David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

The gunfighter hastily stepped closer. “Damn! “he vented a rare oath. “I didn’t know the varmint had clipped you.”

“You were too busy flapping your gums,” Geronimo said, and slung the FNC over his shoulder. He moved in front of the giant and motioned for Blade to sit. “Let me take a look at it.”

“They’re only scratches,” Blade said, and sat down on a clump of grass.

He wiped the Bowies clean on his pants and replaced them in their sheaths, then removed his vest, grimacing as he pulled the garment from his left shoulder.

Geronimo inspected the five gashes, gingerly probing with the tips of his fingers. “We need to stop the blood flow. Hickok, did you wear underwear on this trip?”

“Whether I’m wearin’ my drawers or not is none of your beeswax, pard.”

“I couldn’t care less about your flea-infested drawers,” Geronimo said.

“Did you wear a T-shirt? I didn’t, and we can use one to staunch the blood.”

“Oh,” Hickok responded sheepishly. “No, darn it. I’m not wearin’ a blasted T-shirt.”

“I am,” Achilles declared. “I’ll gladly remove it to help Blade.”

“Then quit jabberin’ and get the blamed thing off,” Hickok prompted.

Achilles deposited the Bullpup at his feet and started to take off his red cloak. He happened to gaze in the direction of the thicket and abruptly froze. “What in the…” he blurted.

The others glanced at the undergrowth.

“What did you see?” Blade asked, scouring the vegetation, speculating there might be another grizzly.

“I’m not sure,” Achilles replied. “A hairy face of some sort: It was were one instant, gone the next.”

“You were probably looking at Hickok and didn’t know it,” Geronimo cracked.

“Very funny, you mangy Injun.”

Blade slowly stood. He saw his Commando lying nearby and quickly retrieved the weapon, then ejected the spent magazine and inserted a fresh one, “Do you want me to go take a look?” Hickok volunteered.

“No,” Blade responded. “We’ll stick together. We’ve only been in Yellowstone a few hours, and already we’ve lost one man and come close to losing one or two others.” He stared at Achilles. “Do you have any idea at all what you saw? Could it have been a bear?”

“I wish I could say,” Achilles answered. “I saw dark hair and beady eyes and that was it.”

“Okay. Hickok, you’ll keep us covered. As soon as my wound is taken care of, we’ll move on.”

“You’ve got it,” the gunfighter replied. He fed cartridges into the Henry and strolled a few yards to the north, eyeing the thicket. “If there’s another grizzly in there, it’s dead meat.”

“Breath on it. That’ll do the trick,” Geronimo suggested.

Blade walked toward the river. The blood from the cuts had diminished to a trickle and the pain in his chest and his legs had subsided. He was eager to get out of mere and locate a defensible site for their camp. At the rate things were going, what with having to contend with buffaloes, scavengers, and a grizzly before the sun even set, they’d have to take every prudent precaution to make it through the night. At the edge of theriver he knelt and splashed the cold water on the gashes, letting the liquid seep into each cut, goose, bumps breaking out on his skin.

Geronimo ran up bearing a white T-shirt. “Here. Soak this and press it on the wound.”

“Thanks,” Blade said, and glanced over his right shoulder to see Achilles donning the black tunic. He took the T-shirt and submerged the fabric, holding it under to saturate the material. “It’s a good thing we brought Achilles along instead of Helen,” he mentioned, and grinned. “I’d look silly as all get out with a bra wrapped around my shoulder.”

“Helen doesn’t wear a bra.”

Blade looked at his friend. “How would you know?”

“Hickok told me.”

“And how would he know?”

“He claimed he overheard Helen and Sherry talking one day.”

“They were discussing bras ?”

Geronimo snickered. “It seems that Sherry was complaining about the fact that it takes Hickok about an hour to remove her bra on their whoopee nights. She usually falls asleep by the time he figures out how to undo the clasp.”

“Nathan admitted this to you?” Blade queried in disbelief.

“Well, actually, he came up to me and asked if I’d give him pointers on how to unfasten a bra. I had to pry the reason out of him.”

“Did your pointers help?”

Geronimo beamed. “Now he takes two hours.”

Blade chuckled and stared at the river, noticing the shallow depth, and then gazed at the opposite shore. A gently sloping hill approximately 100 yards to the west attracted his interest. The crown of the hill appeared to be flat and not more than two dozen yards in circumference. “Get Hickok and Achilles.”

“Right away,” Geronimo said, and hastened off.

Given the fact the mission had turned into a typical fiasco, and bearing in mind that he should rest his shoulder until the blood flow ceased, Blade decided to use the top of the hill as their campsite for the night. He’d hoped to proceed much farther north than they had, but he had to adapt to the circumstances. Continuing half-cocked would avail them nothing.

He raised the T-shirt and dabbed tentatively at the cuts.

A small fish swam past him, not a yard away.

Blade studied the hill again. The setup appealed to him. The slopes were covered with grass, which would deny any adversaries cover for a clandestine attack. Beyond the hill lay a field dotted with trees and a few boulders. Granted, at night anyone with a modicum of skill would be able to creep close to the crown before being detected, but the terrain worked in the Warriors’ favor. Having a field border their camp was preferable to stopping for the night in a forest.

“Here they are,” Geronimo announced, returning with the gunman and Achilles. “And here’s your vest,” he said, and extended the black leather garment.

Blade took his vest in his left hand, slung the Commando over his right arm, and stood. “That hill will be where we stay tonight,” he informed them. “We’ll cross here.”

“I’ll take point,” Hickok said, and waded into the river.

Achilles was adjusting his red cloak. “What about supper?”

“We’ll hunt for game after we check out the hill,” Blade stated, and followed the gunman. The water invigorated him, and he strode to the far side rapidly. Once on the bank he pivoted and scrutinized the thicket, but there was no sign of anyone or anything watching them. Good. They’d experienced enough grief for one day. He wheeled and headed for the hill.

Hickok was already 20 feet off.

A dull ache pervading his left shoulder. Blade thought of his wife and son and frowned. He missed them terribly, as usual, and he wondered if it would always be the same. For years he had been going on missions for the Family or the Force, and on each one he invariably pined to be with Jenny and Gabe. On each mission he felt gnawing guilt at being away from his loved ones, knowing how much they missed him and, disliked his extended absences. He toyed with the notion of retiring from the Warrior ranks in a few years, after the major menaces to the safety of the Federation were eliminated.

Who was he kidding?

The list of Federation enemies seemed to be growing geometrically.

There were the Soviets in the East, the Technics in Chicago, the Superiors in Houston, the New Order of Mutants in the Pacific Northwest, the Lords of Kismet in Asia, the Peers in Atlanta, the Gild of professional assassins, and others. He was deluding himself if he believed they could all be defeated within a few years. A few decades would be more accurate.