David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

Hickok suddenly raced toward the four scavengers, his rifle discarded, a Colt Python in each hand. The revolvers spoke twice. In an uncanny, consummately lethal display of ambidextrous precision, he shot all four.

As always, he went for the head. As always, four men fell with slugs in their brains.

A heavy silence descended on the hill.

“What a bunch of wimps,” Hickok remarked, and twirled the Pythons into their holsters.

“We were lucky,” Geronimo said, rising slowly, his eyes roving over the sprawled forms, checking for signs of life.

“Luck had nothin’ to do with it,” Hickok observed. “It was skill. They couldn’t shoot straight worth beans.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Achilles declared.

Everyone swung toward the man in the red cloak, who was kneeling alongside Priscilla Wendling.

“How bad is she?” Blade asked, hurrying over to them.

The Mormon woman was flat on her back, her face distorted in pain, a growing red stain on her right shoulder. “They nailed me good,” she said hoarsely.

“Check her,” Blade told Achilles, then pivoted. “Hickok, Geronimo, make sure the scavengers are all dead.”

“And if we find one alive?” the gunman asked.

“You know what to do.”

Hickok grinned. “My pleasure, pard.”

“I’ll put the horses out of their misery,” Geronimo said.

“Go ahead,” Blade said, then abruptly realized one of their own was unaccounted for and turned to the north.

Eagle Feather stood eight yards away, his Winchester at his side, his posture slightly stooped. He stared at the grass with a peculiar expression.

“Are you all right?” Blade inquired, moving toward the Flathead.

“I don’t know,” Eagle Feather answered, and shifted so the giant could see the bullet hole in his left thigh. “They nailed me too.”

“Sit down,” Blade instructed him. “We’ll dress the wound.”

Grimacing and grunting, the Flathead lowered himself to the turf with the Warrior’s assistance. “Just patch me up the best you can. I can’t afford to let this slow me down. I must find Morning Dew, Little Mountain, and Black Elk.”

“We’ll hunt for them in the morning,” Blade said. “For now, take off your pants.”

“I can’t.”

“Beg pardon?”

Eagle Feather nodded at Priscilla Wendling. “I can’t take my pants off.”

“Why not?”

“She might see me.”

“So?”

“I have nothing to cover my privates.”

“The shy type, huh?” Blade joked to put Eagle Feather at ease, and straightened: He walked to the spot where he had left his vest and the damp T-shirt and picked up both. Which one should he lend to Eagle Feather? He opted for the T-shirt. There was no way he’d ever wear the vest again if another man used it to cover his genitals. “Here we go,” he stated, returning. “Use this. It’s a little wet.” He tossed the T-shirt to the Flathead.

“Thank you.”

Three shots sounded from the slope.

Blade stepped to the edge and saw Geronimo standing over a black stallion. He could tell by the stocky Warrior’s countenance that Geronimo did not enjoy disposing of the animals.

Hickok was prodding one of the fallen scavengers with his left toe. “Hey, this cow chip is still kickin’,” he announced. His right Colt materialized in his hand and he thumbed the hammer. The revolver cracked, and the scavenger’s head seemed to bounce up and down. “Not any more,” the gunfighter said.

Leaning the Commando against his right leg, Blade donned the torn vest and gazed out over the valley. Far off, on the other side of the Lamar River, riding to the southeast, was the brunette. He wondered what she would do now that she was by herself.

“Blade!” Achilles called.

The giant turned and walked to Priscilla’s side. “What’s the verdict?”

“See for yourself,” Achilles replied, the Amazon in his right hand.

Blade squatted, noting the woman’s brown shirt had been cut open at the shoulder, revealing a neat, crimson-rimmed bullet hole an inch below the collarbone. “Is the slug still in there?”

“I found an exit hole,” Achilles reported. “None of her major arteries or veins have been severed.”

“Then we’ll get a fire going and cauterize the wound,” Blade proposed.

“We’ll do her and Eagle Feather both.”

“Cauterize,” Priscilla repeated timidly. “Will it hurt? I have a very low threshold for pain.”

“Would you rather develop an infection and die from gangrene?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll cauterize the bullet hole. And yes, it’ll hurt like crazy.”

Priscilla looked into his eyes. “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”

“Not where lives are concerned.”

“I should thank you for saving me from Harmon.”

“No problem. Exterminating scavengers is our specialty,” Blade said, and grinned. “Were any members of the band missing, out on a raid or whatever?”

“No,” Priscilla replied. “You got all of them.”

“No, we didn’t,” Blade corrected her. “Another woman got away. Who was she?”

“That would be Milly Odum. She was captured by those scum when she was only ten, and she’s been with them ever since.”

“Did she take part in the killing?”

“Milly? No way. Harmon made her the band’s slave. She had to do anything any of the men told her, even sleep with a different bastard every night.”

“The poor woman,” Achilles interjected.

“Maybe we should round up one of the horses and send someone after her,” Blade suggested.

“Milly would just run away from you,” Priscilla said. “She doesn’t trust a soul, or she didn’t until she met me. The trauma turned her into a frightened rabbit. She’s afraid of her own shadow.”

“We can’t leave her out there alone.”

“Patch me up, and tomorrow I’ll ride over to the camp Harmon set up and talk to her. She’ll come back with me.”

“We’ll go with you,” Blade stated. “And while we’re there, we’ll look for the body of the guy with the Earring. They didn’t have time to bury it, so it must be somewhere between this hill and the scavenger camp. It’ll draw predators like garbage draws flies.”

“You mean Silas. He was the one your friend with the fancy revolvers shot.”

“Hickok is my friend’s name,” Blade disclosed. He stood and started toward Eagle Feather. “Stay with her, Achilles.”

“Gladly.”

The giant stared at the Flathead’s bare leg as he approached. Eagle Feather had removed the buckskin leggings and strategically positioned the T-shirt over his loins. “Let me have a look,” Blade said.

“Be my guest.”

Kneeling down, Blade carefully examined the hole. From the size, about the width of this thumb, he decided a large-caliber rifle had done the job.

Blood still flowed copiously, which wasn’t a good sign. “Can you lift your leg a bit?”

“Certainly,” Eagle Feather responded. He gritted his teeth and painfully elevated his left thigh.

Blade felt relief at finding the point where the bullet had emerged, just underneath the left buttock. They wouldn’t need to operate to remove the slug. But the continued blood loss worried him. Eagle Feather could very well bleed to death if the flow wasn’t stopped. “Don’t move,” he cautioned.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Smiling, Blade hurried to the rim and observed Geronimo and Hickok attempting to round up the stray mounts. He jogged down the slope toward them. “Forget the horses. Come here.”

The gunfighter and the Blackfoot took one look and came to meet the giant halfway.

“What’s up, pard?” Hickok inquired.

“Eagle Feather will die if we don’t stop the bleeding,” Blade informed them. “And Priscilla needs her wound cauterized. We have to get a fire going right away. Geronimo, you take care of that. Hickok, start to work on that buck. A good meal will have everyone feeling terrific.”