David Robbins - Dakota Run

The Cavalry and Legion men were lined up to the east and the west of the duelists, about half on each side.

Geronimo glanced over his left shoulder and noted Kilrane was holding his revolver in his right hand.

Any second now!

He recalled every word of advice they’d given him, going over it again and again. Stay low, close to the Palomino. Keep two-thirds of the lance in front of him. Don’t lock the elbow. It all sounded easy enough, but one mistake could cost him his life. His best bet might be to knock Rory off his horse. According to Kilrane, if he succeeded, he could end the conflict any way he desired. He’d use the Arminius to…

Hold it!

Had he reloaded the revolver after the fight with the ants?

No!

Geronimo debated whether to attempt to load the gun before Kilrane fired the starting shot, but decided against it. Too risky. Besides, he still had the tomahawk tucked in his belt. If worse came to worst, he’d use the tomahawk against his foe.

Rory was eyeing his opponent with a smug expression on his rotund face.

Hamlin was right. Rory was a cocky turd, to say the least!

The blast of Kilrane’s revolver behind him was the signal for the contest to begin.

Rory immediately goaded his mount forward into a gallop, leveling his lance as the horse gained speed.

Geronimo barely applied pressure to the Palomino and it was off, charging at Rory. He found it difficult to hold the long lance steady as the horse moved; the point kept bouncing up and down. The two animals were eating up the distance at an astounding rate. He realized he’d never impale Rory on the initial pass, so he opted to concentrate on avoiding Rory’s first strike.

Rory came in fast and strong, his lance aimed for Geronimo’s midsection. He leaned forward, adding momentum to his lunge, as the two horses came abreast of one another.

Geronimo saw that gleaming metal tip sweeping toward his stomach, and he instinctively adjusted, using his lower legs and knees to retain his hold on the Palomino as he lowered his upper torso over the side of his steed, away from Rory’s thrust.

The lance missed, and the two horses were past each other and already circling.

Geronimo sat up, trying to hold his lance steady. He heard an outburst of applause from the assembled horsemen.

Rory, his features a mask of intensity, was coming in for the second strike.

Geronimo hunched over, keeping his eyes locked on the tip of Rory’s lance.

The horses were only feet apart when Rory made his move, ramming his lance at his enemy.

Geronimo was scarcely able to twist aside. He felt Rory’s lance scrape his right side, and knew his own weapon was held too wide to be of any use.

In an instant, the mounts were circling again for the next strike.

Geronimo changed his grip on his lance, extending more of it in front of him, hoping the additional length would compensate for his inexperience.

Rory was bearing down, grinning, confident in his superior ability.

Geronimo gauged the space between them, prepared to attempt a new tactic.

Fifteen yards.

Ten.

He tensed his body, his fingers holding the lance so hard the knuckles turned white.

Five yards!

Now!

Geronimo swung to his left as Rory jabbed with his lance. The tip passed to Geronimo’s right, just missing his chest. In that split second, Geronimo had swung his own lance outward. He caught Rory in the side, smashing the wooden section against his ribs, but missed with the metal point.

A rousing cheer arose from the men as the two steeds geared for the fourth run.

What were those idiots cheering about? Geronimo wondered. He’d missed, hadn’t he?

He suddenly realized Rory had reined in.

Why?

Geronimo did likewise, confused. What was Rory up to now? He was just sitting there, staring. What for?

“You’re better than I thought!” Rory called out.

What was this act? Reverse psychology?

Geronimo smiled and raised his lance. “I’m getting the hang of it! Let’s try it one more time!”

Rory frowned. “You’re awful eager to die!”

“No,” Geronimo yelled. “I’m eager to kill you!”

“You don’t even know me!”

“True,” Geronimo conceded. “And from what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t want to know you!”

Rory, insulted, started his next charge.

So much for Mr. Nice Guy!

Geronimo leaned forward as the Palomino galloped ahead. He had to try something new this time, something unexpected. He couldn’t expect Rory to miss forever. So far, only dumb luck and his quick reflexes had prevented disaster.

Twenty yards to go.

Let’s see. What would be completely different? Something Rory wouldn’t expect in a million years?

Fifteen yards.

What could he possibly…?

They were ten yards apart when the inspiration struck Geronimo, and he put his idea into operation instantaneously with the thought. He wrenched on the reins, the Palomino responding magnificently, the horse slewing to an abrupt stop, even as Geronimo rose to his full height, the lance clenched in his right fist. He elevated his arm and swung the lance back, gathering his strength.

Rory, startled by the unorthodox maneuver, vainly endeavored to turn the black aside before it was too late.

He failed.

Geronimo swept the lance forward, throwing this weapon as he had a spear many times in the past. Among the many weapons Kurt Carpenter included in the Family armory were several spears, enclosed in a rack labeled “Miscellaneous.” Under a section headed “Early North American”

were several genuine Indian spears, and Geronimo had become proficient in their use by his tenth birthday. He’d spent hours upon hours developing his skill, and it had finally paid off.

The lance left Geronimo’s hand and arced through the air, the shining tip tearing into Rory’s body, entering at the right shoulder and exiting near the shoulder blade. .

Rory shrieked in agony and released his hold on the black’s reins, toppling off the horse, falling to his left, still holding his lance as he fell.

Geronimo wheeled the Palomino clear of the still running black, then slid from his steed and dropped to the grass, drawing his tomahawk as he landed.

Rory was on his knees, his right hand clutching the lance in his shoulder, his own lance on the ground in front of him.

Geronimo charged.

Rory saw him coming. He gripped the shaft of the lance in his shoulder with both hands. His face turned red as he exerted himself in a herculean effort and tore the lance from his body. Blood flowed down his brown shirt as he frantically clawed for the automatic pistol in his left holster.

Geronimo realized he’d never reach his foe before he managed to draw his pistol. The Arminius was empty, so there was only one thing to do.

He threw the tomahawk.

Rory was already bringing the pistol up.

All action seemed to revert to slow motion, as Geronimo watched the tomahawk flip end over end. He plainly saw the sweat on Rory’s strained face; he could see the stark fear in Rory’s wide eyes as he pointed the pistol; he observed, as if from a distance, the keen edge of the tomahawk bite into Rory’s forehead, splitting the skin and penetrating the bone, crimson spurting over Rory’s face, blood covering his eyes, as Rory’s head jerked backwards from the impact.

The pistol discharged, the shot plowing into the ground at Geronimo’s feet, and suddenly the world was operating at normal speed again.

Rory opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out except for a dribble of red over the right corner. He gasped, a vastly protracted sound, seemingly striving to inhale all the air in the atmosphere. Then his entire form quivered violently for several seconds before falling to one side. He landed on his left shoulder, rolled slightly forward, and lay still.