Yellowstone Run

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The 13 riders, with Harmon in the lead, slowed to a walk at the base of the hill, then came on slowly. Twelve, counting the big man, were men.

The sole woman, a brunette in a seedy green blouse and beige slacks, hung back, glancing nervously at the summit.

Blade wanted all of them within a guaranteed kill radius. He let them ride to within 15 yards of the crest, then held his left hand aloft. “Stop right there!” he barked.

The scavengers reined up.

“What do you want?” Blade asked with feigned innocence.

“You know damn well what we want!” Harmon snapped. “Turn over my woman!”

“She’s not your woman. Never has been.”

Incipient rage contorted the scavenger’s cruel visage. “Priscilla! Get your ass down here now!”

“Get stuffed!” she replied arrogantly.

Harmon leaned forward and glanced at the giant. “Do you think I’m playing a game? If you don’t turn her over, there will be hell to pay.”

“You’re right about payment being due,” Blade said.

“What?”

“Earlier, when I accused you of being a scavenger, you wanted to know where my proof was. Remember?”

Harmon straightened and placed his right hand on the Martin resting on his thighs. “Yeah, I remember. So what?”

Grinning triumphantly. Blade pointed at Priscilla Wendling. “There’s all the proof I need.”

The scavenger snorted. “Big frigging deal. What are you going to do about it?”

“By the authority vested in me by the Freedom Federation, I could take all of you into custody.”

Harmon smirked. “You could try.”

“We’re not going to bother,” Blade informed him.

“You’re not?” Harmon stated sarcastically. “Why? Afraid of the odds?”

“No,” Blade said slowly, giving the scavenger ample opportunity to comprehend his meaning before he even uttered the words, his level gaze boring into the man’s eyes, a smirk curling his mouth. “We’re going to kill you.”

For a moment no one moved. The scavengers all tensed, waiting for their leader to react, and react he did.

“You bastard!” Harmon roared, and tried to bring his rifle into play.

Blade was ready. He simply elevated the Commando barrel and squeezed the trigger, feeling a supreme degree of grim satisfaction as the heavy slugs ripped into Harmon’s torso, stitching the big man from the navel to the neck. The impact catapulted Harmon from his saddle and he crashed onto the ground.

Hickok, Geronimo, Achilles, and Eagle Feather cut loose as the rest of the scavengers snapped off shots.

A few of the horses whinnied as they were accidentally hit. Other mounts were bucking or trying to flee, terrified by the gunfire, making it impossible for their riders to get a bead on the men on the rim.

Blade dove, firing as he did, and saw another scavenger tumble to the turf. He rolled to the right, striving to present as difficult a target as he could, and glimpsed Geronimo likewise hitting the dirt. Bullets smacked into the earth within inches of his head. He halted on his stomach and aimed at a thin man on a roan, who looked in his direction just as he sent a half-dozen rounds into the scavenger’s chest.

Five of the band suddenly took the offensive. They goaded their animals upward, shooting as they charged, several of them uttering frenzied whoops and inarticulate yells.

Blade sighted on the scavenger in the lead and felt the Commando’s recoil when the machine gun blasted.

Screeching, the rider fell to the slope and was kicked in the head by one of the other horses.

The brunette had wheeled her mount and fled toward the river.

Blade saw one of the scavengers coming toward him from the left, and he twisted to shoot before the rider did. He heard the booming of Achilles’ Bullpup, and the scavenger’s face erupted in a gory spray of flesh and blood.

The man toppled from his mount.

Human bodies and three dead or dying horses now littered the slope.

Only four of the band were still alive, and two of them were endeavoring to turn their panicked animals and escape.

Hickok suddenly raced toward the four scavengers, his rifle discarded, a Colt Python in each hand. The revolvers spoke twice. In an uncanny, consummately lethal display of ambidextrous precision, he shot all four.

As always, he went for the head. As always, four men fell with slugs in their brains.

A heavy silence descended on the hill.

“What a bunch of wimps,” Hickok remarked, and twirled the Pythons into their holsters.

“We were lucky,” Geronimo said, rising slowly, his eyes roving over the sprawled forms, checking for signs of life.

“Luck had nothin’ to do with it,” Hickok observed. “It was skill. They couldn’t shoot straight worth beans.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Achilles declared.

Everyone swung toward the man in the red cloak, who was kneeling alongside Priscilla Wendling.

“How bad is she?” Blade asked, hurrying over to them.

The Mormon woman was flat on her back, her face distorted in pain, a growing red stain on her right shoulder. “They nailed me good,” she said hoarsely.

“Check her,” Blade told Achilles, then pivoted. “Hickok, Geronimo, make sure the scavengers are all dead.”

“And if we find one alive?” the gunman asked.

“You know what to do.”

Hickok grinned. “My pleasure, pard.”

“I’ll put the horses out of their misery,” Geronimo said.

“Go ahead,” Blade said, then abruptly realized one of their own was unaccounted for and turned to the north.

Eagle Feather stood eight yards away, his Winchester at his side, his posture slightly stooped. He stared at the grass with a peculiar expression.

“Are you all right?” Blade inquired, moving toward the Flathead.

“I don’t know,” Eagle Feather answered, and shifted so the giant could see the bullet hole in his left thigh. “They nailed me too.”

“Sit down,” Blade instructed him. “We’ll dress the wound.”

Grimacing and grunting, the Flathead lowered himself to the turf with the Warrior’s assistance. “Just patch me up the best you can. I can’t afford to let this slow me down. I must find Morning Dew, Little Mountain, and Black Elk.”

“We’ll hunt for them in the morning,” Blade said. “For now, take off your pants.”

“I can’t.”

“Beg pardon?”

Eagle Feather nodded at Priscilla Wendling. “I can’t take my pants off.”

“Why not?”

“She might see me.”

“So?”

“I have nothing to cover my privates.”

“The shy type, huh?” Blade joked to put Eagle Feather at ease, and straightened: He walked to the spot where he had left his vest and the damp T-shirt and picked up both. Which one should he lend to Eagle Feather? He opted for the T-shirt. There was no way he’d ever wear the vest again if another man used it to cover his genitals. “Here we go,” he stated, returning. “Use this. It’s a little wet.” He tossed the T-shirt to the Flathead.

“Thank you.”

Three shots sounded from the slope.

Blade stepped to the edge and saw Geronimo standing over a black stallion. He could tell by the stocky Warrior’s countenance that Geronimo did not enjoy disposing of the animals.

Hickok was prodding one of the fallen scavengers with his left toe. “Hey, this cow chip is still kickin’,” he announced. His right Colt materialized in his hand and he thumbed the hammer. The revolver cracked, and the scavenger’s head seemed to bounce up and down. “Not any more,” the gunfighter said.

Leaning the Commando against his right leg, Blade donned the torn vest and gazed out over the valley. Far off, on the other side of the Lamar River, riding to the southeast, was the brunette. He wondered what she would do now that she was by herself.

“Blade!” Achilles called.

The giant turned and walked to Priscilla’s side. “What’s the verdict?”

“See for yourself,” Achilles replied, the Amazon in his right hand.

Blade squatted, noting the woman’s brown shirt had been cut open at the shoulder, revealing a neat, crimson-rimmed bullet hole an inch below the collarbone. “Is the slug still in there?”

“I found an exit hole,” Achilles reported. “None of her major arteries or veins have been severed.”

“Then we’ll get a fire going and cauterize the wound,” Blade proposed.

“We’ll do her and Eagle Feather both.”

“Cauterize,” Priscilla repeated timidly. “Will it hurt? I have a very low threshold for pain.”

“Would you rather develop an infection and die from gangrene?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll cauterize the bullet hole. And yes, it’ll hurt like crazy.”

Priscilla looked into his eyes. “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”

“Not where lives are concerned.”

“I should thank you for saving me from Harmon.”

“No problem. Exterminating scavengers is our specialty,” Blade said, and grinned. “Were any members of the band missing, out on a raid or whatever?”

“No,” Priscilla replied. “You got all of them.”

“No, we didn’t,” Blade corrected her. “Another woman got away. Who was she?”

“That would be Milly Odum. She was captured by those scum when she was only ten, and she’s been with them ever since.”

“Did she take part in the killing?”

“Milly? No way. Harmon made her the band’s slave. She had to do anything any of the men told her, even sleep with a different bastard every night.”

“The poor woman,” Achilles interjected.

“Maybe we should round up one of the horses and send someone after her,” Blade suggested.

“Milly would just run away from you,” Priscilla said. “She doesn’t trust a soul, or she didn’t until she met me. The trauma turned her into a frightened rabbit. She’s afraid of her own shadow.”

“We can’t leave her out there alone.”

“Patch me up, and tomorrow I’ll ride over to the camp Harmon set up and talk to her. She’ll come back with me.”

“We’ll go with you,” Blade stated. “And while we’re there, we’ll look for the body of the guy with the Earring. They didn’t have time to bury it, so it must be somewhere between this hill and the scavenger camp. It’ll draw predators like garbage draws flies.”

“You mean Silas. He was the one your friend with the fancy revolvers shot.”

“Hickok is my friend’s name,” Blade disclosed. He stood and started toward Eagle Feather. “Stay with her, Achilles.”

“Gladly.”

The giant stared at the Flathead’s bare leg as he approached. Eagle Feather had removed the buckskin leggings and strategically positioned the T-shirt over his loins. “Let me have a look,” Blade said.

“Be my guest.”

Kneeling down, Blade carefully examined the hole. From the size, about the width of this thumb, he decided a large-caliber rifle had done the job.

Blood still flowed copiously, which wasn’t a good sign. “Can you lift your leg a bit?”

“Certainly,” Eagle Feather responded. He gritted his teeth and painfully elevated his left thigh.

Blade felt relief at finding the point where the bullet had emerged, just underneath the left buttock. They wouldn’t need to operate to remove the slug. But the continued blood loss worried him. Eagle Feather could very well bleed to death if the flow wasn’t stopped. “Don’t move,” he cautioned.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Smiling, Blade hurried to the rim and observed Geronimo and Hickok attempting to round up the stray mounts. He jogged down the slope toward them. “Forget the horses. Come here.”

The gunfighter and the Blackfoot took one look and came to meet the giant halfway.

“What’s up, pard?” Hickok inquired.

“Eagle Feather will die if we don’t stop the bleeding,” Blade informed them. “And Priscilla needs her wound cauterized. We have to get a fire going right away. Geronimo, you take care of that. Hickok, start to work on that buck. A good meal will have everyone feeling terrific.”

Hickok nodded at three horses 40 feet away. “They’ll likely wander off if we don’t catch them now.”

“It can’t be helped. Eagle Feather and Priscilla are more important.”

“We’re on our way,” Geronimo said, and sprinted off.

The gunman hesitated.

“Is something wrong?” Blade asked.

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Hickok declared, and frowned. He gazed at the plain below. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel like that time we were in the Twin Cities and all those blamed Wacks were watchin’ us, only we didn’t know it at first.”

Blade had learned to trust the gunfighter’s instincts. He scanned their surroundings but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “If there is something out there, I doubt we’ll have to worry until after the sun goes down.”

Hickok glanced at the sun, which was descending toward the western horizon, and nodded. “I reckon so.” He headed for the summit. “I’d best tell Geronimo to make that a big fire.”