David Robbins - Thief River Falls Run

“Harry!” Pete exclaimed. He jerked the Springfield to his shoulder, prepared to fire, but Harry was between him and the prisoner.

Hickok darted into the ravine, head first, the underbrush grabbing at his body, barbed limbs tearing at his exposed face. He disappeared, the thicket closing behind him.

“Son of a bitch!” Harry fumed, enraged. He had regained his footing as Hickok vanished, and brought the Henry up, too late to fire.

“What do we do?” Pete ran back and joined his companion. “Let him get away?”

“Like hell!” Harry spat into the water. “We kill him, that’s what we do.

Don’t worry about the noise either. We’ll be long gone by the time any help could arrive.”

“What then?”

“You take the left bank,” Harry said, pointing at the sloping southern ridge of the ravine, “and I’ll take the right. We’re bound to find him. When you do, shoot to kill.”

“Maybe we can catch him in a cross fire.”

“Just so we catch him! Move!”

Pete scrambled up the left ridge, fighting the thick vegetation every step of the way.

Harry did likewise on the northern slope.

Pete reached the top and crouched, his eyes probing for any sign. The brush below was quiet, undisturbed by human passage. Locating their captive would be difficult. He could hide in dozens of places, wait for them to pass him by, then backtrack to the stream and make his escape.

Harry stopped at the top of the other ridge, getting his bearings. He could see Pete searching for the target. Where the hell was he? Harry moved along the ridge, avoiding the trees and boulders blocking his way.

He skirted the thickest brush, always keeping to the ravine side, seeking his quarry. Those buckskins shouldn’t be too hard to spot, even with the growth as bad as it was. All it would take would be just one revealing shaft of sunlight.

Ahead, a bird twittered. The call was answered by another bird on Pete’s ridge.

Harry stepped carefully, minimizing his noise. He noticed three large boulders down in the ravine, arranged in a naturally shaped triangle, with a small space between them. A space big enough for a man? It would make excellent cover and ideal protection from shots fired from the ridges.

If I were hiding down there, Harry told himself, that’s where I would go to ground. He stopped next to a tree and crouched, biding his time. Sooner or later that bastard would show himself.

There was no sign of Pete.

Harry shifted his weight from his left to his right leg. The left was beginning to cramp. He was sick and tired of this field duty! He wanted to get home, back to civilization, where he belonged.

There was a soft scuffing sound behind him.

Harry casually turned his head, not expecting any trouble, knowing the prisoner couldn’t possibly have climbed the walls of the ravine in his condition. So he was completely startled to see a man in green, with brown eyes and short black hair, standing four feet away, holding a hatchet or something similar over his head.

“Pete!” Harry screamed, pivoting, bringing the Henry to bear.

Geronimo, one of his tomahawks upraised, leaped, hitting the Watcher square in the chest, bowling him over, both of them tumbling down the ravine.

Pete, on the opposite ridge, heard Harry’s warning shout. He ran as quickly as he could, trying to spot Harry. Damn it! Why had he let Harry get out of sight? He spied a commotion on the slope of the northern ridge.

Harry was fighting another man! Pete hurried, hunting for an open spot, needing a clear shot if he was to come to Harry’s assistance. He found a level spot below a boulder and stopped, raising the Springfield to his shoulder. Come on, Harry! Give me a shot!

Harry had lost his rifle. He was grappling with a man in green, the two rolling in the brush. Harry clutched his hunting knife in his left hand, and his attacker held something resembling a hatchet in his right. Both men strained, trying to gain the advantage. Come on, Harry! “Drop the gun!”

The voice came from behind and above him. Pete instinctively ducked and swung the Springfield, cursing his stupidity for not realizing there might be another attacker.

This new menace was perched on top of the boulder, a muscular man with a large knife in his right hand.

Pete got off a hasty shot, knowing he had missed, watching in horror as the man made an overhand motion. He caught the gleam of the streaking blade, and a shock struck his chest as it entered.

“No!” Pete managed a croak, his limbs sagging as he gaped at the knife handle protruding from his chest. “It can’t be,” he added, losing his grip on the Springfield. It fell to the ground, and a moment later he followed it.

Blade jumped from the boulder, landing beside his fallen foe. “You really should have dropped the gun,” he said.

The struggle on the other slope was intensifying.

Harry freed his knife hand and lunged, missing. He was lying on the bottom, with the other man’s right knee pressed into his stomach.

“Drop the knife,” Geronimo ordered. Blade had said they should try to take one of these men alive, if at all possible.

“Go to hell!” Harry hissed, swinging the knife again, missing again.

Geronimo wrenched his right arm free and slashed the tomahawk straight down, the blade biting into Harry’s forehead, driving deep.

Harry’s eyes widened, he gasped for air, his limbs thrashing, and he tried to rise.

Geronimo stood and watched the Watcher’s death throes. “You can go to hell,” he stated as Harry died. “When I go, I’m going to the higher worlds of the Great Spirit.”

“You all right?” Blade called from the other ridge.

“Fine. How about you?”

“Okay. Where do you think Hickok is?”

“Right here.” Hickok was standing between three boulders in the ravine below. He seemed to be having difficulty staying on his feet.

Blade and Geronimo moved toward Hickok.

“You hurt?” Blade asked the gunman. He noticed Hickok’s hands were tied behind his back, his buckskins were streaked with dirt and grime, and his face appeared to be badly battered. There was a prominent wound above his right eyebrow.

“I’m plumb tuckered out, pard,” Hickok said feebly as his two friends approached. He began to sway. “As far as being hurt is concerned.” He grinned weakly. “I’d have to say… the… answer… is yes.”

Hickok’s eyes closed and he fell, bouncing off one of the boulders before he hit the ground.

“Nathan!” Blade shouted, racing toward the boulders. Please, he prayed to the Spirit, please let him be alive!

“Josh, wake up!” Bertha smacked his left arm. “You’ve been sleepin’ long enough.”

Joshua raised his head and opened his eyes. “I’m not sleeping,” he informed her.

“Then what’ve you been doing all this time?”

“Praying.”

“Say what?”

“Praying. Don’t you know what praying is?”

Bertha shook her head.

“What kind of religion do you practice in the Twin Cities?” Joshua inquired.

“Religion? Oh, you mean the God stick.”

“The God stick?”

“Yeah.” Bertha nervously scanned the trees for the hundredth time since Blade and Geronimo had gone after Hickok. “The Horns do something called the God stick. Never did understand it myself, but then I was born a Porn and I would of died a Porn if I hadn’t met Zahner and been convinced to switch to the Nomads.”

Joshua, bewildered, pressed her for additional information. “Can you tell me anything about the God stick?”

“Not much. It’s one of the big differences between the Horns and the Porns. Has something to do with magic, I think.”