Denver Run

Chapter Fifteen

Day three of the siege.

One hour after dawn.

“I don’t like the looks of this,” Spartacus commented.

“You and me both, pard,” Hickok agreed, peering at the enemy line through a pair of binoculars.

“What are they doing now?” Spartacus asked.

“Nothin’,” the gunman replied. “They’re waitin’ for the word to attack.”

Spartacus pointed at a mound of dirt near the tree line 150 yards from the west wall. “What do you suppose that is? They completed it during the night.”

“I reckon they’re hidin’ somethin’,” Hickok said.

“What?”

“How should I know?” Hickok rejoined. “I can’t see through a pile of dirt.”

The mysterious dirt mound was situated directly across the field from the drawbridge. On either side of the mound, their M-16’s in their hands, were hundreds of soldiers. The scene was the same from each of the walls; whether it was the west, north, south, or east, hundreds of troops were lined up adjacent to a dirt mound.

“Did you get that gas like I told you?” Hickok inquired.

Spartacus nodded. “Blade took most of it with him. All I could locate were three cans.”

“It’ll have to do. Where did you put it?”

“I placed the cans about twenty yards north of the drawbridge,” Spartacus responded. “They’re hidden behind a tree near the moat.”

“Perfect.”

Spartacus scanned the line of soldiers. “Do you think we can hold them?”

Hickok lowered the binoculars. “We’ll do our best, pard.”

“At least they didn’t attack last night,” Spartacus commented.

“Did you get any sleep?” Hickok asked.

“I tried,” Spartacus replied. “But I didn’t get much.”

“Me neither, pard,” Hickok said. He surveyed the defenders nervously manning the western wall. “Two nights in a row without much shut-eye. I’ll bet ol’ Brutus planned it this way. Pretty crafty of the vermin.”

“You think he’s still alive?” Spartacus inquired.

Hickok nodded. “Yep. I got the impression Brutus is one tough hombre.”

Spartacus looked at the gunman. “Say…” he began.

“What?”

“I noticed you placed Blade’s wife, Jenny, and Geronimo’s wife, Cynthia, in C Block with the Healers.”

“Yeah? So?” Hickok responded defensively. “Jenny is a Healer, you know. And Cynthia can lend her a hand.”

Spartacus grinned.

“What’s so blamed humorous?” Hickok demanded.

“I—” Spartacus started to speak, then abruptly stopped.

The clear, penetrating blast of a bugle punctuated the crisp morning air.

“Uh-oh,” Hickok said.

Again the bugle sounded. And a third time.

“Have you passed the word to fire on my command?” Hickok queried.

“The order was given,” Spartacus replied.

“They’ll begin the attack any second now,” Hickok mentioned.

The ground in front of the drawbridge suddenly erupted skyward as a powerful explosion rocked the west wall. Dirt and grass showered onto the western rampart, hitting the defenders.

“What was that?” Spartacus shouted in alarm as the noise and flying debris subsided.

“Beats me!” Hickok was striving to see through the swirling smoke and dust. What the blazes were they using? Now he knew why they’d built the dirt mound!

Another blast shook the west wall, this one closer to the drawbridge.

“They’re getting the range!” Spartacus yelled.

Hickok leaned nearer to Spartacus so his voice could be heard. They were standing on the rampart above the drawbridge with other defenders on both sides. “We’ve got to clear the wall above the drawbridge!” Hickok directed, motioning for Spartacus to begin moving the defenders stationed to their left.

Spartacus promptly complied.

Hickok turned to his right. “Move!” he bellowed. “Get clear of the drawbridge!”

The rampart over the drawbridge was quickly evacuated, the defenders bunching on both sides.

All except for Hickok.

The gunman was still standing above the drawbridge when a shell struck the wooden structure dead center. The drawbridge was exceptionally sturdy; the Founder of the Home had insisted the bridge be four feet thick, and had told those constructing it to use the stoutest wood available. Consequently, although the west wall shook and the upper third of the drawbridge was blown to smithereens, the rest of the structure survived the first hit.

Hickok felt the rampart under his moccasined feet buckle and heave.

He grabbed for the vertical lip of the wall and held fast until the quaking ceased.

The air was literally choked with smoke, dust, and minute wood fragments.

Hickok lurched to his left, his speed impaired by his injured leg.

Spartacus appeared out of the grayish-white smoke. “What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed?”

“Thought I’d get a breath of fresh air before lunch,” Hickok quipped, then coughed as some of the smoke got into his lungs.

The two Warriors moved away from the vicinity of the drawbridge.

A fourth detonation wracked the west wall of the Home, another hit on the drawbridge.

Hickok crouched, shielding his face from the shards of wood propelled by the force of the explosion. His ears were ringing. The enemy was obviously going for the drawbridge in the hope of breaching the compound’s defenses. Once the drawbridge was gone, the Civilized Zone troops would still need to ford the inner moat. But with the drawbridge gone, the defenders on the west wall would be subject to gunfire from outside the wall and below it, if the soldiers could achieve a foothold.

“The firing has stopped,” Spartacus noted.

Hickok flattened on the rampart and peered over the inner lip. Strands of smoke billowed around the drawbridge, partially obscuring it. He waited impatiently for the smoke to be dispelled by the breeze. How much of the drawbridge was still standing?

In another moment, he got his answer.

The smoke dissipated, revealing the realization of his worst fears; except for a three-foot section at the very bottom, attached to the enormous hinges, the drawbridge was gone!

Blast!

Hickok rose to his knees.

The west wall vibrated as yet another explosion jolted the rampart. This time the enemy gunner had aimed at a section of the upper wall 20 yards from the vacant gap where the drawbridge had once stood.

Screams and cries of agony arose from injured defenders.

More and more smoke covered the west wall.

“I’ll go check!” Spartacus volunteered, and ran off.

Hickok stood, gazing toward the forest to the west.

The soldiers hadn’t moved; they were formed into their ranks on either side of the dirt mound.

So!

Whatever they were using, it was apparent Brutus intended to subject the Home to a bombardment before launching his final assault.

What was that?

Hickok twisted, listening. He could hear explosions coming from every direction now. The other walls were under attack! He thought of Sherry, his wife, and forced the image from his mind. He had to concentrate on the matter at hand; too many lives depended on his judgment.

Spartacus hurried up. “Three hurt,” he announced. “I’m having them taken down the stairs.”

“Take everyone down the stairs,” Hickok ordered.

“And leave the west rampart undefended?” Spartacus asked in surprise.

“Do it,” Hickok stated.

Spartacus nodded and left.

Hickok moved to the stairs and descended to the inner bank. He stared up at the rampart, debating. Except for the demolished drawbridge, the stairs from the western rampart to the ground provided the only means of crossing the moat. Huge timbers had been imbedded in the bottom of the moat to support the stairs. It might be possible for the defenders to destroy the stairs, but why should they if they could turn the stairs into a strategic advantage?

Spartacus was supervising the evacuation of the west wall. The defenders moved in an orderly fashion down the stairs and gathered behind Hickok. Three of them, two men and a woman, were carried across the compound to C Block to be treated by the Family Healers. Another blast shattered a ten-foot section of wall before the evacuation was complete, but none of the defenders were injured.

“Are you the last one?” Hickok inquired as Spartacus came down and joined him.

“Yes,” Spartacus answered, then added, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Hickok faced the 66 defenders at his disposal. He pointed up at the west wall. “I don’t reckon we can hold the wall with the drawbridge gone. And I don’t see any sense to our standing up there getting our fool heads blown off waiting for the soldiers to attack.” He paused. Every eye was fixed on him. “I want a skirmish line formed about ten yards from the moat,” he informed them. “There isn’t much cover, but we won’t need much anyway. When those troopers come over the wall, they’ll be sittin’ ducks during the time it takes ’em to get through the barbed wire, over the parapet, and onto the rampart. That’s when you hit those clowns with everything you’ve got. Any questions?”

No one spoke up.

“Okay.” Hickok smiled at them. “Don’t look so worried! It’ll be a piece of cake!” he assured them.

“Form a line!” Spartacus interjected. “Keep about four feet between you and the next person. Hold your fire until Hickok gives the command.”

The defenders began forming their line.

Another shell struck the west rampart. Other blasts, muted by the distance, sounded from the north, east, and south walls.

“Do you have matches with you?” Hickok asked Spartacus.

Spartacus nodded.

“Good. Then you’ll be responsible for igniting the moat if we can’t hold them,” Hickok advised him.

“Should I await your signal?” Spartacus inquired.

“I’m not gonna have time for one if the fightin’ is in full swing,” Hickok said. “I’ll leave it up to you. If they start to ford the moat, get to the gas cans.”

“I’ll handle it,” Spartacus vowed.

The defenders had formed their skirmish line.

Hickok moved away from the west wall as another round hit home.

Brutus was conducting his barrage in a leisurely manner, to judge by the spacing between rounds, or else they were low on shells for whatever type of artillery they were using. Then again, maybe Brutus was deliberately extending the barrage as long as possible, intending to further agitate the defenders’ nerves and weaken their resolve.

Yes, sir.

If he ever got another chance, he was going to damn welt make sure that Brutus acquired a new nostril… right in the center of the prick’s forehead!