David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

Blade picked up the Pythons and stuck them under his belt. Nearby he found the Henry and slung the rifle over his left shoulder.

“Here’s the FNC and Geronimo’s Arminius,” Achilles announced, waving the firearms.

“You’ll have to carry them,” Hade stated. He started to make a circuit around the fire, moving in ever-widening circles as he searched for weapons and clues to the direction the attackers had taken.

Achilles walked in a zigzag pattern to the north. He spotted a long object partly concealed by the grass and stooped down to grab it. A brief inspection sufficed to reveal the object was a Winchester with a shattered stock. “Hey, took at this,” he declared.

Blade stepped over and took the gun. He examined the stock for a few seconds, then hefted the rifle. “This is Eagle Feather’s. Interesting, isn’t it, that they threw all the guns away.”

“How so?”

“Guns are at a premium everywhere. If human raiders had been responsible for this ambush, they would have taken all the guns and left bodies. But these Bear People, these mutations, obviously couldn’t care less about weapons. They prefer to rely on their mutant abilities, on their strength and speed.”

“Maybe the things are too stupid to know how to operate a firearm,” Achilles speculated.

“Maybe, but somehow I doubt it,” Blade said. He tossed the Winchester aside.

“Shouldn’t we take it with us?” Achilles asked. “The stock can always be repaired.”

“I know, but we’ll have our hands full as it is,” Blade replied. “We’ll cover the Winchester with deer hide and come back for it after we find out what’s happened to the others,” Blade proposed, and surveyed the summit.

“Wait a minute. Where’s the buck?”

“What?”

“The mule deer Eagle Feather shot. The buck was carved up for supper.

There was a lot left over,” Blade observed. “Where did the carcass go?”

Achilles looked around. “They took it.”

Frowning, Blade moved closer to the fire. “We’ll spend the rest of the night here. I’ll take the first watch.”

“We’re not going after them?”

Blade glanced at the novice. “Which way would we go?”

Bafflement etched Achilles’ features. He turned to the north, then the south. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“There’s nothing we can do until daylight,” Blade said. “We can’t track them at night. At first light we’ll scour the hill and the plain for sign. If we’re lucky, we’ll find tracks.”

“And if we don’t discover any tracks?”

“Then we’ll have no way of knowing the direction they took,” Blade answered, his broad shoulders drooping, “and we may never see Hickok and Geronimo again.”

Strange.

He couldn’t remember a mountain falling on him, and yet that was exactly how he felt.

Every muscle in his body ached. He seemed to be one large bruise, from the hairs on his head to the tips of his toes. What could have happened?

His mind was sluggish, his memory fuzzy. Had his missus gotten ticked off because he’d let the kids play World War Three in the living room again?

Somebody had sure stomped him, but good.

He became conscious of a peculiar swaying movement and felt cool air on his cheeks and brow.

Where was be, anyway?

A rank odor assailed his nostrils. He became aware of being bent in half at the waist. When he opened his eyes, he thought for a moment he must be dreaming.

Why was he lying on a hairy rug?

Better yet, why was the rug moving?

Suddenly insight dawned and he recalled the battle on the hill. The blamed critters must have captured him!

How embarrassing!

Well at least he should look at the bright side. He was still alive. So to speak. He attempted to move his dangling arms and found his wrists had been securely bound.

Figured.

He realized he had been draped over someone’s shoulder. Correction.

Make that something’s shoulder. The creatures were carting him somewhere. Why? What did they have in mind? He wondered about the others. Were they still alive too, or had the critters killed them?

What should he do next?

He could feel an arm encircling his waist. By kicking and lunging forward, he might be able to break loose. Might. Whatever was carrying him must be immensely strong, if the ease with which the thing conveyed his 180 pounds served as any indication.

Someone groaned.

He twisted his head, listening carefully. Far overhead, the starry firmament stretched into infinity. So it was still night, and he probably hadn’t been unconscious very long.

The groan was repeated.

Relief made him smile. Would the creatures object if he spoke? There was only one way to find out. “Pard, is that you?”

“Hickok?”

“Yep. Are you okay?”

“Something is carrying me.”

“You Injuns never fail to amaze me with your powers of observation.”

“Suck eggs.”

A new voice interrupted their conversation. “Hickok! Geronimo! It’s me, Priscilla.”

“Where’s Eagle Feather?” Hickok inquired, but he never received an answer.

“Shut your mouth!” someone commanded in a gruff, raspy tone. “The next one of you scum who talks will have his tongue ripped out!”

Hickok almost told the speaker to go to hell, instead, he fell silent and pondered his predicament. There was no sense in trying to escape until he knew what was going on, so he resigned himself to playing along for the time being. But sooner or later he would have a reckoning with the critters that clobbered him. Provided they didn’t kill him first.

A rosy tinge enveloped the eastern horizon and radiated upward and outward, heralding the arrival of a new day, the signal for the sparrows and starlings and other birds in Yellowstone to greet the dawn in their own inimitable manner, by chirping and singing in a boisterous avian chorus.

Blade sat on the east side of the fire, staring at the low flames and the burning embers, and inhaled deeply. Morning at last! He’d been unable to catch a wink of sleep alt night. How could he doze off when the creatures might return? How could he take even a short nap when Hickok and Geronimo were in danger of losing their lives, if they hadn’t already? Not to mention Priscilla and Eagle Feather. The thought of the Mormon woman prompted him to glance to his right.

Achilles hadn’t slept either. He’d spent all night walking around the rim of the hill. Around and around and around. Now he was moving along the north edge, his visage downcast, dragging his heels.

“Are you ready?” Blade asked.

“Finally,” Achilles responded, halting and stretching. “Yes I’m ready I can’t wait to catch the things that took Priscilla.”

“And the others,” Blade noted dryly.

“Of course. I want to rescue them too.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” Blade said. He stood and surveyed the countryside. To the south, a quarter of a mile distant, were four large animals. Buffaloes, he assumed, until he look a closer look and distinguished the distinctive outlines and flowing tails of a godsend.

“Horses!”

“Where?” Achilles inquired, hurrying over.

Blade pointed. “Go get them while I check for tracks.”

“On my way,” Achilles replied, running off.

The giant stood watching the novice jog down the slope, then turned and stepped to the north rim. He slowly proceeded westward around the outer circumference, intently examining the ground for prints.

Unfortunately, grass covered almost every square inch of earth, minimizing the possibility of discovering an impression. He deduced that the things had departed either to the north, west, or south because he and Achilles had been to the east and hadn’t spied the creatures leaving with their burdens. Of course, the things could have slipped past unseen.