The Fox Run

Chapter Twenty-Four

The wolverine, according to a book in the Family library entitled North American Mammals, a volume used frequently by the children in the Family school as a reference guide, was once considered the most ferocious animal on the entire continent. Wolverines would attack bears and cougars, and their voracious appetites earned them the nickname “glutton.” They would consume anything they could catch and slay. Armed with razor teeth and claws, they were rulers of their wilderness domain.

Usually dark brown, with lighter patches on the head and shoulders, they could reach a weight of fifty pounds and attain a length of five feet including their bushy tail. Wolverines were the bane of trappers, feared by hunters, and, except for grizzly bears and the later-appearing mutates, the most dreaded animal in the north woods, to be avoided at all costs.

Unless, Blade reflected as the tableau momentarily froze after he leaped into the arena, you had no choice.

Like right now.

The wolverines, a large male, a dusky female, and an undersized stripling, reacted first. They picked their prey and attacked, instinctively going after separate targets.

On the bleachers above, his revolver in his hand, Saxon grinned as he watched. Initially apprehensive when the newcomer entered the pen, he calmed down when he realized there wasn’t a man alive who could take a wolverine one-on-one. So what chance did this guy have against three, all ravenous, all hating humans? None. He chuckled as the wolverines closed in, the one the Trolls called Wolvie making for the imposter, Momma going after Jenny, and Runt bounding toward the planned main course, Angela.

Blade’s first thought was for the women. Jenny was nearest, twelve feet away, backed against the pen wall as Momma bore down. The Bowie in his left hand was useless at that distance; he crouched, drawing the right Vega, praying his aim was accurate for once, ignoring the wolverine coming after him, sighting and firing.

The Vega bucked and boomed and Momma twisted, snarling, only three feet from Jenny, her rear legs tensing for the killing leap.

Blade fired again, and once more, the slugs ripping into Momma’s skull.

Jenny involuntarily screamed as the wolverine tumbled and slammed against her. She tripped as she desperately attempted to avoid the hurtling body, and panicked when the wolverine landed on top of her.

“No!” She kicked and punched and struggled to her feet, only to shudder at the gaping, oozing wounds as the animal’s brains flowed from the shattered cranium.

Momma was dead.

Saxon fumed. The bastard had a gun! He aimed his revolver, furious one of his prized pets was gone.

Blade had pivoted, his right arm extended, wanting to be sure, the smallest wolverine only inches’ from Angela. His finger was tightening on the trigger when two events occurred simultaneously; there was the sound of a shot somewhere above him and his right shoulder exploded in pain, and the largest wolverine crashed into his chest, slashing and tearing.

Jenny, horrified, saw the Vega fly from Blade’s fingers as he went down under the onslaught of the wolverine. She ran toward him, but abruptly stopped when Angela’s petrified shriek filled the arena.

Runt and Angela were on the ground, its steely jaws clamped on her right wrist, its claws gouging her body.

Jenny wavered, torn both ways. Who should she assist? The man she loved, or her friend? She watched as Blade heaved upward, the Bowie in his left hand flashing, driving into the wolverine over and over, making her decision easier. Blade could handle himself. Angela was another matter.

Runt was trying to sever Angela’s wrist, his teeth grinding against the bone, blood spraying over her terrified face.

Jenny, racing toward them, frantically searched for a weapon, anything, and spotted a human thigh hone in the dirt of the arena floor. She scooped it up on the run, and raised it over her head as she came up behind the wolverine.

Saxon, relishing the spectacle, laughed.

Angela’s struggles were growing weaker.

Runt, sensing victory, released the wrist and raised his head, prepared for a lunge at her pulsing throat.

“No!” Jenny shouted, hoping to distract the brute, sweeping the bone down, connecting with the wolverine’s head.

Runt spun away from Angela, hissing, enraged by excruciating pain. He jumped aside as this new human swung her club again, his muscular body held close to the ground in the classic wolverine attack posture.

“Angela!” Jenny yelled. “Get up!” She wanted Angela to reach the pen wall, just six feet away, to reduce the area she must defend. If they could get their backs to the wall, the wolverine would not be able to try a rear assault. As it was, the creature was slowly circling them, growling, biding its time, watching the tip of the club.

“Angela! Do you hear me?” Jenny goaded, her eyes on the wolverine.

Angela was almost limp. Her head wobbled as she tried to nod, to acknowledge Jenny’s directions.

“Angela! Please!”

Runt snarled, frustrated.

Jenny’s arms ached. The wolverine was between them and the pen wall, still circling.

Angela moaned.

Jenny wanted to risk glancing at Blade, to see how he was faring, but she was too afraid to look away from the wolverine for even an instant.

“Jenny?” Angela groaned, on the verge of fainting, fighting to remain awake. She rolled over, onto her stomach, placed her hands under her chest, and pushed, trying to rise.

“Angela!” Jenny warned. “Stay down now! Wait until it comes around again.”

Angela, only dimly conscious of the words, concentrated and heaved, reaching her knees before she completely blacked out. She pitched forward, away from Jenny, toward the wolverine.

“Angela!” Jenny screamed, lunging to catch her.

Too late.

Runt pounced, his lightning reflexes unbelievably quick, his pointed teeth ripping into Angela’s neck and rending the flesh apart, blood gushing over his facial fur as he greedily gulped the raw, tender meat, his fiery stare fixed on Jenny, as if giving notice he would brook no interference with his meal.

Jenny backed away, repulsed, gagging, feeling her limbs loose their strength, knowing there was nothing she could do. Dear Spirit! No!

Someone was laughing.

Jenny looked up into a sea of smirking faces. The Trolls were packed to the edge of the bleachers, crammed together, craning for a glimpse of the action in the arena. With Runt temporarily occupied, they shifted their attention to Wolvie and his antagonist.

Blade’s tremendous stamina and superbly conditioned physique were enabling him to hold his own against the sinewy power of the frenzied wolverine. So far. Despite the gunshot wound, his right arm still functioned. He had grabbed the wolverine’s throat as it sprang at him, his right hand buried in the pliant folds of skin, and he steadfastly refused to relinquish his grip no matter how ferociously the animal struggled. They tumbled and rolled on the floor of the pen, the wolverine churning its legs, lashing him with its curved claws, while Blade repeatedly thrust his Bowie into the furry, bulky body, seemingly to no avail.

Both combatants were covered with dirt and caked with blood.

The Trolls started cheering the wolverine, shouting encouragement and waving their arms, some jumping up and down.

“Go, Wolvie! Go!”

“Tear the sucker up!”

Blade was jarred by the brutal impact of colliding with the arena wall, his head cracking against the wood. Wolvie took advantage of his slight disorientation and jerked free of his grip, just as he plunged the Bowie into its side one more time. The wolverine growled and pulled away, taking the knife with it, the blade still imbedded in its ribs.

“Kill the bum!” came from one of the Trolls.

Blade hastily scrambled to his feet, catching his breath, debating his next move. The wolverine, fortunately, seemed winded too. Maybe all his stabbing had finally taken effect. Whatever the cause, he had a brief respite to consider his options. If he drew his other Vega, he risked being shot again by someone in the bleachers. He still retained his other Bowie, but he must have pierced the wolverine a dozen times already and the damn thing was still on its feet. No, he needed a method guaranteed to succeed.

The wolverine was panting, gathering itself for another charge.

Blade wondered if he would have time to shed the heavy cloak, and as he reached for the leather tie string secured at the base of his neck, eager to toss the cloak aside and free his arms for maximum effectiveness, inspiration struck.

Wolvie was inching toward him.

Would it work?

Did he still have them on him? Or were they dislodged during their conflict?

There was no time to check. It would be now, or never.

The wolverine rumbled deep in its chest, craving this human more than any prey in its life.

Blade waited, his hands near the tie string. Everything depended on his timing. Too early, and he would only slow the animal; too late, and he would miss entirely and be at the wolverine’s mercy.

The assembled Trolls were hushed, expecting the familiar rush and the shrill shrieks of agony as the victim was disemboweled.

“Get ’em, Wolvie!” one Troll shouted encouragement.

The wolverine made its move, three leaping bounds and it launched itself into the air, its mouth open, the gleaming teeth visible, saliva drooling over its gums.

Blade was in motion with Wolvie’s first leap, yanking on the tie string and releasing the cloak. He held the cloak with both hands, gripping the top border, and swept the bear hide around, placing it directly in the path of the oncoming wolverine.

Wolvie couldn’t stop. The beast hit the cloak dead center and dropped to the ground, enfolded in the cloak, tearing the skin in an effort to extricate itself.

In moments it would be loose.

Blade hurriedly searched his waist for the daggers. They were both still tucked under his belt, jammed together over his right hip. He whipped them from their respective sheaths, one in each hand.

The wolverine managed to cut an opening in the cloak. It poked its narrow head through the slash, getting its bearings.

Now!

Blade jumped, landing on the wolverine’s back. The beast twisted to confront him, still confident in its superior ability, its front paws imprisoned under the bear skin.

Saxon was the only Troll to immediately grasp Blade’s intent, and he tried to bring his revolver into play. His arm was still rising when he saw the imposter bury the daggers in Wolvie’s eyes, actually sink the keen blades to the hilt in the wolverine’s eye sockets.

Blade vaulted beyond the range of the wolverine’s death throes and ran toward Jenny. She was standing not far from where the final wolverine complacently gorged on Angela, her face blank, apparently in deep shock.

He reached her side and glanced up at the astonished Trolls, most of whom were staring at the dying Wolvie, unwilling or unable to accept what they saw.

“Jenny! Snap out of it!” Blade shook her.

“Blade?” Jenny looked at him, dazed, uncomprehending, unaware of their precarious predicament.

Blade knew the Trolls would channel their collective revenge in his direction at any moment, once the reality of the two dead wolverines hit home. He needed a distraction, something to buy him time.

But what?

The smallest wolverine was savoring its feast, ripping chunks of bloody, dripping meat from Angela’s body and wolfing them down. It was lying with its back to Blade and Jenny, engrossed in its feeding, not considering them much of a threat.

Blade’s mind whirled. How heavy was the last wolverine? Maybe thirty pounds, maximum. The pen walls were ten feet high. He could do it, but speed was essential!

“Blade?” Jenny absently repeated.

Blade ran to the wolverine and stooped over, his powerful hands encircling the ten-inch tail.

Runt grunted in surprise as his tail was clasped in a vise of iron and he was hauled from the arena floor.

Blade surged upward, spinning his body, his momentum carrying the bewildered wolverine in a wide revolution. He spun and spun, gathering speed, the surrounding pen a blur as he dug his heels into the ground, his arm muscles bulging.

“Look at that!” a young Troll yelled.

“What’s he doing?” another asked.

Saxon was vainly endeavoring to sight his revolver on the man, but he was reluctant to fire for fear of striking Runt.

Blade angled his body closer to the western wall of the pen. He needed to be as close as he could get to the wall when he gave the Trolls the shock of their lives.

Some of the Trolls, those nearest the edge of the bleachers, perceived their dilemma and attempted to back away from the arena. Those standing in the rear rows, however, were pressing forward, striving for a better look, ignorant of the activity in the pen.

Blade was at his limit, going as fast as he could go. He arched his broad back and elevated the wolverine as high as he could swing it, then released his hold on the tail.

To the complete consternation of the startled Trolls, Runt came sailing over the pen wall and landed among them in the bleachers.

The Trolls went crazy, screaming and screeching and falling over one another in their precipitate haste to remove themselves from the immediate vicinity of the thrashing, snapping wolverine.

Runt, enraged because of his interrupted repast, was biting and clawing everything in sight.

The Trolls broke, en masse heading for the swinging doors and escape.

With one notable exception.

Saxon, his revolver in his right hand, jumped from the bleachers into the arena below, his smoldering eyes and compressed lips indicative of his simmering fury. The man was holding the woman Jenny, hugging her close and whispering words in her ear. Saxon came up behind them and stopped eight feet away. He pointed his revolver at the man’s back.

Blade heard the click of a hammer being drawn and he spun, his left hand going for the remaining Vega.

“Better not,” Saxon grimly advised, “or you’re dead.”

Blade froze, his fingers inches from the automatic.

“Slowly take the gun from the holster,” Saxon directed. “Use two fingers and hold it by the butt. Very carefully,” he stressed.

Blade complied, dangling the Vega between his thumb and forefinger.

“Toss it,” Saxon ordered, wagging his gun to their right, “as far as you can.”

Blade threw the Vega. Jenny was still in shock, staring at Angela’s grisly remains.

“Think you’re pretty bright, don’t you?” Saxon asked.

Blade shrugged.

“Well, you’ve reached the end of your rope,” Saxon declared. “I’m going to personally finish you off.”

“I’m scared,” Blade taunted him, wondering if the giant would simply shoot him and be done with it.

“You will be,” Saxon promised, “by the time I’m done with you.” He smiled and holstered his revolver.

“You planning to crush me with your bare hands?” Blade asked derisively.

“I see you like big knives.” Saxon nodded at the Bowie on Blade’s right hip. “You used the other one real good on Wolvie.”

“Wolvie?”

“The second wolverine you wasted,” Saxon explained.

“Hope it upset you,” Blade goaded him.

“It did,” Saxon grudgingly admitted. “But like I was saying. You like big knives. I like big knives.” His right arm disappeared under his cloak and came out bearing the machete. “So I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You use your big knife, there, and I’ll use mine. Fair enough?”

Blade drew his right Bowie. “You surprise me,” he conceded.

“I’m not a damn backstabber,” Saxon said angrily. “I like to see the fear in their eyes when I snuff ’em.”

Blade took several steps toward the massive Troll, who towered over him by at least a foot.

“By the way,” Saxon said, playfully twirling the machete in his palm, “what’s your name?”

“They call me Blade.”

“Saxon,” the Troll stated. “Now let’s get to it. I can’t wait to slice you into itsy-bitsy pieces.”

So saying, the giant closed in.