David Robbins - Denver Run

One man, standing by himself in the center of the western rampart above the drawbridge, was immune to the cold. He stood with his right hand on the hilt of his broadsword, dressed in his blue shirt, buckskin pants, and a brown-leather jacket constructed by the Weavers from deer hide.

Spartacus was uneasy.

Had he done all he could possibly do?

His mind was racing a mile a minute. He had tried to get some sleep, but had tossed and turned until, exasperated, he had risen, donned his jacket, and walked from B Block to the western rampart.

Was there anything he had missed?

Spartacus was troubled to the depths of his soul. The Family’s very existence depended on his judgment in the crises ahead. If he failed, if he let them down, they would all perish.

A sobering thought if ever there was one.

Spartacus reviewed the steps he had taken so far. The Clan’s noncombatants had been placed in F Block and D Block. The Family’s children and elderly were in the cabins in the middle of the compound.

Weapons from the armory had been distributed. Theoretically, he had done all he could to prepare for the assault.

A skeleton crew was manning the ramparts during the night. At first light all of the fighters from the Family and the Clan would be on their assigned walls. Then would come the hard part.

The waiting.

How long would it take the enemy convoy to reach the Home? Probably by midmorning their vehicles would be within sight of the walls. Would they launch their attack in the afternoon, or wait another night?

Spartacus glanced to his right. One of the Tillers was on guard duty, a lean youth who nervously hefted the Iver Johnson M1 Carbine he was carrying. The Tillers weren’t accustomed to handling firearms; working with a plow, reaping a harvest from the soil, was their stock in trade.

Spartacus realized the M1 must feel as alien to the young Tiller as a plow would to him. Unlike the Tiller, he considered weapons a fundamental part of his life.

Like his broadsword.

Spartacus gazed down at his cherished blade. It hadn’t been his first choice; initially, he’d wanted to own the short sword. Unfortunately, the short sword had already been in the possession of Ares. Because the Founder, Kurt Carpenter, had only stocked one of each type of sword, Spartacus had been compelled to substitute the broadsword for the short sword. Now, years later, he wouldn’t part with the broadsword for anything; it had become an extension of his arm, of his personality. He looked down near his feet, at the Heckler and Koch HK93 leaning against the parapet. Spartacus had used it on many occasions on the Family firing range in the southeastern corner of the Home. But he lacked the sentimental attachment for the HK93 that he had for the broadsword.

Guns were too impersonal. He couldn’t understand how someone like Hickok could prefer a pair of Colt Python revolvers to a trusty sword. A bladed weapon enabled you to—

What was that?

Spartacus glanced up and out over the field in front of the western wall.

There it was again.

A dull rumbling sound of some sort.

“Horses are coming,” the young Tiller announced.

Spartacus grinned. There were certain advantages to working with horses and a plow after all. He bent over and retrieved his HK93.

Approaching horses undoubtedly meant Boone and the Cavalry riders, but he couldn’t afford to take chances.

The pounding of heavy hooves drew nearer.

Spartacus peered into the darkness. A vague, swirling mass became visible in the field, making a beeline for the drawbridge. He waited until he was certain the riders were all wearing buckskins, then he moved to the top of the stairs. “Open the drawbridge!” he shouted to the three men below.

Boone was at the head of the column of riders. They reined in, constraining their mounts until the drawbridge was fully lowered.

Spartacus hurried down the stairs to greet them.

Boone urged his steed forward, its hooves thumping on the wooden bridge as he crossed and entered the compound.

“How’d it go?” Spartacus inquired.

Boone grinned and jerked his right thumb over his shoulder. “See for yourself.”

The rider behind Boone was carrying an extra load. The indistinct form of a man was lying on his stomach across the horse’s rump, his body completely enveloped in a bulky brown hide. Loops of rope restrained him from his shoulders to his knees. Only his moccasin-covered feet protruded from under the hide.

“What’s this?” Spartacus asked.

Boone slid to the ground as his men milled about. “We were working our way to the Army camp when a lot of shooting broke out.”

“Were they shooting at you?” Spartacus queried.

“Don’t think so,” Boone answered. “There was a lot of lead flying around. It was too dark to tell what the fracas was all about. One of my men saw this one sneaking through the trees and pounced on him.”

The figure in the hide was struggling to break free and yelling. His words were too muffled by the hide to make any sense.

“We wrapped him up in a horsehide and brought him back here,” Boone went on. “We weren’t able to get close to the camp, but questioning one of them will get us the information we need.”

“Let’s take a look at our guest,” Spartacus proposed.

Boone nodded at the rider, who unceremoniously dumped his cargo onto the hard earth.

The man in the horsehide uttered an audible grunt.

Boone walked to the hide and began unraveling the lariat securing the prisoner.

Spartacus covered the figure while the Cavalry riders watched. Boone had done well. This man would talk, or Spartacus would use him for a pincushion.

That was when he finally noticed.

“He’s wearing moccasins,” Spartacus noted. “I thought that the soldiers all wore black combat boots.”

Boone was still undoing the rope. “Maybe he was a scout. I hear they sometimes wear civilian duds.”

The man in the horsehide had quieted.

As Boone continued to undo the rope, the folds of the horsehide loosened. The lower edge flapped in the wind, exposing the form underneath to the waist.

“He’s got a gun!” one of the riders cried in alarm.

Actually, he had two. A pair of pearl-handled revolvers, one in each hand.

Boone rose and started to draw his .44 Magnums.

“I don’t think those will be necessary,” Spartacus said.

Boone paused and glanced at Spartacus, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Take a good look at those revolvers,” Spartacus suggested.

Boone knelt and stared at the handguns. It took a minute for it to dawn on him. He looked up at Spartacus. “It can’t be!”

“You know it can’t be,” Spartacus said, “and I know it can’t be. But…”

He walked up to the hide and leaned over the prone figure, placing his mouth up to the hide in the general vicinity of the man’s head. “Hickok? Is that you?”

The form in the horsehide exploded, jerking and thrashing in an attempt to free himself. A string of barely audible, colorful phrases punctuated his effort.

“Calm down!” Spartacus advised. “We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”

Boone quickly finished removing the lariat from the thick hide. He grabbed the bottom edge and lifted, pulling the hide clear of the man inside and stepping back.

Just in time.

His face a livid red, his blond hair a mess, his buckskins disheveled, the Family’s preeminent gunfighter surged to his feet, caught in the glow from the lanterns placed in the nearby wall. He glared at everyone and everything, his knuckles white on the grips of his Pythons. He glowered at Spartacus, then Boone, then at the Cavalry riders. Even their horses were included in his baleful scrutiny. He had the menacing air of a man eager to shoot someone or something, anyone or anything. All it would take was the right provocation.