David Robbins - Denver Run

“My sharpshooters will get you!” Brutus growled.

“Maybe.” Hickok nodded. “But it’s a long shot for them, and I’m only twenty yards from the Home and cover.” He winked at Brutus. “I think I’m gonna go for it.”

“Now you hold on!” Brutus exclaimed, a tinge of anxiety in his tone. “I came over here in good faith, under a white flag.”

“Nobody asked you to come.”

“I wanted to tell you how it is,” Brutus mentioned.

Hickok smiled. “I know how it is.”

“I’m not armed,” Brutus pointed out.

“So?”

“You’d kill an unarmed man?” Brutus demanded.

Hickok laughed. “You Civilized types ain’t much for brains, are you?”

He indicated the wall behind him “You’re threatening my Home, you scumbag! You want to kill my Family! I wouldn’t care if you were on your knees, beggin’ for mercy. I’d still blow you away.”

Brutus glanced over his left shoulder at the woods. “At least give me a running start.”

Hickok, overconfident, threw back his head and laughed again.

It was all the opening Brutus needed. His right foot swept up with surprising speed, catching the Warrior in his left thigh, impacting on the gunman’s wound, right on the bullet hole in his leg.

Hickok reacted instantly, his hands diving for the Pythons, and he was clearing leather when the heavy black boot struck his injury, causing an intensely excruciating wave of agony to wash over his body, doubling him over as he staggered backwards.

Brutus knew better than to try to jump the Warrior when the gunman was holding his revolvers. He whirled and raced for the forest, running a zigzag pattern, dropping the branch with the white flag.

The Family and Clan defenders on the west wall were gaping at the stunned Warrior, momentarily distracted from the fleeing Brutus.

Hickok dropped to his right knee, shaking his head to clear the pain.

He saw Brutus about 15 to 20 yards out, his sturdy legs pumping.

Something struck the ground in front of the gunman, spraying dirt over his moccasins.

The sharpshooters!

Hickok struggled to his feet and snapped off a shot from his right Python, his arm slightly unsteady from the torment in his leg.

More bullets were biting into the earth around the Warrior.

“Give him cover!” Spartacus shouted on the rampart.

The Family and Clan fighters started firing at the trees.

Hickok was furious! His first shot had apparently missed! The son of a bitch was still on his feet and making for the woods. Hickok forced his mind to ignore the anguish in his leg.

He couldn’t let Brutus get away!

The left Colt boomed and bucked in his hand.

About 40 yards away, Brutus stumbled and almost fell. He recovered and continued his mad sprint for the safety of the forest.

Blast!

Hickok hobbled to his right as the turf near him erupted in a shower of dirt and dry grass.

He had to hurry!

Both Pythons blasted.

Over 50 yards off, Brutus flung his long arms out and pitched onto his face.

Something tugged at Hickok’s right shoulder. He disregarded a fleeting twinge and limped forward, wanting to be sure, to put a few more rounds into Brutus.

More and more dirt kicked up at the gunfighter’s feet.

Brutus was on his hands and knees, wobbly, endeavoring to rise.

A squad of 15 soldiers burst from the tree line, hastening to the rescue of their leader, firing their M-16’s.

He had to nail Brutus!

Hickok managed three more shots, when strong arms encircled him from the rear and bodily lifted him from his feet.

“We can’t afford to lose you!” declared a voice in the gunman’s ear.

“Let me go!” Hickok bellowed. “I can get him, Spartacus!”

Spartacus, flanked by six other defenders, hurried toward the drawbridge, dragging the reluctant Hickok with him.

Although his arms were pinned to his side, Hickok could still move his elbows and wrists. He angled the barrels of his Pythons and fired each revolver.

Brutus, on his feet again, spun and clutched at his right side.

Dozens of troopers had emerged from the forest and were providing cover fire.

Spartacus reached the drawbridge with his squirming friend. A young woman from the Family abruptly groaned and toppled to the hard ground, not a foot away.

“Grab her!” Spartacus directed as he crossed the drawbridge.

Hickok ceased resisting once they were in the center of the drawbridge.

“Raise the drawbridge once we’re all inside!” Spartacus commanded.

He reached the inner bank and released the gunman.

The defenders on the west wall were still embroiled in their fire fight.

Hickok turned, frowning. “Why’d you butt in, pard?” he demanded. “I almost had the sucker.”

Spartacus placed his right hand on the gunman’s left shoulder. “There were too many of them. They were getting your range. Look. You’ve been hit again.”

Hickok glanced at his right shoulder. The buckskin fabric was torn, revealing a crimson patch underneath.

“I appreciate what you tried to do,” Spartacus continued, “but killing him was no guarantee the others would leave us alone.”

“It was worth a shot,” Hickok disputed him.

The drawbridge was clear, and the four men working the mechanism quickly elevated it.

The shooting on the western rampart was tapering off.

“Spartacus!” a man yelled down. “They made it to the trees!”

Hickok glanced up at the speaker, a burly Clan member with a Winchester. “And what about their leader? The guy in brown?”

“He must have been hurt real bad,” the Clansman replied. “They had to carry him the last twenty yards.”

“At least it wasn’t a total waste,” Hickok opined.

“Now we’re going to have the Healers examine you,” Spartacus informed his fellow Warrior.

“It’s too bad you’re not hitched yet, pard,” Hickok said.

“Why’s that?” Spartacus asked.

Hickok smirked. “Because someday you’re gonna make some child a terrific mother.”

Imperial Assassins?

The first figure in black crossed the living room in four strides, swinging his sword in a vicious arc, aiming at the giant Warrior’s neck.

Blade reacted instinctively, whipping his right Bowie from its sheath and parrying the sword. The two weapons produced a loud clanging sound as they collided.

The man in black was well trained. He turned the parry into another strike, bringing his sword down and around, going for the Warrior’s knees.

Blade lunged backward, narrowly evading the keen edge of his opponent’s sword. Before the figure could recover, Blade surged in and up with all of his prodigious strength.

The man in black grunted as the Bowie was imbedded in his chest. His head lolled back and a great gush of air escaped from his lips.

Blade wrenched his Bowie free and stood aside.

The man in black tumbled to the floor.

Blade twisted to confront the other two.

They were gone.

What the…?

Blade cautiously moved toward the archway separating the living room from the kitchen.

Where had they gone? Who were the Imperial Assassins? Why did they dress all in black and carry Oriental weaponry? A memory stirred in the recesses of Blade’s mind. He recalled one of the martial arts books in the Family library. What was the title of it? Masters of Death: The Ninja .

Come to think of it, there were a number of books dealing with the ninja.

These Imperial Assassins reminded him of the traditional descriptions of the ninja. Was it possible? Were these Imperial Assassins really ninja, or simply elite soldiers trained in the martial arts and dressed as ninja?