The Crossbow and the Beret

A new thought tore through his brain – the clearing! He stopped abruptly. Surely, by now, they had to know he was not planning on using the road. No wonder there was no noise coming from it; no voices, no cracking of hooves on stone. The brilliant bastards were waiting at the clearing! He cut back directly toward the road. There would definitely be at least one of them waiting where the road emerged from the forest. Could he perchance pick that man off and grab the horse? Probably not, but there seemed no other choice. He loaded the crossbow pistol.

The SP halted when he could begin to make the road out through the trees. He moved up slowly, stopping at each trunk in his path, listening. Only an occasional owl hooting over the steady cricket chirps met his ears. The night air was getting colder, but he was drenched with perspiration. The stress would be enough to break many men, but his will to live had been honed to razorlike perfection in Grenada. Regardless of what older veterans thought of the scope of his conflict, many of them had not rushed headlong into fire from a Soviet-made machine gun that was being manned by crack Cuban troops. In those moments, the relative size of the overall battle never matters. When the bullets are whistling at you, that is the whole war. Crouching like a cat behind the final tree, he waited. The first rebel to pass would be the first to die.

An hour passed; still quiet. He could not wait much longer, for his legs were beginning to cramp. Praying for something to break loose, he stood and massaged them.

The rumble of an approaching cart put him back on the ground. He resolved to take it, friend or foe; waiting was no longer a safe option. A slim chance, but the only one he possessed, was the element of surprise. As it drew nearer, he could still not make out the driver, but gut instinct was screaming that it was the same one he had observed at the fortress. He unloaded the crossbow, hanging it on his belt.

After passing by a few yards, the cart stopped, its driver bending over to retrieve a jug. David made one last check for others and bolted. Leaping into the vehicle's open back, he slapped a hand over the driver's mouth and pulled him over backward instantly. Then, with one blinding motion, the combat veteran loosed the Bowie knife from its scabbard, holding it to his prisoner's throat. "Silence or death!" he whispered. The man nodded in compliance.

Balzen squinted in the dark and gasped....