The Ambushers Read Free Page B

into a bush to his left and looked out.
    It was worse than I’d expected. There was a road down the cleared valley below. I guess they grew some kind of corn there, but I never got close enough to be sure. The road was the usual two wagon ruts. Well down along it was the village. The huts weren’t much, mainly roofs thatched with some kind of leaves, supported by walls that looked insubstantial and drafty, but the housing standards of rural Costa Verde weren’t my concern, and in that climate I guess you generally don’t need much more than a roof, anyway.
    The place was full of men. They had several fires going. There were women among them. There were a great many weapons in evidence. That wasn’t my concern, either. At least it wasn’t supposed to be. The military aspects of the situation were the colonel’s worry. What did concern me was the fact that the nearest hut was at least a quarter of a mile away. I spoke softly without looking at the little man lying beside me.
    “Which one?”
    “It is the third hut along the road, on the left. The third from this end. Of course, when he emerges, he may come this way.”
    “And he may go the other, too,” I said. “It depends where the damn visitors decide to stop. I was told the range would be approximately three hundred and fifty meters. Three hundred and eighty yards.” He did not speak. Still looking down the valley at the distant huts, I collected some saliva in my mouth and expelled it on the ground in front of me. “To use a phrase from your language, Colonel, I spit on your lousy three hundred and fifty meters, sir. Give me that pack.”
    “Señor Helm—”
    “Just give me the damn pack. Let’s see what we’ve actually got here. There’s no chance of getting closer, I suppose? What about that point of woods down to the right?”
    “There is an outpost right below it. There are patrols. It was determined that the thing would have to be done from here.”
    “Sure. Three hundred and fifty meters away. You grow damn long meters in this country, Colonel Jiminez.”
    I pulled the pack in front of me for a rest and laid the rifle across it. I had to hunt a bit to pick up my target— those big target scopes have a narrow field—then the third hut was clear and sharp in the glass, but it still wasn’t exactly at arm’s length. It was going to be one hell of a shot, if I made it.

3
    I lay there telling myself hopefully that at least the wind wasn’t blowing. As I watched through the scope, a man walked into the field of the instrument from the right and entered the hut, walking right through the scale and crosshairs. A moment later he reappeared, leaving, but stopped in the doorway, apparently addressed by someone inside. He answered respectfully, saluted clumsily, and walked out of the scope.
    “Five hundred and fifty yards,” I said. “Approximately. That, Colonel, is over five hundred of your meters. Your informant was damn near fifty per cent off.”
    “You can read the distance?” He sounded more interested than apologetic.
    “There is a scale inside the telescope,” I said. “You take a man like that one, approximately five and a half feet tall—at least I hope he wasn’t a pygmy or a giant— and you place the lowest division of the scale at his feet and read the range opposite the top of his head, making allowance for the sombrero. Then you take this figure and enter the table I have attached to the stock of the rifle, here. You learn that to hit a target five hundred and fifty yards away, the way this particular rifle is sighted at this particular time, you must hold over eighteen inches. In other words, I will have to shoot for the top of the head to hit the chest.”
    Actually, of course, I hadn’t ever believed their story of three hundred and fifty meters. I’d sighted in the rifle at four hundred and fifty yards, and run my compensation table from three to six hundred, just in case. There has seldom been a spy yet, or a hunting