David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

A narrow game trail materialized directly ahead, leading down to the Lamar River.

Blade took the point, his finger on the Commando’s trigger, scrutinizing the undergrowth. He’d opted to travel light on this mission, and consequently none of them had brought backpacks. They would live off the land, hunting or fishing for their meals and erecting makeshift shelters at night.

The banks of the river were low and skirted in places with groves of cottonwood. Birds sang and flitted about in the trees. A fish leaped out of the water and splashed down again.

The Warrior smiled as he neared the river. He could readily understand the reason the Park had been so popular prior to the war. If Yellowstone wasn’t so far from Minnesota, he’d be tempted to bring Jenny and Gabe there for an outing. Thinking about his wife and son filled him with sadness. They had not been pleased at his sudden departure. Jenny had protested that she’d like to receive more notice when he went “gallivanting off to save the world.” Her tone had been laced with sarcasm.

Blade came to the bank and halted, peering at the different tracks in the soft earth along the water’s edge. The Lamar River was one of the clearest he had ever laid eyes on, broad but not deep. He could see the bottom and spied a school of fish swimming to the north.

“This Park is a virtual paradise,” Achilles commented.

“Because the whites have not poisoned it as they have so much of the earth,” Iron Wolf said. “Your people destroy everything they touch.”

“Don’t go blamin’ us for what our ancestors did,” Hickok stated.

“Why shouldn’t I?” the Flathead retorted. “It was your race who fought World War Three. It was your race that contaminated the environment and tainted the air we breathe and the water we drink.” He gestured angrily at the Lamar River. “Even this river could have radioactive particles resting on its bottom, polluting the water in subtle ways.”

“Boy, what a grump,” Hickok quipped. “A little thing like a nuclear holocaust, and you hold a grudge against the white race for life, huh?”

“I make no secret of the fact I’m not fond of you whites.”

“Good. Then you won’t take it personal if I tell you that you’re a first-class scuzz-bucket.”

“Not at all,” Iron Wolf said smugly.

Blade glanced at the Flathead, recalling Plato’s words about Iron Wolf possibly being a bigot. How had his mentor known? Blade would have sworn that the War Chief was a power monger, but perhaps he had been wrong. Time would tell.

“Do you despise all whites?” Achilles asked the Flathead.

Iron Wolf nodded. “None of you are worth the air you breathe.”

“Even a superb physical, mental, and spiritual specimen of manhood like myself?” Achilles asked in all seriousness.

Hickok slapped his left hand over his mouth and his shoulders began bouncing up and down.

“Especially a conceited fool such as you,” Iron Wolf told Achilles.

“Most irrational. You can hardly fault us for the mistakes of our forebears. That would be the same as blaming you for the death of George Armstrong Custer.”

“Ahhh. You know some history. Then you must know that Custer was typical of your race. He was a prejudiced moron.”

“I beg to differ,” Achilles said. “Custer was a competent soldier, nothing more or less. His loss at the Little Big Horn could be attributed to the fact that he had failed to cultivate his reasoning powers to their full potential.”

Iron Wolf blinked twice, then looked at Geronimo. “What did he say?”

“You’re asking me?” Geronimo responded. “The day I start to understand Achilles is the day they can pickle my brain for posterity.”

Blade suddenly straightened and motioned for silence. “Do you hear something?” he asked, listening to a faint rumble emanating from the north.

“I hear it,” Geronimo replied. “Whatever it is.”

They all turned in the direction of the sound, which grew rapidly louder and louder, a continual heavy drumming, arising on the far side of a low knoll less than 70 yards from their position. A billowing dust cloud swirled into the air behind the knoll.

“What the blazes?” Hickok exclaimed, perplexed.

“It sounds like a herd of stampeding horses,” Iron Wolf mentioned.

A tingle of recognition rippled through Blade and he took a stride toward the water, wondering if they could escape across the river. “No, not horses!” he cried.

And an instant later a tremendous horde of buffalo pounded over the crest of the knoll and made straight for them.

For several seconds the three Warriors, Achilles, and the Flathead were riveted to the spot by the appalling sight of hundreds of huge bison bearing down on them.

The onrushing mass of thundering brutes consisted of bulls, cows, and a few calves. The males were six feet high at the shoulders, the females somewhat smaller. They had shaggy manes and long, scraggily beards.

Dark brown, with even darker manes of hair on their heads and shoulders, they could weigh up to 2000 pounds. Wicked ebony horns protruded from either side of their massive heads, with the spread of a yard from tapered point to tapered point.

“Across the river!” Blade ordered, and plunged into the water, ignoring the frigid sensation that engulfed his lower legs. He surged toward the opposite bank, moving sideways, watching the approaching buffalo.

Hickok, Geronimo, Achilles, and Iron Wolf followed the giant’s example.

The herd of racing buffalo was keeping to the east side of the Lamar River, running in a line extending from near the water eastward for at least 100 yards. They crashed through the undergrowth in their path, crumpling the bushes and uprooting small trees with their violent passage. Some snorted and bellowed. Those nearest the river occasionally were forced almost to the edge of the bank by the press of speeding bodies.

“Move it!” Blade barked. They were still within eight feet of the east bank and the water had risen to their waists. He wanted to get farther before the bison came abreast of their position. If some of those buffalo should slip into the water-Some did.

The herd was 20 feet away when three of the bison nearest the river were pushed into the water, unable to resist the inadvertent shoving of their comrades, overpowered by the crush of the horned legion. Two of the three were bulls. The cow immediately attempted to scramble onto the bank again, but the wall of bison repeatedly battered her back down. The pair of enormous bulls didn’t bother to try and regain the bank. They simply lowered their heads and surged forward, directly at the five humans blocking their route.

“Lookout!” Blade yelled, darting to the left. He was the farthest from the east bank and stood the best change of avoiding the buffaloes, but he halted the moment he perceived that the others would not be so lucky. He raised the Commando, intending to stop the bulls before the beasts could reach them, but he was already too late and couldn’t fire for fear of hitting his friends.

Geronimo found himself the closest to the bulls. He snapped the FNC to his shoulder and sent a half-dozen rounds into the buffalo on the right, but the animal wasn’t fazed in the least. And then they were almost upon him and he did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances. The bulls were running side by side, with a foot of space between their horns.

He managed to take a step to the left, aligning his body so the buffaloes would pass on either side, and elevated his arms over his head, sucking in his gut to make himself as slim as he could, praying all the while that neither bull would hook him on those deadly points. He saw the twin beads sweep past him, and the buffalo on the left side brushed against his buttocks. A heartbeat later they were past and he was in the clear.