David Robbins - Dallas Run

Melanie was holding her left leg and sobbing.

“Quit goofin’ off,” Hickok snapped, seizing her under the right arm and hauling her up.

“My leg!” she cried.

“Move!” Hickok commanded, supporting her as they made for the entrance. He heard a heavy body alight on the floor with a pronounced thump, but he didn’t look back. In two seconds they were at the door. He gripped the knob and twisted, praying the door wasn’t locked.

“They’re almost on us!” Melanie yelled.

Hickok shoved and the door flew wide. He snatched Melanie’s arm and propelled her through the doorway. Right on her heels, he bounded out and flung the door shut. She stumbled and went down on her knees, and he whirled to face the glass door.

A spider’s hideous visage peered at them.

If the arachnids came through that door, they were done for. Hickok knew Melanie couldn’t travel very fast with her injury, and he resolved to stick by her until the end. He waited, scarcely breathing, while the spider eyed them.

“Save yourself,” Melanie said, lying on her back with her left leg clasped to her chest. “I can’t run.”

Hickok said nothing. He stared at the mutation, prepared to fire, every nerve on edge. A tense, awful minute elapsed. Suddenly the spider turned and shuffled off.

A sigh of profound relief escaped Melanie’s lips.

The Warrior waited another minute, wanting to be sure, his gaze glued to the glass door. Except for the bodies of the two mutations he’d slain, the corridor was deserted. Satisfied the arachnids wouldn’t venture outdoors, he stepped to Melanie and knelt by her side.

“Thanks for saving my life,” she said sincerely.

“I didn’t want you to give one of those varmints indigestion,” Hickok remarked.

Melanie mustered a feeble grin.

“How’s the leg?”

“It hurts like hell.”

“Let me see,” Hickok said, leaning over to inspect the wound. The spider had bitten her halfway between the knee and the ankle, its fangs penetrating her calf. Her brown pants had been torn, and there were two neat holes almost an inch in diameter in her flesh. Blood flowed from the bite and dripped down her leg. “Do you know what kind of spiders they were?”

“Big ones.”

“No. Do you know if they’re—” Hickok caught himself.

“Poisonous?” Melanie said, finishing for him.

“Yeah.”

“Nope.”

“Blast!” Hickok snapped. “Well, it’s a cinch we can’t stay here. We’ve got to find some water so I can clean the bites. And I’ll have to cauterize those holes.”

“Do what?”

“Poke a hot iron or stick into those bites,” Hickok explained.

“Over my dead body,” Melanie said.

“It’s the only way to kill any infection.”

“I’m in enough pain.”

“Would you rather be dead?”

She pursed her mouth, holding her left ankle tightly, and shook her head.

“All right. Let’s go,” Hickok said, and slipped his right hand under her left arm.

“You’re not going anywhere!”

The cold words, bellowed brusquely from close at hand, caused the Warrior and the woman to pivot to the north.

“Uh-oh,” Melanie said softly.

There were three of them, all attired in shabby clothes, all leering triumphantly. The heaviest wore a torn black leather jacket and jeans, and in his hands, trained on Hickok, was a Mossberg Model 1500 bolt-action rifle. To his right walked a thin man who sported a Mohawk and carried a Ruger Number Three Carbine. On the other side was a short man armed with a crossbow, a quiver on his back.

“Friends of yours?” Hickok asked.

“No way. They’re Stompers.”

The trio halted ten feet away, and the man in the leather jacket chuckled as he took a bead on the gunman’s forehead. “Shut your faces, turkeys! And drop the hardware!”

With his right hand supporting Melanie and his left holding the Henry by the blued barrel, Hickok knew there was no way he could clear his holsters before they fired. He frowned and slowly lowered the Carbine to the sidewalk.

“Now the fancy handguns,” Leather Jacket said.

Hickok slid his right hand from under Melanie’s arm and reached for the Pythons.

“Not so fast, friend!” Leather Jacket snapped. “Take your time. Use your thumb and one finger.”

The Warrior complied, setting the Colts gently on the concrete.

“Good,” declared Leather Jacket, relaxing and allowing the Mossberg to drop to his waist. He studied Melanie. “You’re one of the Chains, ain’t you?”

“Say no,” Hickok whispered.

“Damn straight!” Melanie stated proudly.

“I thought so,” Leather Jacket said., “I’ve seen you hanging out with them when I’ve been spying.” He glanced at her waist. “Where’s your chain? I thought all the Chains wore them.”

“Not all the women do,” Melanie answered. “I don’t like to wear one because it gouges my hips when I bend over.”

“And what nice hips you’ve got,” Leather Jacket observed lecherously.

Standing on her right foot with her left suspended off the ground, Melanie wobbled slightly and touched her right palm to her forehead.

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Leather Jacket.

“Can’t you see she’s hurt?” Hickok snapped. “She was bit by a spider.”

“Will she kick?”

“Once the leg is healed, she’ll kick like a horse,” Hickok said.

“I meant will she die?”

“She could. We’ve got to clean and cauterize the leg,” Hickok answered urgently.

“Nope.”

The gunman glared at the three Stompers. “What?”

“She ain’t going nowhere,” Leather Jacket said. “We couldn’t care less if she lives or not. All we care about is having our fun before she kicks.”

Hickok’s eyes became flinty. “You’ll stand around and do nothin’ while a lady dies?”

“Oh, we’ll do something,” Leather Jacket responded, and thrust his hips forward several times. His companions laughed.

The Warrior clenched his fists, his nostrils flaring. He could feel the C.O.P. .357 Magnum riding snugly in its special holster on his left wrist. A distraction was needed, anything to divert their attention so he could draw the derringer. The small gun, only five and a half inches in length and slightly over four inches in height, packed a tremendous wallop. He’d loaded all four chambers with 158-grain cartridges; one shot would knock a man off his feet.

“First we’ll off you,” Leather Jacket said, smirking at the gunfighter.

“Any last words?”

“Yeah. Have you always been so ugly, or did a cow sit on your face when you were born?”

Leather Jacket’s mouth twitched and his eyes narrowed. “Mister, you just made a big mistake.”

“What else is new?”

“I figured I’d waste you quick and painless, but now I’m going to make you suffer,” Leather Jacket vowed.

“How? Are you aimin’ to gab me to death?” Hickok quipped.

Before another word could be spoken, Melanie unexpectedly closed her eyes, groaned, and pitched forward.

The Warrior instinctively caught her, his arms encircling her bosom as she fell, and he let her down to the sidewalk gently, depositing her on her stomach. His forearms were momentarily concealed under her body, and he reached beneath his left sleeve and grasped the C.O.P.

“Turn her over while you’re at it,” Leather Jacket suggested. “Save us the trouble.”

The three Stompers snickered.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Hickok said.

“Oh? What?” Leather Jacket inquired sarcastically.

“Why don’t I do the world a favor and plug you cow chips?” Hickok asked sweetly, and grinned from ear to ear.

Sensing something was gravely amiss, Leather Jacket started to bring the Mossberg up.