David Robbins: Dakota Run

Fort Knox is a place I read about in the Family library.”

“The what?”

“I’ll explain later. What’s your name?”

She managed to stand, her legs still a bit unsteady. “I’m called Cynthia Morning Dove.”

“Cynthia Morning Dove?” the man repeated. “Are you an Indian?”

“I am part Indian,” Cynthia proudly admitted. “My father is a white, but my mother is Oglala Sioux.”

The man in green laughed.

“You find this funny?” she demanded defensively.

“It’s not what you think,” he told her. “Once upon a time, I believed I was the last Indian on the face of the planet. Now I’m running into Indians all over the place. We’re worse than rabbits!”

“You are Indian?”

“Part Blackfoot,” he informed her.

“How are you known?”

“My name is Geronimo.”

“I like your name,” Cynthia declared. “It has a clean, strong sound to it.”

“So does Cynthia Morning Dove.”

There was a pause. “Where are you from?” she asked. “How did you get here?”

“My trusty feet brought me.” He grinned. “I’m glad they did.”

For an instant their eyes met, conveying mutual respect and an incipient attraction.

“We’d better make tracks,” Geronimo advised, glancing at the trees.

“Your friends may return.”

Cynthia looked over her left shoulder. “They will return,” she stated, “and they will bring others.”

“Feel up to riding?” he asked her.

Two of the horses were nearby. The one belonging to the deceased lariat rider was twenty yards off, contentedly munching on the grass. Fifty yards out was the last of the riflemen Geronimo killed, still slumped over his mount’s neck, the horse standing quietly, evidently awaiting a command from its owner.

“I can manage,” Cynthia assured him.

“Wait here,” Geronimo directed. He hastily retrieved the two animals, neither of which displayed any inclination to bolt. They certainly were well trained.

“I’ll take the paint,” Cynthia announced as he returned with the horses in tow, referring to the mount belonging to the man responsible for dragging her over the hard ground.

“That leaves the big black for me,” Geronimo commented, gripping the leather reins and swinging up onto the stallion.

Cynthia nimbly followed suit and kneed the paint forward, heading due east.

Geronimo closed in alongside her. “Do you have a specific destination in mind?” he inquired.

“Head east. The further east we go, the better,” Cynthia revealed. “If we keep going, maybe ten or twenty miles, it’s not very likely they’ll follow us.”

“Who are ‘they’?” Geronimo inquired.

“The Legion.”

Geronimo twisted as they reached the top of the eastern hill and eyed the treeline. Still no sign of pursuit. “Tell me about this Legion,” he instructed her.

“You’ve never heard of them?” Cynthia demanded, sounding surprised.

“Nope.”

“What about the Cavalry?”

“The Cavalry? You mean an official military unit?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Cynthia shook her head, guiding the paint around a large boulder.

“Tell me about them,” Geronimo urged. “Go back as far as you can, back as far as the Big Blast if possible.”

“You mean the Third World War?” Cynthia stated, grinning. “How old do you think I am?”

“Well, you’re certainly not one hundred years old,” Geronimo ronceded.

“But tell me what you can. The more I learn, the better.” He looked over his right shoulder as they reached the bottom of the hill, relieved the rim was clear of horsemen. If they kept the black and the paint at a fast walk, not quite a trot, they’d conserve their energy until it was needed.

“I don’t know a lot of the details,” Cynthia clarified, “but I do remember what my grandfather told me.”

“Let me hear it.” Geronimo slid the Marlin over his shoulder, his left hand on the reins. Thank the Great Spirit the Elders saw fit to teach every Family member to ride! True, the lessons weren’t extensive, because the Family only owned nine horses, but the memories were coming in handy.

“Let me see…” Cynthia was saying. “After the war, after the Government evacuated many people to the Civilized Zone and established a new capital in Denver, there were still people here, people who refused to be forcibly removed from their homes. One of them owned a large ranch in eastern South Dakota. I forget his name, but he organized his neighbors and others into a vigilante group called the Cavalry. They protected themselves from the scavengers and the looters and the Government troops. This rancher owned a huge herd of horses and cattle, a couple of hundred head of each, on his ranch near Redfield…”

“Redfield?” Geronimo interrupted.

“A small town about sixty or seventy miles southwest of here,” Cynthia detailed.

“That explains the Cavalry,” Geronimo noted, “but it doesn’t explain the Legion, the ones after you/’

Cynthia sighed, fatigued. “The rancher died a long time ago. Another man, name of Tanner, took control of the Cavalry. He was killed, and the leadership passed to his son, a man named Brent. Brent was gunned down, and his two sons, Rolf and Rory, became joint leaders, running the Cavalry together until about ten years ago.”

“Then what happened?”

“They had a falling out over a woman…”

“What else?” Geronimo smirked.

Cynthia ignored the taunt. “Rolf took about three hundred of the Cavalry with him and established his headquarters in Pierre. It used to be the capital of South Dakota, before the war. It’s west of here about one hundred and fifty miles. Correction. Make that southwest of here, near the Missouri River.”

“So let me guess,” Geronimo interjected. “This Rolf, for some obscure reason, decided to call his followers the Legion. Am I right?”

She grinned at him. “Not bad, bright boy! The Cavalry and the Legion have been fighting ever since, mostly small raids and skirmishes. Neither side wants an all-out war. The Legion has around three hundred horsemen, the original Cavalry about four hundred, so they’re pretty evenly matched. An all-out war would be suicidal. Not to mention stupid.”

“How so?”

“It would leave us open to attack from the Civilized creeps, the Government troops.”

“Ahhh, yes,” Geronimo nodded. “I’ve had the supreme displeasure of encountering Government troops before.”

“And you’re still alive?” she marveled. “And free?”

“Remind me to tell you about it sometime,” Geronimo directed. “But tell me first how you fit into the scheme of things.”

“Well, it’s like this. The Cavalry and the Legion protect their respective territories, insuring all the farmers and the ranchers are safe from the scavengers, the troops, the mutations, and whatever else comes along. My mother and father own a small farm about twenty miles east of here. Not much, but we get by. We’re required to provide the Cavalry with a portion of our crops, our fair share for their protection. But they can’t be everywhere at once. Yesterday morning a Legion patrol attacked our farm.

They burned our house and barn to the ground and abducted me. At least,” she said slowly, “they didn’t kill my mother and father or my younger brothers.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“I really don’t know,” she shrugged. “Unless the patrol captain had something to do with it. I think he wants me for himself, and he probably reasoned I’d be more… cooperative… if he left my folks alive.”

“So the patrol made camp for the night in that group of trees back there,” Geronimo deduced, “and you made a break for it today, the first chance you had.”