Chicago Run

CHAPTER ONE

The quaint settlement was located 15 miles northeast of the former town known as Rochester, Minnesota. It consisted of a mere nine buildings that had been constructed from whatever had been handy at the time the buildings went up. To most wanderers passing through it seemed as if a strong, gusty wind would flatten every structure. Optimistically dubbed Second Chance by its grizzled, cantankerous founder several decades ago, the settlement now served as a gathering point for all the farmers, trappers, and others living within 50 miles.

On the Sunday afternoon of the raid there were 65 people in Second Chance. Thirty-one belonged to various families that had traveled in by horse and wagon to hear the bearded man who called himself a preacher discourse on the reality of Heaven and Hell. His late-morning sermon stressed the fact they were all living in a hell spawned by a vile humanity, a hell that surpassed its Biblical counterpart for sheer wickedness and despicable brutality. He urged them to turn to God if they desired to escape the nightmarish legacy bestowed upon them by war-crazed leaders 106 years ago.

The preacher’s sermon had concluded two hours before, and the families were strolling about along the dusty main street—if such it could be called—as was the custom in Second Chance on comparable lazy Sunday afternoons. The bartender at Glisson’s Shine and Feed was doing a brisk but discreet business as many of the men came in ostensibly to see about purchasing supplies, and quite naturally slaked their thirst while contemplating their expenditures.

Into the town from the north rode the colorful prospector called Old Jerry astride his ancient donkey Jeffrey, waving his arms, his tattered coat flapping, and shrieking at the top of his ancient lungs that they should all flee to the woods. He reined up in front of Glisson’s, spilling from his mount rather than taking the time to dismount properly. From all directions hastened everyone in town, aroused by his cries and anxious to determine the cause.

Through the handcrafted batwing doors strode burly Dee Glisson, wiping his hands on his apron and bestowing a baleful glare on the man who had done more than any other living person to keep him in business.

“What the hell is all this racket, then? Are you drunk again, Jerry?” he demanded.

“They’re comin’! They’re comin’!” Old Jerry croaked, rising unsteadily and motioning to the north. “For God’s sake, get everyone out of town!”

“Who is coming?” inquired one of the bystanders.

“Raiders,” Old Jerry answered. “Dozens of ’em. Saw ’em with my own two peepers.”

The news electrified the bystanders. Exclamations of alarm erupted, and mothers scooped their small offspring into their arms.

“Now hold on, folks,” Ike called out. “Let’s get the facts straight before we get into an uproar.” He waited for them to quiet down a bit, then stepped down the wooden steps and towered over the prospector. “Have you been hitting the shine again, old-timer?” he politely inquired, and sniffed loudly.

“I ain’t had a drink since sunrise,” Old Jerry replied angrily, his eyes blazing resentment.

“Where did you spot these raiders?”

“About two miles north of my shack. I went up the hill behind my place to get me some wood for my stove, and I was sittin’ there restin’ after doing a bit of choppin’,” Old Jerry related. “I happened to look to the north and there they was, a whole bunch of mounted men ridin’ toward me.”

Ike chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds. “How many riders were there?”

“I stopped countin’ at twenty-four.”

Another man interjected a question. “How could you tell they were raiders if they were two miles off?”

“I took a gander at ’em through my binoculars,” Old Jerry responded.

“What do you think I am, stupid?”

No one bothered to give an honest answer.

“Were they armed?” Ike asked.

Jerry snorted. “Do you think I’d be this excited if they was totin’ flowers? Of course they had guns, you blamed idiot. Rifles and automatics and the whole shootin’ match.”

One of the sturdy farmers moved forward. “It must be raiders.”

“What are we going to do?” a woman named Linda demanded.

“We don’t stand a chance,” commented a companion of hers.

A general commotion broke out again. Some of the youngest children, sensing the panic in many of the adults, provided the proper background chorus for the occasion by crying and whimpering.

“Calm down!” Dee thundered, moving to the top of the steps. “We’ve got to stay calm and plan on how best to defend Second Chance.”

“Second Chance, hell,” remarked a devout churchgoer. “We’ve got to get out of here pronto.”

“It’s every man for himself,” chimed in someone else.

“And don’t forget about the women and kids,” added a third voice.

The hubbub grew louder as everyone tried to talk at once. Ike shouted for silence, but no one paid him the slightest attention, which only made him shout louder.

Standing next to Jeffrey, Old Jerry broke into a lopsided grin and shook his head. “Danged fools,” he said into the donkey’s long ear. “They don’t have the sense the good Lord gave a turnip.” He surveyed the crowd, and as his gaze strayed to the west end of the street he spied the three men standing silently and observing the proceedings. His first thought was automatic: “That’s the biggest son of a bitch I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Then he went up the steps and tugged on Ike’s shirt.

“What do you want?” Glisson snapped, still trying to quell the spreading fear.

“Look!” Old Jerry urged, jabbing his finger to the west. “Look at ’em.”

Ike glanced around, did a double take, and vented a roar that would have done justice to an elephant-sized mutant. “Look over there!”

Most of the crowd swiveled in the right direction, and they all went rigid in their tracks, astounded by the arrival of the newcomers.

The trio walked slowly forward.

“They must be raiders!” a man yelled.

Old Jerry abruptly remembered the many stories he’d heard while sharing many a meal around many a campfire, and chuckled. He knew who the one in the middle was, and he snickered and stated for all to hear, “They ain’t raiders, you nincompoop.”

On the right walked a lean man attired in buckskins, the traditional garb of the postwar era. His shoulder-length hair and full mustache were both blond, his eyes a lively shade of blue. A smile played on his lips.

Draped around his waist were two holsters, and in each rode a pearl-handled .357 Colt Python revolver. Slung over his left shoulder was a Marlin 45-70. He strolled down the street projecting an air of nonchalant arrogance, his wide shoulders swinging with every step.

On the left walked a contrast to the gunfighter. This man had Indian blood in his veins as evinced in his finely chiseled features. He was short and stocky, built like a powerhouse, and dressed in a green shirt and pants, both sewn together from the remnants of a canvas tent. His hair and eyes were dark, his face clean-shaven. In his hands he held an FNC Auto Rifle. In a shoulder holster under his left arm was an Armanius .357 Magnum. Tucked under his belt over his left hip was a tomahawk.

While both these men were striking in their own right, they were dwarfed by the giant in the center, a colossus seven feet in height and endowed with bulging muscles that seemed to ripple and flow even when his arms were at rest. A black leather vest barely covered his chest. Green fatigue pants and black combat boots completed his apparel. On each stout hip hung a big Bowie knife. Bandoleers crisscrossed the vest. And clasped in his left hand, its stock resting against his side, was a Commando Arms Carbine.

No one spoke as the trio approached and halted. Ike walked tentatively down the steps and through the crowd until he stood six feet from the threesome.

Old Jerry stayed abreast of the civic leader.

“Hello,” the giant said in a friendly voice.

“What the blazes is all the ruckus?” the gunfighter queried.

Ike addressed them, the words squeaking out unnaturally. “Who are you?”

“We’re just passing through,” the giant replied. “We don’t mean you any harm.”

The blond took a step nearer, his hands drifting to within inches of those Colts. “I recollect askin’ you a question, friend. It’d be polite of you to answer.”

“Hickok?” the Indian said sternly. “Behave yourself.”

“Hickok?” Ike repeated, comprehension dawning, and took a step backwards.

An impish grin creased the gunfighter’s features and he looked at the Indian. “I’m so famous, it’s pitiful.”

“Pitiful is the operative word,” the man in green commented.

“Keep it up, pard,” Hickok growled.

The giant looked from one to the other and they immediately adopted serious expressions. Next he shifted his attention to Ike Glisson. “We couldn’t help but overhear. Did someone report raiders in the vicinity?”

“Yes, sir,” Ike said, nodding at the prospector.

“I did, Blade,” Old Jerry confirmed, proud to be speaking to the most famous man in the Outlands or anywhere else. “Upwards of two dozen of the varmints.”

Hickok inexplicably cackled.

“What did you say?” the Indian asked.

Mystified, Old Jerry said, “Upwards to two dozen.”

“No, the last word you used,” the Indian said.

“Varmints.”

Again the gunfighter cackled.

“I don’t get it,” Old Jerry said. “What’s so blamed funny?”

Hickok nearly doubled over with laughter.

“Ignore them,” Blade stated, moving closer so he could be heard over the gunman’s mirth. “How soon before these raiders get here?”

“At the rate they was movin’, I’d guess an hour, tops,” Old Jerry said.

“Do you plan to fight?” Blade inquired.

Ike swept his arm towards the onlooking farmers. “What chance would we have against men who kill for the fun of it? We’re mostly farmers and simple businessmen. The raiders would mow us down.”

“Then what will you do?”

A farmer named Patrick answered. “We’ll take our families into the woods and hide out until the bastards are gone. If we’re lucky they’ll be in a hurry to get elsewhere and they won’t burn Second Chance to the ground before they go.”

“Wishful thinking,” Blade said, his gray eyes sweeping over the crude buildings. He idly brushed at the comma of dark hair hanging over his right eye. “You know as well as I do that most raiding parties have a scorched-earth policy. What they don’t steal they destroy.”

Hickok stopped laughing and straightened. “Raiders are wimps.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Ike said.

The giant placed his right hand on his hip and frowned. “We really can’t afford any delays, but we can’t leave you people in the lurch either.

How would you like our help?”

“What can the three of you do against so large a band?” Ike questioned.

“Our best,” Blade answered, scanning the crowd, noting the presence of the young boys and girls.

A woman in her twenties moved forward. “My name is Jennifer Shelly.

I’ve heard of you.” She paused. “You don’t have to risk your lives for us.

From what I hear you’ve all got families of your own.”

“Riskin’ our skins is what we do best,” Hickok said. “Besides, if there’s only twenty or thirty of these yahoos, we’ll hardly work up a sweat.”

“Speak for yourself,” the Indian stated.

“Come on, Geronimo,” Hickok declared. “We’ve faced worst odds.”

“And we’ve just managed to pull through by the skin of our teeth,” Geronimo mentioned. “I don’t know about you, but I like the idea of seeing my wife and son again.”

“And I don’t?”

Blade turned in a circle, studying Second Chance. “We’ll make our stand here. Get all of your people out of town and into the trees.”

“Yes, sir,” Ike said in transparent relief.

“You can run if you want,” Old Jerry said, “but I’m stayin’ and helpin’

the Warriors.”

The giant glanced at him, smiling kindly. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I’d never be able to live with myself if I turned tail.”

“I understand. But you’ll be doing us a favor if you go with the rest,” Blade said. “If we have to keep an eye on you, the distraction could cost us dearly.”

Old Jerry wiped the back of his left hand across his runny nose, his mouth curling downward. “Well, if you put it that way, I reckon I’ll skedaddle.”

Geronimo, oddly, groaned.

“What’s your name?” Hickok inquired, moving up to the prospector.

“Jerry. Folks call me Old Jerry.”

“I’m right pleased to meet you,” Hickok said. He extended his right hand.

Old Jerry shook, surprised by the controlled strength in the gunman’s fingers. “The honor is mine.”

The giant hefted his Commando and boomed out instructions. “Okay.

You’ve all heard our decision. Grab whatever food and clothing you want to take and seek shelter in the woods.”

“How will we know when it’s safe to come back?” a trapper inquired.

Blade’s eyes acquired a flinty tint. “You’ll know,” he told them, and emphasized the declaration solemnly. “You’ll know.”