David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

“Tonight the Bear People will be abroad,” the Flathead mentioned.

Blade glanced over his left shoulder. “How do you know?”

“There will be a full moon.”

“I don’t get the connection.”

“Didn’t Star tell you? Several of our communities were attacked by these fiends.”

“She told us.”

“Did she inform you that it’s believed two of the attacks took place on nights when the moon was full?”

“No, she neglected to tell us that news,” Blade said. “So did Iron Wolf.”

“Iron Wolf? I know him. Did he visit your Home?”

Blade nodded grimly. “He came with us to Yellowstone.”

“Then where is—?” Eagle Feather began, and frowned. “What happened?”

“He was gored by a buffalo.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was highly respected,” Eagle Feather remarked. “Perhaps, since the moon wasn’t a factor in other attacks, Star and Iron Wolf didn’t regard the moon as part of a pattern.”

“And you do?”

The Flathead shrugged. “When a man is desperate, he’ll grasp at any straw.”

Blade said nothing. He finished climbing to the top, where Hickok stood waiting, and surveyed their surroundings. A mule deer carcass had been deposited in the center of the level summit, and a stack of limbs to be used as firewood lay nearby. Visibility extended for miles in every direction. He could see the meandering course of the Lamar River to the northwest and the Absaroka Range to the east. “This is perfect,” he commented.

“That’s what I thought,” Eagle Feather said.

Blade gazed to the southeast. He could distinguish vague figures moving about on the plain across the river. Harmon and his band were still working on the slain buffalo. He reasoned that the band would probably camp there for the night.

“Are they the scavengers?” Eagle Feather queried.

“Yep.” Blade placed his vest and the T-shirt on the ground.

“I watched them go after the buffalo, and then the dust became so thick I couldn’t tell what was happening.”

“Do they know you’re in this vicinity?”

“No. I’ve avoided them like the plague. I figured they’d kill me if they knew I was here.”

“Wise decision.”

“We should’ve blown those turkeys away when we had the chance,” Hickok spoke up.

“We still may get the chance, “Geronimo observed, and looked at the buck. “Why don’t you and I start on that deer?”

“Fine by me,” the gunman said.

“Be my guest,” Eagle Feather stated, and drew his hunting knife. “Here. Use this.”

“Thanks,” Geronimo responded, and took hold of the hilt. “We’ll have supper in no time.”

“What can I do?” Achilles asked eagerly.

“Get a fire going,” Blade ordered.

“Won’t those scavengers see the smoke?”

“If they come to investigate, we’ll sic Hickok on them,” Blade proposed.

“I hope they do,” the gunman said. “I’m rarin’ for some real action.”

Geronimo looked at him. “Real action? What do you call the buffalo stampede and the grizzly?”

“Appetizers.”

Eagle Feather stared intently at Hickok. “Forgive me if I’m out of line, but I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to like to kill.”

“Killin’ is part of the job. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”

“Do you view being a Warrior as a mere job?”

“What would you call it?” Hickok rejoined, and continued before the Flathead could speak. “Being a Warrior is no different or better than being a Tiller or a Weaver. Oh, we have a little more responsibility because we’re safeguarding lives, not crops, but when you get down to the nitty-gritty.

Warriors kill for a livin’. We spend hours and hours practicing with our weapons just so we can wipe out the bad guys when the time comes to slap leather. We’re trained killers.” He glanced at Achilles. “If you start glorifying this job, you’ll lose your perspective.”

“My initial impression of you was clearly wrong,” Eagle Feather said respectfully. “You might well be a killer, but you also possess much wisdom. The Family must regard you very highly, as my own people revere anyone who is a deep thinker and a seeker of truth.”

For a few seconds Hickok appeared to be trying to catch flies in his mouth. He straightened, blinked, and glanced imperiously at Geronimo.

“Deep thinker, huh?”

Geronimo closed his eyes and bowed his head. “I’m doomed. I’ll never hear the end of this.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Eagle Feather asked.

Hickok chuckled. “Nope. As a matter of fact, I can see now why the Flatheads control Montana and the Blackfeet don’t.”

“But the Blackfeet left Montana,” Eagle Feather noted.

“That’s just their excuse,” Hickok stated. He walked toward the buck, casting a haughty gaze at Geronimo. “Coming, mental midget?”

Geronimo looked at the Flathead. “Thanks heaps. What did I ever do to you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I might as well find the nearest cliff and jump off,” Geronimo muttered, turning away. “He’ll be unbearable for at least six months.”

“Let’s go, peasant,” Hickok called out.

“Make that a year,” Geronimo amended, moving away as if stepping to the guillotine.

Eagle Feather faced the giant. “What did I do?”

“Nothing much, except give Hickok enough ammunition to last him a long time,” Blade responded.

Perplexed, Eagle Feather glanced at the man in the red cloak. “Do you understand what is going on?”

Achilles sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Would you explain it to me?”

“Were you ever five years old?”

“Of course. Everyone was.”

Achilles pointed at Hickok and Geronimo. “So are they.”

“Oh.”

Smiling, Achilles pivoted and went to stretch, staring toward the river.

He checked his movement and grasped the Bullpup in both hands.

“Company is coming!” he announced.

Rapidly nearing the hill at a gallop was a white horse bearing a rider, a raven-tressed woman who unexpectedly shouted at the top of her lungs, “Help me! Or they’ll kill me!”

Accenting her plea, four men appeared several hundred yards away, riding hard to overtake her.

“Fan out!” Blade ordered, moving to the rim. “Cover her.”

Hickok and Geronimo moved to the giant’s right, Achilles and Eagle Feather to his left.

“Do you want me to take out those cow chips after her?” the gunfighter asked.

“Not until I give the word,” Blade responded, watching the woman. He seemed to recall seeing her earlier with Harmon’s band. She rode expertly, her body hugging the horse as it raced for the hill, her waist-length hair streaming in the wind.

The four men were gaining, but only slightly.

In moments the white horse reached the slope and the woman goaded her mount upward. She was wearing a ragged brown shirt, torn jeans, and moccasins. “Don’t shoot!” she cried nervously, eyeing their weapons.

“Stop, bitch!” bellowed one of the quartet pursuing her.

The woman reined up less than three yards from the bare-chested giant and. leaped to the ground. “You’ve got to help me!” she stated, her green eyes pleading with him. “They’ll kill me if they take me back.”

“Who are you?” Blade demanded.

“Priscilla. Priscilla Wendling.”

“Aren’t you one of Harmon’s band?”

“No. Yes. Well, I was, but only because they forced me to stay with them,” Priscilla said, glancing fearfully at the four men. “Please don’t let them take me!”

Blade hesitated, studying her closely, speculating on whether her plea was genuine or a ruse. Finally he nodded. “Get behind us.”