David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

The salty taste of blood touched Hickok’s tongue, and he glared at the creature that had struck him. “You’ll get yours, sucker!”

“Fat chance.”

Hickok twisted his bead to see the middle of the clearing, Longat and the majority of the Breed had been intently watching the one-sided struggle. Now Longat chuckled and nodded at the duo.

“Hold her arms!”

Milly screamed and attempted to pull free as the hairy beast men took hold of her, each one clasping a wrist and extending her arm to its limit.

“Leave her alone!” Priscilla shouted, tears in her own eyes, her slim hands molded into fists.

Longat ignored the distraction. He hefted the tomahawk and stepped in front of the helpless prisoner. “Have you any last words, woman?”

Milly’s eyes were as wide as they could be. Her mouth moved but no words came out.

“Articulate bitch, aren’t you?” Longat quipped.

Hickok vented a growling noise every bit as bestial as the bear-men could make. A burning rage flared in every cell of his being. Never had he felt so frustrated! He glanced at Eagle Feather, who was standing a few feet away, seemingly in a daze, then back at the tableau in the center of the clearing.

Longat was smiling broadly. “Let us proceed,” he said, and nodded again.

The two creatures grasping Odum’s arms suddenly surged in opposite directions, every muscle on their bodies rippling, as they pulled with all their might.

Milly lifted her face to the sky and gave voice to a plaintive wail.

Hickok gritted his teeth in impotent fury. He saw the duo strain, exerting their enormous strength, and he saw Milly Odum shriek in abject fear, and then her arms parted from her shoulders with a sickening ripping sound, tendrils of flesh hanging from the ragged sockets, blood spurting from each cavity.

Milly’s eyelids fluttered and she started to collapse.

Gleaming in the sunlight, the tomahawk whipped in an arc as Longat buried the edge in her forehead, cleaving her skull nearly in half, exposing her brain. He laughed as he wrenched the weapon loose.

Dead on her feet, Milly Odum’s body sank slowly to the ground.

The duo waved the severed arms they had held in the air, beaming happily.

Hickok felt flushed. He wanted to pound every last one of the Breed into a pulp. A bitter bile rose in his mouth and he swallowed it. A frenzied cry to his left drew his attention to Priscilla.

The Mormon woman had taken all she could stand. Her self-control snapped and she threw herself recklessly at a nearby bear-man, striking at its face, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Startled, the mutation defended itself instinctively, lashing out with a mallet like hand. His blow caught Priscilla on the tip of her chin and snapped her head back with an audible crack.

“No!” Hickok yelled, striving to break free, Priscilla Wendling straightened, her forehead knit in bewilderment.

She endeavored to speak, but her head sagged to the right at an unnatural angle and she abruptly pitched forward.

“No! No!” Hickok shouted, tugging and thrashing.

Priscilla lay on the grass, her head tilted crazily upward, her lifeless eyes fixed on eternity.

Hickok went slack, staring at her in shock.

“Let me through!”

The creatures parted at the command and Longat walked up to the Mormon woman and halted. The bloody tomahawk was in his right hand.

He frowned and looked around. “Who did this?”

“I did,” replied the mutation responsible. “I’m sorry,” he added sheepishly.

“You idiot, Komsey!” Longat barked. “You know that wasting meat is strictly forbidden.”

“She took me by surprise,” Komsey responded. “I didn’t mean to hit her so hard.”

Longat sighed and placed his hands on his hips. “Well, it’s no use crying over spilt blood. And we’re not going to let her go to waste. Get the fire going. We’ll eat both of them.” He smiled. “There’s nothing like a hearty meal and a full stomach after a hard night’s work.”

Hickok hardly noticed the passage of time. He walked along morosely, his shoulders slumped, thinking of Priscilla Wendling and Milly Odum. He reviewed the tragedy over and over, replaying the events in his mind’s eye to see if there wasn’t something he could have done to prevent their deaths. But no matter how he considered the episode, he perceived there was no way he could have saved either woman. Still, guilt gnawed at his soul.

The gunfighter marched westward along winding valleys, over hills and mountains, constantly prodded by his captors to move faster. Geronimo tramped behind him, while Eagle Feather came last.

The realization that his wife and sons had been killed shattered the Flathead. Eagle Feather walked in a state of perpetual shock, his head bowed, rarely blinking, oblivious to the curses and shoves of the Breed.

Fatigue began to take its toll on Hickok. His leg muscles were aching terribly by nightfall. He’d anticipated the creatures would stop for the night, but they kept going, their animalistic physiques endowed with exceptional stamina.

The full moon rose in the east, casting its pale radiance over the land.

The cool night breeze revitalized the gunman. He breathed deeply and roused himself from his morbid introspection, shutting his mind to the memory of Priscilla and Milly being consumed by the vile mutations. He stared at the line of Bear People in front of him, then glanced back at the ten creatures bringing up the rear section. The sight of their brutish forms sparked a rare emotion.

Hatred.

Unadulterated, unmitigated hatred.

Ordinarily Hickok regarded enemies dispassionately. Fighting foes came with the job, and he seldom indulged in the luxury of exercising his personal feelings toward them. If Russians were the threat, he eliminated them coolly and efficiently, without becoming personally involved.

Scavengers, drug lords, gangsters, androids, they were all .the same to him. Line them up and he’d shoot them down. The number of adversaries didn’t matter. Their lives were forfeit once they endangered the Family and the Home. And he’d killed countless enemies in the line of duty without feeling any animosity towards them whatsoever.

But not this time.

This was different.

Resentment dominated his being. He gazed at a trio of creatures who were bearing the bodies of the three dead mutations, and a tingle of pleasure ran down his spine at the thought of slaying every last one. If ever there had been opponents who truly deserved to die, the Breed definitely qualified.

Which brought him to the big question.

How to do it?

Hopelessly outnumbered and unarmed, Hickok knew he didn’t stand a prayer unless he could get his hands on some guns. He guessed that his Colts had been left back on the hill where the fight took, place, and he hoped Blade or Achilles had found the Pythons.

If they were still alive.

Blade’s absence worried him. By all rights, knowing his giant friend as well as he did, Blade should have overtaken the Breed column already.

Warriors were a loyal lot. They never deserted a fellow Warrior in a time of crisis.

Never.

Ever.

If Blade hadn’t been killed, Hickok reflected, then the head Warrior would leave no stone unturned in his search for his friends. Granted, the Breed were trekking westward at a rapid rate, but Blade was no slouch in the speed department either, and the big guy could hike rings around most folks.

So where the blazes was he?

Hickok thought of Achilles, imagining how the greenhorn would react when he heard about Priscilla, Years ago, before Hickok had married Sherry, he had been in love with a woman named Joan, an excellent Warrior in her own right, and he recalled vividly the sorrow that had overwhelmed him when she was killed by the vicious Trolls in Fox, Minnesota. Achilles would probably feel the same way about the Mormon woman, and Hickok felt sorry for him.