David Robbins - Dallas Run

Blade glanced longingly at the Bowies in the Lawgiver’s right hand.

Snorting noisily, Destiny halted and swung its head from side to side.

The steer spied the Warrior and began stamping its front hooves on the ground.

How in the world was he going to fight something that size? Blade asked himself, and before he could formulate a strategy the inevitable occurred.

Destiny charged.

Blade focused on the longhorn’s head, gauging the distance, barely listening to the pounding of the hooves and the cries of the crowd. He saw the animal lower its head when it was still ten feet off, and he waited until the very last instant to hurl himself to the right as far as he could. He came down on his right side and rolled to his feet in a fluid motion.

The steer had passed him by and wheeled, and was already attacking anew.

“Death to the impure!” someone in the stands shouted.

Blade shut all distractions from his mind. He could see the pointed tips of the longhorn’s horns sweeping toward him, and he leaped to the right, his arms outstretched. A hard object gouged into his left calf, causing him to flinch, and he came down hard on his stomach. He rose to his knees and glanced at his calf. A horn had snagged the fabric and his fatigue pants, tearing a hole and puncturing his skin. The wound did not appear to be deep or serious, and he rose quickly and rotated.

Destiny had stopped about 20 feet off and was staring at the Warrior, its nostrils flaring.

Sooner or later the longhorn would get the range. Blade knew he couldn’t stay in the open, exposed. But where else could he go? If he tried to run for the stands, the Chosen would open fire. And there was nowhere else on the—

Wait a minute!

The uprights!

Blade looked at the orange posts. They were smooth as glass, but they were the only hope he had. With the realization came action, and he sprinted for the uprights at top speed.

Destiny charged once more.

The earth underfoot seemed to shake as the longhorn bore down. Blade pumped his legs and arms, covering the distance in a rush. He vaulted upward at the nearest vertical post, wrapping his herculean arms around the upright and clinging for dear life.

A tremendous blow struck the post just below the Warrior’s dangling legs.

Blade clamped his ankles on the upright and glanced down.

The steer had struck the post, then backed off to shake its head and bellow. He climbed higher, retaining his grip with the greatest difficulty but determined to reach the horizontal crossbar. As he came within 12 inches of the bar, he lunged with his right hand.

Just as Destiny rammed the upright again.

The vibration proved too much for Blade’s sweaty arms to resist. He began sliding down, toward the steer’s waiting horns, and he frantically strived to check his descent. A cold wind seemed to strike his spine as he gained momentum, and he executed a desperate gambit to save his life.

Rather than fall onto those horns and be impaled, he abruptly pushed away from the upright, his arms uncoiling like steel springs, and tried to fling his body to the left, away from the longhorn.

Instead, he slipped.

Blade plummeted, anticipating the burning sensation of having a horn lance through his chest or abdomen. But he missed the steer’s head and crashed onto its broad back.

Startled by the unexpected impact and weight, Destiny darted away.

The Warrior tumbled from the longhorn onto his back, the breath whooshing out of him. He scrambled erect, intending to race for the stands despite the consequences, but he was too late.

Destiny had turned sharply and was already on him.

Blade saw the horns arcing at his torso and instinctively reached out, his hands closing on the middle of the horns when the tips were mere inches from him. He endeavored to brace his legs and hold fast, but even though the steer wasn’t moving fast the jolt drove Blade backwards a yard.

Gritting his teeth, every sinew straining to the limit, he dug in his heels and held.

The longhorn snorted and tried to wrench loose.

The muscles on Blade’s arms and shoulders bulged in stark relief as he applied every iota of his prodigious strength to the task of restraining the steer. Sweat beaded his brow and poured down his sides. A crimson hue tinged his face, and his veins expanded. He recognized it was only a matter of time before Destiny broke free. What then? If he-Unexpected bedlam broke out in the stands to his rear.

Blade’s forehead creased in consternation. He could hear gunfire and screaming and yelling, a veritable din, as if a war was being fought. But who would have the temerity to assault the Chosen in their own Temple?

Hickok might, but not even the gunman would take on such overwhelming numbers by his lonesome. Then again, the gunfighter was unpredictable.

From the uproar, he gathered the attacking force must be large, and he resisted the temptation to risk a glance over his shoulder. All of his concentration must be applied to holding those deadly horns.

Their silent, titanic struggle continued for over a minute while the clamor in the stands grew.

Stray rounds smacked into the nearby ground.

Blade felt his arms beginning to tire, and he decided to make a move before he became completely exhausted. He took a deep breath, then released the horns and hurtled to the right, twisting his body so he spun toward the longhorn, prepared to meet another charge.

Only Destiny wasn’t moving. The steer was staring at the stands, either confused or fascinated by the chaos.

And chaos it was. Blade looked to his left, astounded at the sight of scores of bodies sprawled in the bleachers in attitudes of death. Three fourths of the Chosen had been slain, mowed down in their seats by the surprise attack. Those still able were conducting a running battle with dozens of men and women, and at the forefront of the attacking force were Hickok and Geronimo. Blade saw the gunfighter, a Python in either hand, cut loose at a group of the Chosen poised on a lower tier, and six of the fanatics died in a hail of lead. Somehow, Blade deduced, Hickok and Geronimo and those with them had managed to get above and behind the Chosen.

The Lawgiver’s flock never stood a chance.

A solitary figure leaped from the lowest row to the earth, his gaze on the battle to his rear, and raced toward the field.

Blade straightened. It was the Lawgiver! And he still held the Bowies!

The Warrior took a stride, planning to cut the Lawgiver off, but his horned adversary was swifter. Destiny lowered his head and pounded forward.

The Lawgiver didn’t realize his danger until the longhorn was less than four feet away. His shocked countenance swung around, and he mouthed the word “No!” And then Destiny’s right horn ripped into his chest, tearing through from front to back, and he was lifted from his feet and tossed over the steer’s back.

Blade saw his Bowies fly from the Lawgiver’s limp fingers, he ran to reclaim his knives. He saw the Lawgiver crash to the ground, and in seconds the longhorn loomed above the man responsible for its capture, slashing repeatedly with its horns as if it was exacting revenge for its torment. Blade turned his attention from the horrid goring to his knives.

In six bounds he reached them, and he scooped the Bowies into his hands with a feeling of relief. Grinning, he pivoted and glanced at the stands.

Most of the Chosen were dead, dying, or had fled.

Hickok and Geronimo were hurrying down an aisle. The gunman looked at Blade, stopped abruptly, and started shouting and motioning with his arms.

What was he—!

Blade whirled, knowing what he would see: Destiny, coming at him with all the raw power of a tank, its horns dripping blood.

This time he was ready.