David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

“I saw him near the south rim a minute ago.”

“Thanks,” Hickok said, and walked away from the fire, probing the shadows for his friend’s silhouette. The fire didn’t illuminate the entire summit, but the full moon provided a pale glow along the outer edge. He should be able to spot Geronimo easily.

His fellow Warrior was nowhere in sight.

Hickok advanced to within a yard of the southern rim and halted. He felt confident that there wasn’t an animal or mutation alive capable of sneaking up on Geronimo undetected, and he reasoned his friend had undoubtedly stepped down the slope to take a leak. “Pard?”

There was no answer.

The gunfighter took a pace, then abruptly stopped. Something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t put his finger on the cause. The night seemed serene. Stars filled the heavens, and off to the southeast Milly Odum’s fire still blazed. “Geronimo?” he called out.

Again there was no reply.

Hickok decided to check the slope below. But first he’d better let Priscilla and Eagle Feather know he’d be gone for a few minutes. He pivoted and hastened toward the fire, and he had ten feet to cover when his roving gaze chanced to alight on the exact spot where the Mormon and the Flathead had been resting.”

They were gone.

For a second Hickok couldn’t believe his own senses. He slowed, glancing every which way, certain they had to be on the summit. They wouldn’t have gone anywhere, and if they’d been attacked at least one of them would have cried out.

So where were they?

Hickok stood still, listening, thoroughly confounded. A whisper of a noise was borne to his ears by the breeze, the merest hint of a footfall to his rear, the scraping pressure of a calloused pad on a blade of grass, and he tensed.

What a chump!

How could he have been so dumb?

The gunfighter whirled, executing his lightning draw as he completed the revolution, both Colts streaking up and out, and there they were, five or six hulking, hunched-over forms closing on him from behind, their facial features indistinguishable in the gloom.

One of the things snarled and leaped.

Hickok snapped off a shot from each Python, and he saw the creature somersault backwards as if slammed in the head by an invisible sledgehammer.

Another thing rushed at him, and another.

Hickok squeezed off two quick shots, the slugs tearing into the foremost attacker, causing the thing to stumble and almost go down. Incredibly, the creature recovered its balance and bounded forward. Hickok thumbed back the hammer, about to send two more shots into his adversary, when the unexpected transpired.

Steely arms encircled him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides.

He’d neglected to cover his rear!

Hickok felt warm breath on his neck and inhaled a fetid odor. He strained to break free, but the arms restraining him were like the unbreakable coils of a huge boa constrictor. Lifting his legs, he began thrashing and kicking and butting his head into the thing holding him, hoping his violent motions would make the creature stumble or release him.

No such luck.

One of his attackers halted directly in front of him, not a foot and a half away.

Still struggling. Hickok glanced at the creature, and his initial impression was of hair. Lots and lots of hair. And teeth. Long, tapered teeth that were exposed when the thing growled and hissed at him.

A hand reached for the gunfighter’s throat.

Do something! Hickok thought. His arms were pinned, but he could move his forearms a few inches and he did so now, slanting the Python barrels upwards. The angle prevented him from going for a head shot, so he did the next best thing. He simply pointed the Colts at the creature’s midsection and fired.

The thing clutched at its stomach and staggered a few feet, then sank to its knees, inadvertently putting its head in a direct line with the Warrior’s revolvers.

Hickok got off two more shots. Before he could witness the result, the creature holding him vented a bestial roar and hurled him to the hard ground. He landed on his left shoulder, grunting at the pain, and flipped onto his back to cut loose once more.

He never got off a shot.

The brutish beings rushed out of the night and swarmed all over him, coming from every direction, their heavy forms pouncing on his unprotected body. Hands gripped his wrists and others tore the Colts from his grasp. Mallet like fists struck him repeatedly, as the creatures battered him mercilessly on his head and chest. He struggled vainly to batter them aside so he could stand. A claw ripped his left cheek open. A knee gouged him in the stomach. He gasped for air and swung his fists to no avail.

An instant later a ten-ton boulder seemed to crash into his jaw and his universe faded to black.

The cool night invigorated Blade as he raced toward the Lamar River.

He inhaled deeply, enjoying the exercise, his long legs flying over the terrain. The Bowies jiggled in their sheaths, and the Commando, which he had slung over his left shoulder, swayed from side to side, rubbing against his back. He trained his eyes on Odum’s campfire and listened for another scream.

Except for insect noises, all was quiet.

Blade glanced over his right shoulder at Achilles. Fifteen feet separated them, and the novice appeared hard-pressed to keep up. “Quit goofing off and get up here,” he commanded.

“Who’s goofing off?” Achilles retorted, and increased his speed marginally. “Can I help it if you cover twice as much ground with each step?”

Grinning, Blade slowed to allow the aspiring Warrior to reach his side.

“You must be out of shape.”

“I’m in excellent condition,” Achilles responded defensively.

“How many miles do you jog every day?”

“Five miles every other day.”

“After we return to the Home, start a new exercise regimen and include doing ten miles every day.”

Achilles glanced at the giant. “Every day?”

“Until you can comfortably keep up with me, yes.”

“How do Hickok and Geronimo do it?”

“They have a secret.”

“What is it?” Achilles inquired eagerly.

“They usually ask me to take little steps.”

For a moment Achilles couldn’t decide if the top Warrior was serious, then he voiced a hearty laugh. “No one at the Home could ever hope to match you on a long run.”

“Yama and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi consistently tie with me,” Blade mentioned. “And on short sprints, Rikki is even faster.”

“I had no idea. What’s the secret of their success?”

“They’ve developed their bodies to where they can perform at their maximum level,” Blade said. “Although they’re quite different in stature, they’re both solid muscle.”

“So is Samson,” Achilles noted.

“But Samson has never had to lift a weight or exercise strenuously in his life. His physique matured naturally.”

“Is he as fast as you are?”

“No, but he’s equally as strong.”

“I doubt that.”

“Size alone is no prerequisite for the possession of great strength,” Blade said. “Look at Rikki.”

“I still can’t accept that any of the other Warriors are as strong as you.”

“Trust me. I’ve seen Samson in action. When he calls on the Lord for strength, none of us can rival him.”

“Do you really believe that Nazarite mumbo jumbo?”

“Samson does. And whether you prefer to think that his immense power is psychologically triggered or stems from the Spirit, the fact remains that when Samson prays to the Lord, his strength is increased a hundredfold.”

Achilles gazed at the river ahead. The surface of the water reflected the pale moonlight and resembled a wide ribbon of glass. A thought occurred to him and he almost stopped in surprise. “Wait a minute!” he blurted.