Dallas Run, page 18
part #20 of Endworld Series
Blade crouched and tensed, astounded by the beast.
Destiny stood seven feet tall at the shoulders. Rawboned and rangy, the animal had a tough, thick hide brownish red in color. The head was long, the nose blunt and black. Massive muscles rippled and flowed as it moved, and the creature radiated a feral, fierce air, a ferocity accented by the pair of sweeping horns jutting from either side of its head. Monstrous horns they were, with a five-foot spread and curved forward from the center, capable of spearing through a human body with ease.
Blade glanced longingly at the Bowies in the Lawgiver’s right hand.
Snorting noisily, Destiny halted and swung its head from side to side.
The steer spied the Warrior and began stamping its front hooves on the ground.
How in the world was he going to fight something that size? Blade asked himself, and before he could formulate a strategy the inevitable occurred.
Destiny charged.
Blade focused on the longhorn’s head, gauging the distance, barely listening to the pounding of the hooves and the cries of the crowd. He saw the animal lower its head when it was still ten feet off, and he waited until the very last instant to hurl himself to the right as far as he could. He came down on his right side and rolled to his feet in a fluid motion.
The steer had passed him by and wheeled, and was already attacking anew.
“Death to the impure!” someone in the stands shouted.
Blade shut all distractions from his mind. He could see the pointed tips of the longhorn’s horns sweeping toward him, and he leaped to the right, his arms outstretched. A hard object gouged into his left calf, causing him to flinch, and he came down hard on his stomach. He rose to his knees and glanced at his calf. A horn had snagged the fabric and his fatigue pants, tearing a hole and puncturing his skin. The wound did not appear to be deep or serious, and he rose quickly and rotated.
Destiny had stopped about 20 feet off and was staring at the Warrior, its nostrils flaring.
Sooner or later the longhorn would get the range. Blade knew he couldn’t stay in the open, exposed. But where else could he go? If he tried to run for the stands, the Chosen would open fire. And there was nowhere else on the—
Wait a minute!
The uprights!
Blade looked at the orange posts. They were smooth as glass, but they were the only hope he had. With the realization came action, and he sprinted for the uprights at top speed.
Destiny charged once more.
The earth underfoot seemed to shake as the longhorn bore down. Blade pumped his legs and arms, covering the distance in a rush. He vaulted upward at the nearest vertical post, wrapping his herculean arms around the upright and clinging for dear life.
A tremendous blow struck the post just below the Warrior’s dangling legs.
Blade clamped his ankles on the upright and glanced down.
The steer had struck the post, then backed off to shake its head and bellow. He climbed higher, retaining his grip with the greatest difficulty but determined to reach the horizontal crossbar. As he came within 12 inches of the bar, he lunged with his right hand.
Just as Destiny rammed the upright again.
The vibration proved too much for Blade’s sweaty arms to resist. He began sliding down, toward the steer’s waiting horns, and he frantically strived to check his descent. A cold wind seemed to strike his spine as he gained momentum, and he executed a desperate gambit to save his life.
Rather than fall onto those horns and be impaled, he abruptly pushed away from the upright, his arms uncoiling like steel springs, and tried to fling his body to the left, away from the longhorn.
Instead, he slipped.
Blade plummeted, anticipating the burning sensation of having a horn lance through his chest or abdomen. But he missed the steer’s head and crashed onto its broad back.
Startled by the unexpected impact and weight, Destiny darted away.
The Warrior tumbled from the longhorn onto his back, the breath whooshing out of him. He scrambled erect, intending to race for the stands despite the consequences, but he was too late.
Destiny had turned sharply and was already on him.
Blade saw the horns arcing at his torso and instinctively reached out, his hands closing on the middle of the horns when the tips were mere inches from him. He endeavored to brace his legs and hold fast, but even though the steer wasn’t moving fast the jolt drove Blade backwards a yard.
Gritting his teeth, every sinew straining to the limit, he dug in his heels and held.
The longhorn snorted and tried to wrench loose.
The muscles on Blade’s arms and shoulders bulged in stark relief as he applied every iota of his prodigious strength to the task of restraining the steer. Sweat beaded his brow and poured down his sides. A crimson hue tinged his face, and his veins expanded. He recognized it was only a matter of time before Destiny broke free. What then? If he-Unexpected bedlam broke out in the stands to his rear.
Blade’s forehead creased in consternation. He could hear gunfire and screaming and yelling, a veritable din, as if a war was being fought. But who would have the temerity to assault the Chosen in their own Temple?
Hickok might, but not even the gunman would take on such overwhelming numbers by his lonesome. Then again, the gunfighter was unpredictable.
From the uproar, he gathered the attacking force must be large, and he resisted the temptation to risk a glance over his shoulder. All of his concentration must be applied to holding those deadly horns.
Their silent, titanic struggle continued for over a minute while the clamor in the stands grew.
Stray rounds smacked into the nearby ground.
Blade felt his arms beginning to tire, and he decided to make a move before he became completely exhausted. He took a deep breath, then released the horns and hurtled to the right, twisting his body so he spun toward the longhorn, prepared to meet another charge.
Only Destiny wasn’t moving. The steer was staring at the stands, either confused or fascinated by the chaos.
And chaos it was. Blade looked to his left, astounded at the sight of scores of bodies sprawled in the bleachers in attitudes of death. Three fourths of the Chosen had been slain, mowed down in their seats by the surprise attack. Those still able were conducting a running battle with dozens of men and women, and at the forefront of the attacking force were Hickok and Geronimo. Blade saw the gunfighter, a Python in either hand, cut loose at a group of the Chosen poised on a lower tier, and six of the fanatics died in a hail of lead. Somehow, Blade deduced, Hickok and Geronimo and those with them had managed to get above and behind the Chosen.
The Lawgiver’s flock never stood a chance.
A solitary figure leaped from the lowest row to the earth, his gaze on the battle to his rear, and raced toward the field.
Blade straightened. It was the Lawgiver! And he still held the Bowies!
The Warrior took a stride, planning to cut the Lawgiver off, but his horned adversary was swifter. Destiny lowered his head and pounded forward.
The Lawgiver didn’t realize his danger until the longhorn was less than four feet away. His shocked countenance swung around, and he mouthed the word “No!” And then Destiny’s right horn ripped into his chest, tearing through from front to back, and he was lifted from his feet and tossed over the steer’s back.
Blade saw his Bowies fly from the Lawgiver’s limp fingers, he ran to reclaim his knives. He saw the Lawgiver crash to the ground, and in seconds the longhorn loomed above the man responsible for its capture, slashing repeatedly with its horns as if it was exacting revenge for its torment. Blade turned his attention from the horrid goring to his knives.
In six bounds he reached them, and he scooped the Bowies into his hands with a feeling of relief. Grinning, he pivoted and glanced at the stands.
Most of the Chosen were dead, dying, or had fled.
Hickok and Geronimo were hurrying down an aisle. The gunman looked at Blade, stopped abruptly, and started shouting and motioning with his arms.
What was he—!
Blade whirled, knowing what he would see: Destiny, coming at him with all the raw power of a tank, its horns dripping blood.
This time he was ready.
Blade’s right arm swept back, his hand grasping the Bowie by the hilt, timing the throw precisely. The longhorn was 12 feet from him when he whipped his arm down and let go, and the gleaming knife streaked like a razor-edged missile into the steer’s left eye, slicing the orb and penetrating deep into the socket. He darted to the right and Destiny thundered by him.
An enraged bellow rent the air as the longhorn slowed, shaking its head, crimson spraying from its ruptured eye.
Shifting the Bowie in his left hand to his right, Blade sprang forward and leaped in close, stabbing the knife into Destiny’s neck.
The steer tottered, then recovered some of its strength and lashed out, its left horn lancing at the Warrior.
Blade caught the horn in his left hand, moved in next to the longhorn’s neck, and extended his right arm to stab the beast in the other eye. The Bowie sank in nearly to the hilt.
Destiny stiffened, then reared, kicking and pitching.
The steer’s neck struck Blade in the chest, and the Warrior was knocked for a loop. He thudded onto his back and lay there, dazed, until his senses suddenly cleared and he could prop himself on his elbows.
Destiny had expired. The longhorn lay on its right side, the hilts of the Bowies sticking from its eyes, a pool of blood forming about its head.
Footsteps pounded close at hand.
“Pard! Pard! Are you all right?”
Blade rose, feeling sore all over, and faced the west end of the stadium.
Hickok and Geronimo ran to his side.
“Are you all right?” the gunman repeated.
“Never felt better,” Blade replied.
“We’ve got those pesky varmints on the run,” Hickok declared. “All that’s left is the mopping up.”
“And we have to rescue the soldiers from the sentry posts,” Blade said.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“You know where they’re at?” Geronimo asked.
Blade nodded. “At a chemical plant General Reese needs to destroy.”
“I’m glad to see you’re in one piece,” Hickok commented. “But then, I reckon I should’ve known you’d be pulling a Geronimo.”
“A what?” Blade said.
“I should’ve known you’d be goofin’ off.”
Blade nodded at the dead longhorn. “You call this goofing off?”
“Sure,” the gunfighter said. “What else would you call what you were doing? I saw the whole thing from up on the stands. While we were fightin’ for our lives tryin’ to wipe out the Chosen, you were down here dancin’ with a blamed cow.”
Chapter Twenty-One
He answered the knock on the cabin door, wondering who would be paying them a visit at such a late hour. His wizened features creased into a smile when the light from the lantern in his left hand illuminated their faces. “Nathan! Geronimo! You’ve returned safely.”
“Yep,” Hickok responded. “Sorry to be bothering you when it’s almost midnight, old-timer, but we figured you’d want us to report right away.”
Plato stared into the darkness. “Where’s Blade?”
“He’s fine,” Geronimo said. “He’s with Jenny and Gabe right this minute.”
“And we’re headin’ home ourselves,” Hickok mentioned. “I can’t wait to see my missus. She’ll be tickled pink that I’m back. Whenever we return from one of these runs, she can’t get enough of my pucker power.”
Geronimo glanced at the gunman. “Pucker power?”
“Never mind that,” Plato said impatiently. “How did Blade fare on the mission?”
“He acted as normal as me,” Hickok said.
“He did?” Plato declared, sounding worried.
“Yep. Except for dancin’ with a cow, he would’ve done Jim Bowie proud,” Hickok asserted.
Plato looked at Geronimo. “Can you translate?”
“Blade handled the mission efficiently. You have no reason to be concerned.”
“What about the plague?”
“There wasn’t one,” Geronimo answered.
“Yeah. It was just a bunch of yahoos who looked like walkin’ asparagus going around drinkin’ toxic chemicals and being unsociable,” Hickok elaborated.
“I see. I think,” Plato said. “Well, I don’t want to detain you. I know you’re eager to see your families.”
“See you in the morning,” Geronimo responded.
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Hickok quipped.
Plato smiled as he closed the door. He paused, listening to their conversation as they moved off.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“You can ask me anything, pard. You know that.”
“What exactly is pucker power?”
Copyright
LEISURE BOOKS
NEW YORK CITY
A LEISURE BOOK® March 1990 Published by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
276 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY
Copyright ® 1990 by David L. Robbins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
The name “Leisure Books” and the stylized “L” with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
David Robbins, Dallas Run
