David Robbins - Dallas Run

They trekked to the southwest, using the side streets and alleys, ever alert for Stompers or the Chosen.

“That army dude was really ticked off at you guys,” Marlon commented idly as they crossed Hampton road.

“Garber was a mite flustered at being left behind,” Hickok agreed.

“We didn’t have any choice,” Geronimo said. “At least one of our team has to survive to get word to General Reese. Garber may not like staying with Melanie and those three guards, but he knew we were right. If we don’t come back, he’ll be able to tell the general everything we’ve learned so far.”

“Which isn’t all that much,” Hickok noted.

“We know about the Chains and the Stompers,” Geronimo stated.

“But we know diddly about the blamed Chosen.”

“We know they have Blade, and that’s enough.”

Marlon glanced at Geronimo. “I should thank you again as well for tending to the spider bites.”

“You’ll need to watch Melanie closely for a week or so,” Geronimo advised. “She lost a lot of blood, which is the reason she fainted, but I don’t believe the spiders were poisonous. There was no discoloration or puffiness where she was bitten.”

“You think she’ll be all right?” Marlon inquired anxiously.

“I know she will,” Geronimo said. “In a month she’ll be as good as new.”

“I was so afraid I was going to lose her,” Marlon remarked.

“I know how you feel,” Hickok said.

“Have you ever lost a woman you loved?”

“Once,” Hickok replied, thinking of the Warrior named Joan, the woman he had loved years ago, before he met his wife. Joan had been slain by the vicious Trolls in Fox, Minnesota. Whenever he thought of her fate, he appreciated having Sherry all the more.

They continued warily, halting briefly five minutes later when a two-headed cat as big as a calf bounded across the road and vanished into a brownstone. They passed the building with their weapons ready, but the feline didn’t attack. Seven minutes later a tract of dense vegetation appeared ahead.

“Kiest Park,” Marlon announced, and held up his right hand so the column would stop. “What’s the next move?”

“Hickok and I will go into the park and look for the Stompers,” Geronimo proposed.

“And what if they decide to shoot first and ask questions later?”

“Leave it to me,” Hickok said. He slung the Henry over his left shoulder, hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt, and strolled forward.

“Wait for me,” Geronimo declared.

“You’re both nuts!” Marlon stated, watching them advance. He frowned, looked at the Chains, then scanned the park. “Damn idiots!” he muttered.

“They’ll get their fool heads blown off,” commented the third man in the line.

“Who asked you?” Marlon snapped, and hitched at his pants.

“What are you mad at me for?” asked the bewildered man.

“I’m not,” Marlon said brusquely, and sighed. “I want all of you to stay put.”

“Where are you going?” the man queried.

“Where the hell do you think?” Marlon retorted, and ran to catch up to the gunfighter and the Indian. “Wait for me.”

Geronimo glanced over his right shoulder as Marlon reached them.

“We have company.”

“Reeves knows me. We’ve yelled insults at each other a few times,” Marlon said. “He probably won’t open fire if he sees me with you.”

“We hope,” Geronimo responded. He slanted the Browning barrel at the ground and scrutinized the weeds, thickets, and trees. The Stompers had selected an excellent hideaway; no one could approach the park without being seen.

“Let me do the talking,” Marlon recommended.

“Fine by me,” Hickok said. “I just hope this Reeves hombre has some horse sense. We can’t afford to waste time.”

Geronimo saw a bush quiver although the air was perfectly still.

“They’re watching us.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road,” Hickok said, and halted. “We’re lookin’ for the Stompers!” he called out.

Marlon stepped in front of the gunman. “You said I could do the talking.”

“Sorry. By my guest. My lips are sealed.”

“That’ll be the day,” Geronimo cracked.

“Here goes nothing,” Marlon said, facing the vegetation 15 yards off and squaring his shoulders. “Reeves! Reeves! You know who this is! I’ve come here to talk!”

No one responded.

“They might be out scrounging for food,” Marlon commented.

“Try again,” Geronimo prompted.

“Reeves! This is Marlon! We came here in peace to talk! Can you hear me?”

A tall, brown-haired woman wearing jeans and a leather jacket stepped into view next to a tree. “How do we know this isn’t a trick?” she demanded, gazing past the trio at the Chains 50 feet away.

“Who are you?” Hickok asked.

“Cathy.”

“Where’s Reeves?” the gunman queried.

“He’s here.”

“Then why doesn’t he show himself? Is he a wimp or a man?” Hickok asked caustically.

Marlon leaned close to the gunfighter. “ I’m supposed to be doing the talking! If you get Reeves mad, we’ll never pull this off!”

“I won’t say another word,” Hickok said.

“Where have we heard that before?” Geronimo quipped.

Two men emerged from the undergrowth accompanied by Cathy. The first stood well over six and a half feet in height and weighed in the vicinity of 250 pounds. Matted shoulder-length black hair hung from his head. His eyes were beady and brown. A dirty, torn gray shirt and overalls bulged at the waist, suggesting budding corpulence. He held a double-barreled shotgun in his pudgy hands.

By contrast, the second man seemed to be all skin and bones. His blue shirt and jeans clung loosely to his thin frame. A shock of blond hair crowned his brow. Clasped firmly and tucked against his right side was an Uzi.

The woman called Cathy had a semiautomatic pistol, resting in a flapped holster on her right hip.

“I’m Reeves!” the large man declared. “Who claims I’m a wimp?” He came within six yards of the trio and halted.

“No one said you’re a wimp,” Marlon answered quickly.

“Bull! I heard this jerk call me a wimp!” Reeves growled, and wagged his left thumb at the gunman.

“Simmer down, manure-mind,” Hickok said calmly. “We wanted to get you out in the open, that’s all.”

Reeves glanced at the Chains, then at Marlon. “Why? What kind of game are you playing? I’m warning you. One word from me and the Stompers will blow you away.”

“This isn’t a game. It isn’t a trick,” Marlon said. “We’re here on serious business. I want to offer you a truce so we can join forces against the Chosen.”

The head of the Stompers blinked rapidly, his mouth slackening in amazement. “Say what !”

“You know as well as I do that the only way we can beat the Chosen is if we combine our gangs,” Marlon stated. “We’re planning to take them on, and we need your help.”

“You’ve never asked for our help before,” Reeves noted suspiciously.

“Why now?”

“The Chosen have captured a friend of ours,” Geronimo interjected.

“We intend to rescue him.”

“And who the hell are you?” Reeves snapped. “I’ve never laid eyes on you or the chump in the buckskins.”

“We’re from the Family,” Geronimo answered.

“The what?”

“The Family is an ally of the Civilized Zone.”

“So? Who cares? Your friend means nothing to us,” Reeves said.

“They can help us if we’ll help them,” Marlon declared.

“How can these turkeys help us?” Reeves queried.

“We can assist you in relocating to the Civilized Zone if you’ll aid us in freeing our friend,” Geronimo mentioned.