David Robbins - Denver Run

Bullets spattered into the mound of dirt.

The gunman rolled, bearing Sherry with him. They slid over the top and tumbled to the ground on the far side. Hickok rose to his knees, scanning to his right and left.

Spartacus, Ares, and the remaining 138 defenders were ready, their guns in their hands, crouched below the rim of the breastwork.

Hickok glanced over the top of the earthen mound.

Hundreds of soldiers were crammed into the open space between the breastwork and the moat, the nearest ranks only 15 yards away. There was nowhere they could hide, nothing they could use as cover. They were caught in the open, completely unprotected, utterly defenseless.

Now!

“Fire!” Hickok commanded at the top of his lungs.

In unison, the defenders rose up from behind the breastwork and fired.

Their firearms, a mixture of automatics, lever and bolt actions, and shotguns, belched death and thundered annihilation upon the soldiers.

The troopers reacted as if, en masse, they had slammed into an invisible barrier. Many were arrested in mid stride, their green uniforms dotted with bright red holes. The soldiers in the rear, unaware of the devastation in front, pushed forward, preventing the forward ranks from escaping.

The defenders fired and fired and fired.

Their ranks ravaged by the fusillade, the troopers wavered, then broke, fleeing back toward safety, toward the moat and the makeshift bridge.

Hickok tensed, waiting for the coup de grace. If Shane was in position, and if none of the soldiers had spotted him, and if he had emptied the gas cans into the moat as instructed…

The soldiers were clustered on the inner bank, climbing the stairs, and darting across the bridge when the moat went up. A veritable inferno of flame fried them to a crisp, burning the bridge and setting the overhead stairs afire. Cries of suffering and torment filled the air.

Hickok swept the defenders with his gaze. “Charge!” he ordered, and vaulted the breastwork. He closed on the hapless troopers, his Pythons booming, downing two, three, four in swift succession.

Spartacus was at his side every step of the way.

Caught between the flaming moat and the onrushing defenders, the troopers were ruthlessly butchered, game to the last man, resisting with their dying breath. Their bodies were piled in heaps.

The gunfire gradually tapered off as fewer and fewer of the soldiers were able to oppose the defenders.

Hickok stopped, endeavoring to see through the acrid smoke.

Fatigue-covered forms overspread the ground.

“Hickok!” someone roared to his right.

The gunman whirled, his Pythons held at waist level, his fingers on the triggers.

It was Brutus.

The hulking brute was seven yards away, his left hand holding a stout branch and using it as a crutch, while his right held an automatic pistol.

Brutus grinned, knowing he had the gunman, knowing the best the gunfighter could hope was to tie him and even then Hickok was dead.

With a resounding, deafening detonation, the nearby tank exploded, its ammunition and shells ignited by the blaze in the moat.

The concussion knocked both Hickok and Brutus to the earth, a gust of hot air spurting past them.

Hickok rose to his knees first, and he fired both Pythons as Brutus heaved erect, he fired again as Brutus lurched backward, and again as Brutus attempted to lift his pistol.

And then Spartacus was there, appearing beside Brutus out of the smoke, his broadsword grasped in both hands. He swung the blade with all of his might, putting his entire body into a gleaming arc as the broadsword cleaved the air and connected with Brutus’s neck.

Hickok saw Brutus’s head leave his body, soaring upward end over end, trailing a crimson plume. The head seemed to move in slow motion as it attained the apex of its flight and plummeted to the earth, bouncing twice and finally coming to a rest at the gunman’s feet.

“Are you okay?” Sherry asked from the gunman’s right.

Hickok nodded. The gunfire had ended. He stared at the grisly trophy of his victory, fascinated.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Sherry persisted.

Hickok abruptly felt as if every muscle, every bone in his whole body, ached, had been stretched to its limit and far beyond. “I’m fine,” he mumbled.

Ares joined them, exulting in their triumph. “We did it!” he gloated.

“We beat them! We saved the Home!”

Hickok absently gazed at the hundreds of bodies around him, many of them near the moat charred beyond recognition. “Yeah,” he said dryly.

“We did it.”

Ares glanced at Sherry and Spartacus, puzzled. “I don’t get it. What’s the matter with you?” he asked the gunman.

Hickok wearily bolstered his Pythons and looped his left arm under Sherry’s right shoulder. “Nothing,” he replied, leading her off.

“Hey!” Ares called after them. “What do you want us to do? Where are you going?”

Hickok paused and looked back. “I want you to form a detail and clean up this mess. Scout the forest and make sure none of them are left. Allow some of our people to rest. Work them in shifts.”

“But what about you?” Ares inquired.

“I’m going to have the Healers tend to my wife,” Hickok responded, “and then we’re going to enjoy some heavy kissy-wissy in our cabin.”

“Are you serious?” Ares queried.

“I promise I’ll shoot the first son of a bitch who interrupts us,” Hickok vowed. “Is that serious enough for you?”

“Sounds pretty serious to me,” Ares admitted.

Hickok and Sherry strolled off, arm in arm.

Ares glanced at Spartacus. “Now what was that all about?”

“I think Hickok just told you something,” Spartacus said, wiping his bloody broadsword on his left pant leg.

“Like what?”

“Like,” Spartacus stated thoughtfully, “maybe, instead of flapping your gums over our great win, you should be giving thanks you’re still alive.”

Ares surveyed the battlefield, the dead and the dying, the pools of blood, and the charred and ruptured bodies. “Oh,” was all he could think of to say. Then once more, very softly, “Oh.”

Blade was dreaming. He was lying on his back in a soft, plush bed, his head propped on a comfortable white pillow. The bed was ornate, with four wooden posts at each corner and a blue canopy overhead. This fancy bed was unlike any the Family owned; theirs were plain and Spartan compared to this luxurious resting place. Yes, he knew he was dreaming, so he didn’t become alarmed when a brown-haired man with a kind face, but wearing a military uniform, entered his dream through a door situated beyond the foot of the bed. He wasn’t particularly concerned as this soldier walked around the bed and approached him. After all, what possible harm could a figment of his imagination do?

Consequently, the Warrior chief was flabbergasted when this apparition smiled at him, took hold of his right wrist, and spoke. “You’re awake!”

It wasn’t a dream!

He’d been captured by Samuel!

Blade came up off the bed in a rush, his right hand lashing out and clamping on the soldier’s throat.

“Help!” the man screamed. “Help!”

Blade applied more pressure on the soldier’s neck, striving to crush his windpipe before his cries brought the guards.

He wasn’t successful.

The bedroom door flew open and in ran Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, his katana in its scabbard clutched in his right hand.

Blade gawked, confused. Had Rikki come to rescue him?

“Blade! Release him!” Rikki came up to Blade and took hold of his right arm. “Let him go!” he urged.

Perplexed, Blade reluctantly relaxed his fingers.

The unfortunate soldier staggered backward, gasping for breath. “He… nearly… killed me!” he wheezed.