David Robbins - Denver Run

Perfect.

Hickok grinned. To the Army commander, it would appear as though there were only 69 defenders on the western wall, when in reality there were now 135.

Surprise!

Hickok glanced over his right shoulder at the four men manning the drawbridge mechanism. “Get ready to lower the drawbridge!” he shouted down to them.

“Lower the drawbridge?” Spartacus repeated in astonishment. “Are you crazy?”

“Tell everyone to fire on my order,” Hickok instructed him.

“What do you have up your sleeve?” Spartacus asked. “I thought you said you want my input on everything.”

“I have this up my sleeve,” Hickok said, displaying the pillowcase. “I aim to—”

“They’re coming!” a woman nearby screamed.

Hickok looked out over the field. Sure enough, the tank was advancing toward the Home. Two to three dozen soldiers followed behind it.

“No time now,” the gunman said to Spartacus. “Just have everbody set to fire when I give the word.” He hurried to the stairs.

Spartacus, annoyed, turned to the man on his right, a Family Blacksmith. “Pass the word along the wall. Fire on Hickok’s command.”

The Blacksmith started the message down the line of anxious defenders.

What was the gunfighter up to? Spartacus unslung his Heckler and Koch HK93 from his left shoulder and checked the magazine, his gaze on the gunman.

Hickok, armed only with his Colt Pythons, the white pillowcase in his right hand, descended the stairs to the ground. “Lower the drawbridge!”

he barked at the quartet assigned to the mechanism.

The four men exchanged puzzled expressions, but they promptly did as they had been told.

Hickok stood on the inner bank of the moat, grinning in anticipation.

He waited as the drawbridge slowly lowered toward him, thudding to a horizontal stop across the moat, its massive wooden planks mere inches from the Warrior’s toes.

The tank and its deadly entourage had reached the halfway point between the forest and the west wall of the Home. The armored titan rumbled to an unexpected halt.

Hickok deliberately backed up, placing a good ten feet between the drawbridge and himself. He raised the white pillowcase and swung the material in wide circles over his blond head.

There was a metallic clanking sound, and an opening appeared on the top of the tank as an oval hatch of some kind was pushed aside. A man wearing a green helmet popped into view, visible from his shoulders up.

He stared at the lowered drawbridge and the man waving the white flag, then twisted and yelled a few words to the men following the tank.

Hickok could readily imagine their confusion. They were wondering if the Family was surrendering. Why else would someone be signaling with a white pillowcase?

Another man in green walked around the left side of the tank. He stopped and studied the situation with a pair of binoculars.

Hickok smiled, hoping he seemed appropriately friendly enough for the occasion.

The man in green, evidently an officer, lowered the binoculars and spoke to the man on the tank.

The man on the tank nodded, and at a word from him the gargantuan engine of destruction lumbered directly for the open drawbridge.

Hickok glanced up at the rampart. Spartacus looked like he was about to lay an egg. “Get that toothpick of yours ready,” he directed his confused friend, as loudly as he dared.

Spartacus, his brow furrowed in consternation, slung the HK93 over his left shoulder and drew his broadsword.

Hickok watched the tank approach, heading straight toward him. Dear Spirit, but the blasted thing was big ! He could see its titanic treads tearing up the soft soil as it neared the west wall. Clumps of brown dirt flew off to the sides.

The man with the helmet was still visible from the shoulders up, alertly scanning the drawbridge and the rampart for any indication of treachery.

Keep coming, moron! Hickok backed up some more, flapping the white pillowcase overhead.

The sound of the tank’s motor was a strident roar by the time the monster reached the other side of the drawbridge.

Hickok grinned and waved for all he was worth.

The man in the helmet cupped his hands around his mouth. “If you make one false move, I will blow you to shreds!”

Nice guy! Hickok retreated several more feet. “Don’t!” he cried in false terror. “We surrender!”

“Just like that?” the man responded skeptically.

“We can’t fight a tank!” Hickok shouted. “I don’t want any of our women and children hurt!”

Helmet-head nodded. He could understand such a motive. “I am coming across! No tricks!” he paused. “Hey! Aren’t you the one who raided our camp and stole one of our jeeps?”

“It wasn’t me!” Hickok lied. What did he mean— stole a jeep?

Helmet-head smirked and said something to whoever was inside the tank. It rolled across the drawbridge, treading carefully, inch by inch.

Helmet-head glanced up at the rampart as he passed below it, but the defenders he could see weren’t pointing their weapons in his direction.

Dozens of troopers closed in on the heels of the tank.

Hickok withdrew another eight feet or so.

The tank crawled over the drawbridge, stopping when it reached the inner bank.

Hickok found himself staring into the muzzle of the cannon. He detected a slight motion to his right, and realized a machine gun was covering him through a narrow port. He also noticed an inch or two of clear space between the barrel of the machine gun and the edges of the port.

An officer, the one with the binoculars, walked around the left side of the tank, taking care not to fall from the drawbridge into the moat. He had brown hair and an angular chin. “You are the Warrior known as Hickok, are you not?” he demanded as he halted in front of the vehicle, just to the left of the machine-gun port.

“Howdy!” Hickok beamed. “I’m right pleased to meet you.”

“Cut the prattle, you buffoon!” the officer snapped. “I am Captain Luther. All of you will lay down your arms immediately!”

“Say ‘pretty please’ first,” Hickok said.

Captain Luther scowled. “This isn’t a joke, you idiot! Your surrender will be unconditional and immediate!’”

“Surrender? No one said we were surrenderin’,” Hickok stated.

“What?” Captain Luther was turning red in the cheeks. “Then why were you waving a white flag?”

“Flies,” Hickok replied.

“There aren’t any flies at this time of year!” Captain Luther almost shrieked.

“My mistake,” Hickok admitted. “I meant to say vermin.”

In those final fleeting seconds, Captain Luther comprehended. He tried to turn, to shout a warning to his men.

He never uttered a word.

Hickok glanced up at Spartacus, nodded once, and dropped the white pillowcase as his hands flashed to his Pythons. He cleared leather and fired before the pillowcase reached the earth.

The gunman’s shots caught Luther near the right ear and exploded out his forehead, raining blood and brains on the tank.

Even as the gunfighter drew, Spartacus was in motion. He took a flying leap from the rampart, his broadsword clutched in his right fist, and sailed over the heads of the soldiers below. His feet landed on the rear of the tank, on the very lip, and he nearly lost his balance before he recovered his footing and lunged at the man with the helmet.

Helmet-head heard the pounding of a heavy object behind him and spun.

Spartacus swung his broadsword with all the power in his muscular shoulders.

Helmet-head was about to yell an order when the point of the broadsword ripped into the left side of his throat and drove out the other side in a magnificent crimson spray.