David Robbins - Dallas Run

Blade’s right arm swept back, his hand grasping the Bowie by the hilt, timing the throw precisely. The longhorn was 12 feet from him when he whipped his arm down and let go, and the gleaming knife streaked like a razor-edged missile into the steer’s left eye, slicing the orb and penetrating deep into the socket. He darted to the right and Destiny thundered by him.

An enraged bellow rent the air as the longhorn slowed, shaking its head, crimson spraying from its ruptured eye.

Shifting the Bowie in his left hand to his right, Blade sprang forward and leaped in close, stabbing the knife into Destiny’s neck.

The steer tottered, then recovered some of its strength and lashed out, its left horn lancing at the Warrior.

Blade caught the horn in his left hand, moved in next to the longhorn’s neck, and extended his right arm to stab the beast in the other eye. The Bowie sank in nearly to the hilt.

Destiny stiffened, then reared, kicking and pitching.

The steer’s neck struck Blade in the chest, and the Warrior was knocked for a loop. He thudded onto his back and lay there, dazed, until his senses suddenly cleared and he could prop himself on his elbows.

Destiny had expired. The longhorn lay on its right side, the hilts of the Bowies sticking from its eyes, a pool of blood forming about its head.

Footsteps pounded close at hand.

“Pard! Pard! Are you all right?”

Blade rose, feeling sore all over, and faced the west end of the stadium.

Hickok and Geronimo ran to his side.

“Are you all right?” the gunman repeated.

“Never felt better,” Blade replied.

“We’ve got those pesky varmints on the run,” Hickok declared. “All that’s left is the mopping up.”

“And we have to rescue the soldiers from the sentry posts,” Blade said.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“You know where they’re at?” Geronimo asked.

Blade nodded. “At a chemical plant General Reese needs to destroy.”

“I’m glad to see you’re in one piece,” Hickok commented. “But then, I reckon I should’ve known you’d be pulling a Geronimo.”

“A what?” Blade said.

“I should’ve known you’d be goofin’ off.”

Blade nodded at the dead longhorn. “You call this goofing off?”

“Sure,” the gunfighter said. “What else would you call what you were doing? I saw the whole thing from up on the stands. While we were fightin’ for our lives tryin’ to wipe out the Chosen, you were down here dancin’ with a blamed cow.”

He answered the knock on the cabin door, wondering who would be paying them a visit at such a late hour. His wizened features creased into a smile when the light from the lantern in his left hand illuminated their faces. “Nathan! Geronimo! You’ve returned safely.”

“Yep,” Hickok responded. “Sorry to be bothering you when it’s almost midnight, old-timer, but we figured you’d want us to report right away.”

Plato stared into the darkness. “Where’s Blade?”

“He’s fine,” Geronimo said. “He’s with Jenny and Gabe right this minute.”

“And we’re headin’ home ourselves,” Hickok mentioned. “I can’t wait to see my missus. She’ll be tickled pink that I’m back. Whenever we return from one of these runs, she can’t get enough of my pucker power.”

Geronimo glanced at the gunman. “Pucker power?”

“Never mind that,” Plato said impatiently. “How did Blade fare on the mission?”

“He acted as normal as me,” Hickok said.

“He did?” Plato declared, sounding worried.

“Yep. Except for dancin’ with a cow, he would’ve done Jim Bowie proud,” Hickok asserted.

Plato looked at Geronimo. “Can you translate?”

“Blade handled the mission efficiently. You have no reason to be concerned.”

“What about the plague?”

“There wasn’t one,” Geronimo answered.

“Yeah. It was just a bunch of yahoos who looked like walkin’ asparagus going around drinkin’ toxic chemicals and being unsociable,” Hickok elaborated.

“I see. I think,” Plato said. “Well, I don’t want to detain you. I know you’re eager to see your families.”

“See you in the morning,” Geronimo responded.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Hickok quipped.

Plato smiled as he closed the door. He paused, listening to their conversation as they moved off.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“You can ask me anything, pard. You know that.”

“What exactly is pucker power?”

LEISURE BOOKS

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A LEISURE BOOK® March 1990 Published by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

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Copyright ® 1990 by David L. Robbins

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