Eric opened the flap of the saddle bag and quickly pulled the friction fuse out. It was simple enough—two patches of sulphur, like match heads, in which the fuse had been imbedded. He pushed the leaves of his hiding place aside gently and watched as the car passed slowly across the narrow strip of pavement; then he turned back to gauge the speed of the first truck. With a quick slap he grated the two sulphur heads together, and as they flared into life, catching the fuse, he started to count.

One. Two. Three. He grasped the root of the oak brush firmly and swung out.

Four. Five. The clump of brush kept him hidden from the driver of his target, but as he started the arching, upward swing of the saddle bags, the sudden movement caught the attention of the driver in the second truck. Eric knew that once the charge blew, he was going to have to get out and get out fast.

Six. Seven. Eric heaved the twenty pounds of explosives up over the edge of the pavement and under the truck, then frantically dove back under the bush and dug his face into the graveled hillside, throwing his free arm over his head.

The blast was deafening. Though the major part of the concussion was deflected off the pavement and went over Eric’s head, he felt as if he were lying prone on the back of a bucking horse. He bounced once, half turning as he tried to hold on, but his fingers tore free, and he slid two or three feet down the steep embankment. As he dug in his fingers to halt his plunge, he instinctively looked up.

The explosion had caught the truck almost exactly under the midsection and bounced it around a quarter turn to the right, leaving the left back wheels hanging precariously over the edge of the pavement. Even as his brain registered the wild scene—tumbling orange bodies, the screams of men, the sharp pain in his ears, the raw agony of clawing into gravel—it also registered his danger. In just a few seconds an angry swarm of blue and orange hornets would be zooming in on him.

He grabbed his rifle and leaped out, plunging down the slope, his boots leaving deep gouges in the soft gravel and dirt.

“There he goes!” he heard someone shout. “Get him!”

But Eric was already into the trees and running hard for the horses.

CHAPTER 3

As Eric came around the bend and the weed-strewn highway straightened out again, he pulled up on the reins, bringing the horses to a sliding halt. About fifty yards ahead of him, directly in front of the concrete bridge that spanned the turbulent river below, a huge barricade of trees and logs and earth had been erected. It completely blocked the highway, cutting all access to the bridge.