David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

“Hey, Homer,” Hickok said. “What did you do in the river when those buffaloes charged us?”

The man in black paused and straightened. “Homer wrote The Iliad . He wasn’t a character in the book.”

“Who cares? I want to know what you did in the river.”

“Might I ask why?”

“I’m curious.”

Achilles shrugged. “Very well. I used my red cloak to divert the bull away from me.”

“Your cloak?”

“Yes. Perhaps you’re familiar with the bullfighting once done in Spain, Mexico, and several Latin American countries. A special breed of fighting bull would be pitted against a matador armed only with a red cape and a sword. The matadors would use the cape to control the actions of the bull. I simply applied the same principle to the buffalo,” Achilles detailed, and grinned. “Quite elementary, actually. You would have been better advised to dodge that bull instead of trying to shoot it. Buffaloes are notoriously hard to kill.”

“Gee, thanks for the tip. I’ll keep it in mind in case I’m ever caught in a bison stampede again,” Hickok said wryly.

Achilles leaned down and resumed digging. “Any time, my friend.”

“Why do I bother?” Hickok mumbled.

Blade walked over to the corpse and squatted. He unbuckled Iron Wolfs leather belt, intricately adorned with blue beads, and removed the belt and the holster. “Who wants this?” he inquired, and slid the pistol out.

The War Chief had carried a Taurus Model PT 92, an auto-loading 9-mm Parabellum with a magazine capacity of 15 rounds. Iron Wolf had kept additional rounds in a pouch attached to the side of his belt.

“I don’t,” Hickok said. “Auto-loaders are for sissies.”

“I have no need for it,” Geronimo responded.

Slade looked at Achilles, “What about you?”

“You don’t want it?”

“I prefer my Bowies for close-in work.”

“I’ll take it, then,” Achilles said. He dropped the limb and look the belt, “An excellent weapon should never go to waste.”

“Can we quote you?” Hickok quipped.

Achilles strapped the belt around his waist, lining up the hoister on his left hip, the gun jutting forward. He practiced a reverse draw, his hand turned palm out, then replaced theTaurus and performed a cross draw, getting the feel of the handgun. Satisfied, he adjusted the shoulder sling on his Bullpup and renewed his grave excavation.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Hickok mentioned.

“Just one?” Geronimo said.

“Yeah, smarty. About those buffalo.”

“What about them?” Blade asked, “Well, those big bruisers were going flat out.”

Geronimo snickered. “What was your first clue?”

“You didn’t let me finish, turkey. Buffalo usually don’t just up and stampede for the heck of it. They’ve got to have a reason.”

“So?”

“So what spooked those critters?” the gunman wondered.

“I believe I know,” Achilles announced. He had stopped digging and was gazing to the north.

The three Warriors glanced at him.

“You do?” Blade said.

“They did,” Achilles stated, and pointed.

Blade stood and turned, his jaw muscles tightening, hefting the Commando, Over a dozen riders were silhouetted on the knoll’s crest, most of them men, all well armed, each regarding the Family members with open hostility.

Hickok pushed to his feet. “Where the blazes did those cow chips come from?”

“More to the point,” Geronimo mentioned, “are they friendly?”

As if in answer to the Warrior’s query, the riders suddenly galloped toward the river, yelling and whooping and waving their weapons.

“Hickok, warn them to keep their distance,” Blade ordered.

“With pleasure, pard,” the gunfighter replied, pressing the Henry to his right shoulder. He sighted on the large man riding in the middle of the group, a man wearing a brown fur hat, and squeezed the trigger slowly.

The riders were 60 yards away when the Henry boomed and the large man’s hat went flying from his head. He held up his right arm and bellowed a command. The entire group hastily reined up.

“Nice shot,” Blade said.

“Piece of cake.”

Blade studied the riders, counting 14 in all. Most of them wore buckskins, although a few flannel and black leather garments were visible.

Most of the clothing appeared to be in shabby, even tattered, condition.

Their weapons were a mixture of rifles, shotguns, and revolvers. He spied one assault rifle.

“Would you like for me to interrogate them?” Achilles asked.

Hickok chuckled. “What are you aimin’ to do? March right up to them and tell them to spill the beans or else?”

“A sound suggestion,” Achilles stated.

“And what’ll you do if they don’t cooperate?”

“Kill them.”

The gunfighter’s eyes widened and an appreciative grin creased his countenance. “Really? There’s hope for you after all.”

“Thank you,” Achilles said. “I think.”

The large man, evidently the leader, gave his rifle to another man, then rode forward, keeping his hands where they could be seen.

“Cover me,” Blade directed, and walked out to meet the rider. He covered 20 yards and halted, letting the larger man come to him.

Casting nervous glances at the threesome on the bank, the leader approached to within ten feet of the giant and stopped. He was a big man in his own right, over six and a half feet in height and weighing in the neighborhood of 250 pounds. Unkempt, oily black hair hung to his shoulders, and he had a grease-stained beard. Grime caked his face. His apparel consisted of filthy buckskins that must have been in their prime a decade ago. When he smiled down at the Warrior he revealed four of his front teeth were missing. “Howdy, mister,” he said gruffly, his gaze straying to the Commando. “I’m not packing, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Blade grinned. “I’m not worried. If you tried anything, I’d never have to bother with shooting you.”

“Why’s that?” the leader asked.

The Warrior jerked his hand at his companions. “If you so much as blink funny, my friend in the buckskins will add a nostril to your forehead.”

The man glanced at the gunfighter. “Was he the one who shot my hat off my head?”

“That’s him.”

“Damn. That was a new beaver hat.”

“The next time you encounter strangers, don’t act as if you’re going to ride them down,” Blade advised.

“Who are you, mister?”

“The name is Blade. I’m the head of the Freedom Force.”

“The what?”

“You’ve never heard of the Force?”

“Can’t say as I have,” the leader said. “My name, by the way, is Harmon.”

“Are you a citizen of the Civilized Zone?”

Harmon uttered a short, sharp laugh. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.

I was born there, anyway.”

“What are you doing in Yellowstone?”

“In what?”

“In this area,” Blade elaborated. “This whole region was once known as Yellowstone National Park, back in the days when the United States existed.”

“I don’t know nothing about no Yellowstone or United States. I do know this area is about as remote as they come, and hardly anyone ever comes here,” Harmon said, then smirked. “Oh, a few nature-lovers show up every now and then.”

Blade studied the man for a moment, then gazed at the band, calculating probabilities. “You’re scavengers,” he declared.

Harmon tensed. “There’s no need to be calling us names, mister, I rode down here friendly-like to talk to you, not be insulted.”

The Warrior locked his eyes on Harmon’s. “You’re all scavengers, or worse,” he reiterated. “You and those others make your living by raiding and stealing, and I’d be willing to bet that you’re wanted by the Civilized Zone authorities, which is why you hide out in this remote region.”