Denver Run Page 11

  “I’m going to walk,” Brutus said.

  “Wanna bet?” Hickok’s hands hovered near the pearl grips on his Colt Pythons.

  Brutus’ bug-like eyes blinked rapidly. “Touch those guns and you’re a dead man.”

  “Are you gonna scare me to death?” Hickok quipped.

  “I suspected you might be treacherous,” Brutus stated smugly. “That’s why I instructed our sharp-shooters to keep me covered. If you go for your guns, they’ll make a sieve out of you!”

  Hickok thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip, gauging the distance to the treeline.

  Brutus, plainly nervous, took a step backwards.

  “Hold on there, boss,” Hickok remarked, limping forward several steps.

  “Don’t even think it!” Brutus hissed.

  Hickok grinned, exposing his even white teeth. “But I am thinkin’ about it. And do you know what I’m thinkin’?”

  Brutus didn’t answer; his thick tongue flicked over his lips.

  “I’m thinkin’ I should blow you away, ugly,” Hickok said. “I reckon those soldier boys might hightail it out of here if they don’t have anybody to lead ’em.”

  “My sharpshooters will get you!” Brutus growled.

  “Maybe.” Hickok nodded. “But it’s a long shot for them, and I’m only twenty yards from the Home and cover.” He winked at Brutus. “I think I’m gonna go for it.”

  “Now you hold on!” Brutus exclaimed, a tinge of anxiety in his tone. “I came over here in good faith, under a white flag.”

  “Nobody asked you to come.”

  “I wanted to tell you how it is,” Brutus mentioned.

  Hickok smiled. “I know how it is.”

  “I’m not armed,” Brutus pointed out.

  “So?”

  “You’d kill an unarmed man?” Brutus demanded.

  Hickok laughed. “You Civilized types ain’t much for brains, are you?”

  He indicated the wall behind him “You’re threatening my Home, you scumbag! You want to kill my Family! I wouldn’t care if you were on your knees, beggin’ for mercy. I’d still blow you away.”

  Brutus glanced over his left shoulder at the woods. “At least give me a running start.”

  Hickok, overconfident, threw back his head and laughed again.

  It was all the opening Brutus needed. His right foot swept up with surprising speed, catching the Warrior in his left thigh, impacting on the gunman’s wound, right on the bullet hole in his leg.

  Hickok reacted instantly, his hands diving for the Pythons, and he was clearing leather when the heavy black boot struck his injury, causing an intensely excruciating wave of agony to wash over his body, doubling him over as he staggered backwards.

  Brutus knew better than to try to jump the Warrior when the gunman was holding his revolvers. He whirled and raced for the forest, running a zigzag pattern, dropping the branch with the white flag.

  The Family and Clan defenders on the west wall were gaping at the stunned Warrior, momentarily distracted from the fleeing Brutus.

  Hickok dropped to his right knee, shaking his head to clear the pain.

  He saw Brutus about 15 to 20 yards out, his sturdy legs pumping.

  Something struck the ground in front of the gunman, spraying dirt over his moccasins.

  The sharpshooters!

  Hickok struggled to his feet and snapped off a shot from his right Python, his arm slightly unsteady from the torment in his leg.

  More bullets were biting into the earth around the Warrior.

  “Give him cover!” Spartacus shouted on the rampart.

  The Family and Clan fighters started firing at the trees.

  Hickok was furious! His first shot had apparently missed! The son of a bitch was still on his feet and making for the woods. Hickok forced his mind to ignore the anguish in his leg.

  He couldn’t let Brutus get away!

  The left Colt boomed and bucked in his hand.

  About 40 yards away, Brutus stumbled and almost fell. He recovered and continued his mad sprint for the safety of the forest.

  Blast!

  Hickok hobbled to his right as the turf near him erupted in a shower of dirt and dry grass.

  He had to hurry!

  Both Pythons blasted.

  Over 50 yards off, Brutus flung his long arms out and pitched onto his face.

  Something tugged at Hickok’s right shoulder. He disregarded a fleeting twinge and limped forward, wanting to be sure, to put a few more rounds into Brutus.

  More and more dirt kicked up at the gunfighter’s feet.

  Brutus was on his hands and knees, wobbly, endeavoring to rise.

  A squad of 15 soldiers burst from the tree line, hastening to the rescue of their leader, firing their M-16’s.

  He had to nail Brutus!

  Hickok managed three more shots, when strong arms encircled him from the rear and bodily lifted him from his feet.

  “We can’t afford to lose you!” declared a voice in the gunman’s ear.

  “Let me go!” Hickok bellowed. “I can get him, Spartacus!”

  Spartacus, flanked by six other defenders, hurried toward the drawbridge, dragging the reluctant Hickok with him.

  Although his arms were pinned to his side, Hickok could still move his elbows and wrists. He angled the barrels of his Pythons and fired each revolver.

  Brutus, on his feet again, spun and clutched at his right side.

  Dozens of troopers had emerged from the forest and were providing cover fire.

  Spartacus reached the drawbridge with his squirming friend. A young woman from the Family abruptly groaned and toppled to the hard ground, not a foot away.

  “Grab her!” Spartacus directed as he crossed the drawbridge.

  Hickok ceased resisting once they were in the center of the drawbridge.

  “Raise the drawbridge once we’re all inside!” Spartacus commanded.

  He reached the inner bank and released the gunman.

  The defenders on the west wall were still embroiled in their fire fight.

  Hickok turned, frowning. “Why’d you butt in, pard?” he demanded. “I almost had the sucker.”

  Spartacus placed his right hand on the gunman’s left shoulder. “There were too many of them. They were getting your range. Look. You’ve been hit again.”

  Hickok glanced at his right shoulder. The buckskin fabric was torn, revealing a crimson patch underneath.

  “I appreciate what you tried to do,” Spartacus continued, “but killing him was no guarantee the others would leave us alone.”

  “It was worth a shot,” Hickok disputed him.

  The drawbridge was clear, and the four men working the mechanism quickly elevated it.

  The shooting on the western rampart was tapering off.

  “Spartacus!” a man yelled down. “They made it to the trees!”

  Hickok glanced up at the speaker, a burly Clan member with a Winchester. “And what about their leader? The guy in brown?”

  “He must have been hurt real bad,” the Clansman replied. “They had to carry him the last twenty yards.”

  “At least it wasn’t a total waste,” Hickok opined.

  “Now we’re going to have the Healers examine you,” Spartacus informed his fellow Warrior.

  “It’s too bad you’re not hitched yet, pard,” Hickok said.

  “Why’s that?” Spartacus asked.

  Hickok smirked. “Because someday you’re gonna make some child a terrific mother.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Imperial Assassins?

  The first figure in black crossed the living room in four strides, swinging his sword in a vicious arc, aiming at the giant Warrior’s neck.

  Blade reacted instinctively, whipping his right Bowie from its sheath and parrying the sword. The two weapons produced a loud clanging sound as they collided.

  The man in black was well trained. He turned the parry into another strike, bringing his sword down and around, going for the Warr
ior’s knees.

  Blade lunged backward, narrowly evading the keen edge of his opponent’s sword. Before the figure could recover, Blade surged in and up with all of his prodigious strength.

  The man in black grunted as the Bowie was imbedded in his chest. His head lolled back and a great gush of air escaped from his lips.

  Blade wrenched his Bowie free and stood aside.

  The man in black tumbled to the floor.

  Blade twisted to confront the other two.

  They were gone.

  What the…?

  Blade cautiously moved toward the archway separating the living room from the kitchen.

  Where had they gone? Who were the Imperial Assassins? Why did they dress all in black and carry Oriental weaponry? A memory stirred in the recesses of Blade’s mind. He recalled one of the martial arts books in the Family library. What was the title of it? Masters of Death: The Ninja.

  Come to think of it, there were a number of books dealing with the ninja.

  These Imperial Assassins reminded him of the traditional descriptions of the ninja. Was it possible? Were these Imperial Assassins really ninja, or simply elite soldiers trained in the martial arts and dressed as ninja?

  Blade’s untimely speculation nearly cost him his life.

  He had reached the archway and paused, glancing to his right and scanning the kitchen.

  The second Assassin came at him from the left, from the doorway near the refrigerator, his sword a blur.

  Blade dodged to his right, unable to block the blow.

  The sword tore into the Warrior’s left leg, tearing the fabric on his fatigue pants but missing his skin.

  Blade kept going. He needed more room to maneuver if he hoped to pit his shorter Bowies against the Assassin’s swords. He lunged for the door.

  The inner, wooden door was already open. He gripped the handle to the screen door, pressed and heaved. His momentum carried him through the doorway onto the porch beyond, even as another blow of the sword narrowly missed his back.

  Get clear of the house! he told himself.

  Blade reached the end of the porch and drew his other Bowie, about to whirl and confront his attacker.

  The third Assassin unexpectedly popped into view at the corner of the house nearest the porch, his right leg extended and rigid, standing directly in front of the huge Warrior.

  Blade felt a sharp pain in his ankles, and the next moment he was flying head over heels to the ground. He landed prone, the impact jarring his body.

  The second Imperial Assassin emerged from the house and joined his companion. They proceeded to circle the Warrior, their swords held high.

  Blade, perplexed, rolled to his feet. What was going on? Why hadn’t they finished him when they had the chance?

  “Samuel wants you to die slowly,” the second Assassin said, “for all the grief you’ve caused him.”

  “We’re going to carve you into little pieces,” vowed the third Assassin.

  Blade crouched, his knives held close to his waist. He detected movement about ten feet past the Assassins and risked a swift look.

  The second Assassin took a step toward the Warrior, then stopped in confusion as his foe inexplicably straightened and grinned.

  “I don’t suppose I could prevail on you to give up?” Blade asked them.

  The third Assassin snorted derisively. “Give up? Are you insane? It’s two against one. You don’t stand a chance!”

  “It’s two against two,” stated a quiet voice behind them.

  The pair of Imperial Assassins shifted their positions, turning their bodies so they could keep an eye on Blade while confronting this new threat.

  “You!” the third Assassin growled.

  He stood at ease, his katana in its scabbard in his right hand, his dark eyes moving from one Assassin to the other, measuring them.

  “You are the one called Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,” the third Assassin stated.

  Rikki drew his katana and dropped the scabbard to the ground.

  “We have heard of you,” the third Assassin said. “You are the Warrior who thinks he is samurai,” he stated disdainfully.

  Rikki spread his legs apart and squatted, holding his katana above his head, waiting.

  “You think you can take us?” demanded the third Assassin.

  Rikki glanced at Blade. “With your permission?”

  Blade nodded and smiled. “Be my guest.”

  The third Imperial Assassin rushed at his smaller adversary, driving his sword down and in, going for the Warrior’s chest.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi’s motion was an indistinct streak. One instant he was facing the Assassin with his katana angled over his black hair; the next, he was standing slightly to the right of his original position, his katana extended at chest level, its blade coated with crimson.

  The third Assassin stiffened and slowly turned, revealing a cleft from his forehead to his chin. Blood pulsed from his split face. He gasped and staggered for a few feet, before finally collapsing.

  The second Assassin began to back away from the diminutive Warrior.

  “Going somewhere?” Blade demanded.

  The second Imperial Assassin closed on the Warrior chief.

  Blade easily parried the Assassin’s blows with his Bowie knives, retreating a few steps as he did, the harsh clashing of their blades ringing out over the lawn. His Bowies, each 16 inches long with 9½ inches devoted to the blade, sturdily withstood the Assassin’s furious onslaught.

  The Assassin, determined to dispatch his huge foe and make good his escape, concentrated all of his attention on his opponent, forgetting all about Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.

  A ruinous oversight.

  Rikki silently crept up behind the Imperial Assassin. He held his katana in his left hand, its keen edge to his rear, its point aimed downward. He did not intend to use it.

  Savagely striving to break through Blade’s skillful guard, the Assassin was abruptly startled by the shattering sound of a piercing kiai coming from directly behind him. He whirled, thinking he was about to be attacked.

  He was right.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was sheer lightning in his execution: his right foot flicked up and out, catching the Assassin on the right knee, breaking it, the Assassin shrieking as a loud snapping noise greeted the blow; his right hand flashed upward in the tegatana-naka-uchi, the handsword cross-body chop, and struck the Assassin on the right side of the neck, stunning his foe. Before the Assassin could recover, Rikki performed the oi-mae-geri-age, the front lunge upper kick, his right foot slamming into the Assassin’s right temple.

  The Imperial Assassin staggered to one side, then collapsed in a senseless heap.

  Rikki calmly turned and recovered his scabbard. He wiped the katana clean on his left pants leg.

  Blade knelt by the Imperial Assassin and checked for additional weapons. He found two short knives, a derringer, and a kyoketsu-shogei—a sharp knife attached to a lengthy cord.

  Rikki replaced the katana in its scabbard and joined Blade. “They were not extremely skilled,” he commented.

  Blade nodded in agreement. “True. But they would probably defeat an ordinary man without much difficulty. Our training has simply been more extensive than theirs.”

  “What should we do with him?” Rikki dutifully inquired.

  “We’ll let him enjoy his nap,” Blade responded, “while you check this green house again and the neighboring yards. There might be more of them lurking about.”

  “On my way.” Rikki moved toward the house.

  “Hey!” Blade called after him.

  Rikki paused and glanced over his right shoulder.

  “Were you looking for me?” Blade asked.

  Rikki stared at the dead Imperial Assassin. “I wanted to let you know the column was taking a break, as you ordered.”

  “Was that all?” Blade pressed him.

  Rikki shook his head. “I wanted to insure you were all right. We can’t afford to lose you now, and we are in enemy territor
y.”

  “Thanks.”

  Rikki smiled. He walked to the green house and vanished inside.

  Blade absently gazed at the unconscious Assassin. Rikki certainly was an excellent Warrior, he told himself. Which would make it all the harder to select someone to become the head Warrior if he decided to assume the post of Family Leader. No one could hold both positions simultaneously.

  Who should he pick to succeed him? Rikki? Hickok? Geronimo? Yama? All four were outstanding Warriors and all four had considerable combat experience. Hickok and Rikki were undoubtedly the deadliest of the bunch, but Hickok was prone to making rash decisions and allowing his emotions to dictate his course of action. Hardly a desirable trait for the head Warrior. Rikki, on the other hand, was always cool and collected.

  Damn. It wasn’t going to be easy. But he must pick a new Warrior chief after he became—

  After he became?

  The realization shocked him. He had already decided to accept Plato’s offer, to become the Leader of the Family after Plato stepped down. He hadn’t been conscious of making such a decision, but he knew it was how he felt.

  Maybe it was for the best. Blade had to face facts. He was growing tired of the constant conflict, of the perpetual fighting, of the continual bloodshed. He needed a break. As Family Leader, he could leave the fighting to the Warriors while he tended to his family—to Jenny and their future children. What was Jenny doing right now? he wondered. Probably shooting the breeze with Sherry, Hickok’s wife, and Cynthia, Geronimo’s mate. Taking it easy.

  Blade watched a white cloud float by overhead.

  Some people had all the luck!

  Chapter Twelve

  Day two of the seige.

  “Why haven’t they done anything yet?” demanded Spartacus impatiently. “Sunrise was hours ago.”

  “Maybe they’re aimin’ to make us sweat,” Hickok replied.

  “It’s working,” Spartacus declared. “No one got much sleep last night, and everyone is jumpy as all get out today.”

  Hickok yawned. “Not everyone.”

  The two Warriors stood on the west rampart above the drawbridge.

  The defenders had spent the night at their posts, fearing an assault under cover of darkness. But the enemy camp had been silent the whole night.