the stream. He couldn’t fault them on that, though someone more experienced would have learned to relax somewhat.

"Did you get anybody?" Goss asked. "I heard a shot."

That confirmed Teague’s impression that the shotgun blast had followed his own shot so closely they were almost simultaneous.

"I maybe got someone, but someone else got a lucky shot off at me."

Goss glanced over his shoulder and, even in the dark, could tell that Teague’s face was mostly obscured by blood. "Fuck!" He jumped to his feet, whirling around and causing Toxtel to start in alarm. "You got shot in the fucking head?"

"No, it’s cuts, not a bullet wound. Someone with a shotgun blasted the rock in front of me, blew shards everywhere." He managed to sound nonchalant.

"Shotgun?" Toxtel asked grimly, also getting up and coming over to stand with them. "I wonder if it was our boy," he said to Goss, confirming Teague’s suspicion that one of those tough old boys over there had gotten the jump on them.

"I know who it was,’" ‘Teague told them. "A guy named Creed. Tough son of a bitch, ex-military, does some guiding around here."

"What does he look like? Not too big, maybe five-ten, six feet, on the skinny side? Longish hair? Spooky eyes, like they’re made of glass or something.’"

Huh. Teague didn’t remember anyone answering that description. One thing was for certain, though, their boy wasn’t Creed. "No. Creed’s a big, muscled guy. Short dark hair going gray. Looks like he should still be in uniform."

"That’s not him. You sure this Creed is the one who shot at you?" Toxtel asked.

"Almost certain." He said "almost" because he hadn’t actually seen Creed, but his gut told him it couldn’t have been anyone else.

"But you said it was a shotgun." Toxtel persisted.

Teague barely held on to his temper. Here he was standing in front of them covered with blood, and all Toxtel could think about was the guy who’d got the jump on him. "There’s more than one shotgun in the world," he said shortly. "And I’d guess at least ten of them are on the other side of that stream, plus assorted rifles and pistols."

Toxtel turned back around, evidently pissed that Teague had been shot by someone other than Toxtel’s personal nemesis.

Goss looked at Toxtel, then back at Teague, and offered a shrug. "You look like shit. Need any help?"

"Nah. I’m going to the camp to clean up." At least Goss had offered to help, which was more than that asshole Toxtel had done, Teague turned and carefully headed back up the road and around a curve. Billy stepped out of the foliage on the other side of the road and silently joined him. Once they were out of sight of Toxtel and Goss, Billy helped him the rest of the way, pulling one of Teague’s arms around his own shoulders and taking half of

Teague’s weight. Since Billy wasn’t a big guy, getting to the camp was a struggle.

They had set up a small tent about a hundred yards from the bridge – or where the bridge had been – in a small, protected hollow that couldn’t be seen from the road. Common sense had said that they’d need a place to rest, to make coffee, and to eat, especially if this went on for longer than a day, which Teague sort of expected. Billy released him long enough to duck inside and light the lantern, then returned to get Teague inside, which involved bending his head down, which made the world spin even more sickeningly than it already was.

"Shit," Teague said wearily as he sank down on the camp chair, too sick to think of a curse more inventive.

"Maybe you should lie down," Billy suggested, busy opening a plastic sack that contained their first-aid supplies, which either Goss or Toxtel had gathered up, so he had no idea what was in there.

"If I do, I won’t be able to get up."

"So don’t get up for a few hours. There’s nothing going on. I haven’t seen anyone moving for about an hour. They’ve pulled back and hunkered down, waiting for daylight. Nothing’s gonna happen until then. Diaper wipes," he mused, throwing Teague into confusion until he blearily made out the plastic box Billy was holding. "I guess they got em to clean up with. Reckon this’d be okay to clean cuts? There are a few alcohol wipes but not many. Not enough to clean you up, anyway."

Teague started to shrug, thought better of it. "Don’t see why not. Any aspirin in there?"

"Yeah, sure. How many you want?"