David Robbins - Denver Run

Maybe it was for the best. Blade had to face facts. He was growing tired of the constant conflict, of the perpetual fighting, of the continual bloodshed. He needed a break. As Family Leader, he could leave the fighting to the Warriors while he tended to his family—to Jenny and their future children. What was Jenny doing right now? he wondered. Probably shooting the breeze with Sherry, Hickok’s wife, and Cynthia, Geronimo’s mate. Taking it easy.

Blade watched a white cloud float by overhead.

Some people had all the luck!

Day two of the seige.

“Why haven’t they done anything yet?” demanded Spartacus impatiently. “Sunrise was hours ago.”

“Maybe they’re aimin’ to make us sweat,” Hickok replied.

“It’s working,” Spartacus declared. “No one got much sleep last night, and everyone is jumpy as all get out today.”

Hickok yawned. “Not everyone.”

The two Warriors stood on the west rampart above the drawbridge.

The defenders had spent the night at their posts, fearing an assault under cover of darkness. But the enemy camp had been silent the whole night.

“I wish they’d do something!” Spartacus complained.

“No need for ’em to rush,” Hickok countered. “The longer they take, the better for us.” He slowly moved his right shoulder in a circular motion to relieve a stiffening of the muscles. The Healers had ministered to his wounds, applying a herbal ointment and a bandage to his left thigh and right shoulder.

“How do you figure?” Spartacus said.

“I reckon the odds are in our favor the longer this set-to continues,” Hickok elaborated. “I doubt they lugged a ton of provisions along. They might have enough for a few days, even a week. But if we can hold out, Blade and the others will return. Then we’ll wipe these pansies out.”

“You’re dreaming,” Spartacus stated.

“How so?”

“We don’t know how much food they’ve brought with them,” Spartacus mentioned. “They could have enough to last a month. And we certainly don’t know when Blade will return. Who knows how long his campaign against Samuel will take? A week? A month? Six months? Remember, Blade vowed not to come back until the Civilized Zone was defeated. We both know Blade is a man of his word.”

Hickok laughed. “Do you always look at the negative side of things?”

“No,” Spartacus replied. “I’m being realistic.”

Hickok cocked his head, listening. Odd noises were emanating from the forest: sawing sounds, hammering, and shouting.

“Do you hear that?” Spartacus queried.

“Sure do, Pard.”

“They’re making ladders,” Spartacus deduced.

“Most likely,” Hickok concurred.

“Shouldn’t we be preparing?” Spartacus demanded, slightly irritated by the gunman’s poise when the Home was faced with imminent destruction.

“I’m working on it,” Hickok informed him.

Spartacus glanced over his right shoulder at the tank. “What about that?”

Hickok followed the direction of his friend’s gaze. “The tank?”

“Sure. Why not? The engine died right after we shot into it, but it may still work.”

“And who’s gonna drive that thing?” Hickok asked. “You?”

“I don’t know how to drive a tank,” Spartacus stated.

“And the Founder didn’t leave us any books in the library on tank drivin’,” Hickok quipped. “Darn! I guess the man couldn’t think of everything!”

“All right,” Spartacus said. “So none of us have driven a tank before.

But one of us has driven the SEAL a number of times.”

“I’m the only one who’s dri—” Hickok began, then stopped.

“Exactly,” Spartacus declared, grinning.

“I don’t know how to drive a tank,” Hickok commented.

“You could try,” Spartacus urged him.

“So could you.”

“Are you chicken?” Spartacus cracked.

“I ain’t no chicken,” Hickok responded indignantly.

“Then why not try it? What have you got to lose?” Spartacus pressed him.

Hickok stared at the metal titan. He had other notions on how to defend the Home, but the tank would definitely come in handy. If he could drive the critter. “Are those bodies still in there?”

“Nope,” Spartacus answered. “I had some of the men take them out and bury them last night, along with those bodies we fished out of the moat.”

“Keep a watch,” Hickok directed. He walked down the stairs to the inner bank and over to the tank.

Some of the defenders on the west wall were watching him.

Blasted busy bodies!

Hickok nonchalantly hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and strolled around the armored vehicle, sizing it up. Treads. Cannon. Machine gun.

What was it like inside?

There was only one way to find out.

Hickok clambered onto the massive vehicle. He stood on the body, near the cannon, and peered down the open hatch. The sunlight supplied ample illumination to reveal the interior. It looked sort of cramped way down there.

“Do you need a lantern?” one of the men manning the drawbridge called out.

Hickok glanced at the speaker, smiling. “Thanks. But I reckon I don’t need one.”

More of the defenders were gazing at the gunman.

Hickok peered into the tank again, frowning. Why couldn’t folks mind their own business?

Oh, well.

Here goes nothing.

The gunman climbed onto the hatch, slid his lanky legs over the edge, and released his grip. He dropped to the floor and crouched, getting his bearings.

Unbelievable!

Hickok had never seen so many switches, dials, and gauges in all his born days! What the blazes were they used for?

A small seat was located near the front of the vehicle, close to a panel filled with various indicators and buttons.

Hickok eased onto the seat and examined the control bank. Let’s see.

How would you turn on a tank? Would it have a key like the SEAL?

There wasn’t any sign of a key.

So much for that bright idea.

Hickok noticed a large black button on the console before him. Why didn’t they label these things? He reached for the button, then hesitated, unsure of himself. What if the button fired the cannon? He’d wind up blowing one of the Blocks to smithereens.

Maybe he just ought to forget it!

Hickok studied another panel, situated above his head. If he was correct, then that panel activated the cannon.

But what if he was wrong?

The gunman spotted a narrow eye slit, or port, directly in front of him.

He leaned forward and squinted through the opening. As near as he could tell, the cannon wasn’t pointing at any of the Blocks.

So much the better.

What to do? What to do?

Frustrated by his own indecision, Hickok stabbed the large black button.

The engine kicked over, thundered for a moment, and died.

Maybe, Hickok hopefully told himself, the motor had kicked the bucket.

Undaunted, the gunfighter tried the ignition again.

The engine roared to life, and this time it didn’t conk out.

Terrific!

Now what?

Hickok concentrated on a series of levers on his right. They vaguely resembled the gearshift in the SEAL.

Were these what he wanted?

Hickok gingerly took hold of one of the metal levers and attempted to move it forward.

There was a tremendous crunching and grinding noise, but the tank didn’t budge.

What was he doing wrong?

Hickok scanned the instrument panel. He tried to recall every word Plato had said about the SEAL, and the directions given in the SEAL’S

Operations Manual. The SEAL was fitted with an automatic transmission.

Hickok remembered reading about another type of transmission, one called a manual transmission. Or something to that effect.