David L. RobbinsChapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
* * *
David L. Robbins
DAKOTA RUN
Chapter One
Was that a scream, or were his ears playing tricks on him?
The man paused, twenty yards below the crest of the sloping hill he was slowly climbing, and listened intently, his black hair blowing in the wind, his keen brown eyes scanning the surrounding terrain.
Who would be screaming way out here in the middle of nowhere?
He cautiously continued his ascent, his green shirt and pants blending in perfectly with the tall grass. His stocky body was tense, his senses alert, as his moccasined feet forged ahead.
There it was again!
The scream was faint and fluctuated, rising and falling in volume, apparently affected by the gusting wind. Still, he was able to pinpoint the direction.
It was coming from the other side of the hill.
The man hurried now, the Arminius .357 Magnum in its shoulder holster under his right arm bouncing as he ran. A tomahawk was tucked under his deerskin belt, and a Marlin 45-70 was draped across his back, suspended from a leather cord angled from his right shoulder to his left hip. A bandoleer, filled with cartridges for the Marlin, crossed his wide chest in the opposite direction.
The distant sound of a gunshot carried on the breeze.
He unslung his 45-70 as he reached the crest of the hill and stopped to get his bearings.
A narrow valley passed the base of his hill and, bordered by another hill to the east and a smaller one to the west, it followed a meandering course until it reached a verdant stand of trees half a mile away. Much closer, maybe a thousand yards or so, was the source of the screams.
A terrified woman, running for all she was worth in his general direction.
The man stared beyond her and discovered the reason for her panic.
Eight horsemen were on her trail, approaching at full gallop, some of them laughing and shouting and waving their arms, evidently enjoying themselves and their pursuit of the hapless female. One of them fired a rifle he was holding, pointing the barrel straight up.
The shot caused the fleeing woman to try to run even faster.
Fun and games. The man in green frowned, debating his course of action. Ordinarly, he would assist the woman without any hesitation. But after his recent experiences in Montana, after being betrayed by a woman he thought he could trust, after being almost killed, he wondered if he were justified in interfering. For all he knew, the woman might deserve whatever these men had planned for her.
The woman was tiring, her pace flagging. She nearly stumbled, recovering her footing at the last instant, and lunged forward.
Cheering wildly, the horsemen bore down on their prey. One of them pulled ahead of his companions, a lariat in his left hand.
The woman glanced over her right shoulder and screamed again, her lengthy black tresses flying.
The man on the hill bent over at the waist and ran toward the woman, keeping his body hidden below the chest-high grass and weeds, his sturdy legs pumping. He couldn’t just idly stand by and watch the horsemen harm the woman, if that was what they intended to do. If he could get close enough without being seen, he might learn what this was all about.
Weariness pervading her lithe body, the woman slowed, unable to maintain her frantic pace.
The lead horseman had his lariat ready, and as he closed in on the woman he began swinging the rope in a wide circle over his head. When his horse, a powerful mare, was ten yards from his victim, he released the lariat and watched with satisfaction as the loop swung out and down, encircling the woman and pinning her arms to her sides.
“Ya-hoo!” the horseman exclaimed, elated. He never missed a beat as he tightened his grip on the lariat, his mare passing the woman and racing up the valley.
“No!” the woman managed to shout, a moment before she was brutally jerked from her feet and flung to the exposed turf.
The horseman goaded his steed to greater speed, glancing over his left shoulder, laughing as the woman was dragged along the ground, bouncing and twisting, her torn and tattered form flapping at the end of the lariat.
Relishing the spectacle, the seven other horsemen had reined in and were viewing the event with unrestrained mirth. One of them, a bearded man in buckskins, was the first to glimpse the newcomer. “Look!” he shouted, pointing.
The horeman with the lariat saw his companions gesturing wildly and shouting as they goaded their mounts in his direction. For a moment he thought they were cheering him on, until he abruptly realized they weren’t looking at him, but at something else. He twisted, facing front, and was completely startled to observe a man in green standing in the grass, perhaps one hundred yards off, with a rifle to his shoulder.
So much for minding his own business! No one deserved this type of sadistic treatment. The newcomer sighed and fired, the Marlin recoiling into his right shoulder.
Reacting as if a giant had slammed him in the forehead, the horseman catapulted backwards, the rear of his cranium erupting in a crimson spray of flesh, blood, and bone. He tumbled from the mare and landed on his left side, immobile. The mare slowly came to a stop, confused by the sudden loss of its master.
The man in green shifted, sighting again. Their countenances reflecting both rage and grim determination, the remaining seven horsemen were coming straight at him. Even as he aimed, the newcomer marveled at their expertise, at their superb horsemanship. They were riding bareback at breakneck speed, seemingly part of the horses they rode. Four of them were garbed in buckskins, the rest being attired in pants and shirts of various colors. Three carried rifles, one a bow and a quiver of arrows, two held handguns, and the last a gleaming lance.
The riflemen posed the deadliest danger.
Just a few yards more! He wanted to be sure, knowing he couldn’t afford to waste a single shot. The Marlin only held four rounds, and he’d expended one of them on the joker with the lariat. He fired again.
A bearded horseman was forcefully propelled from his mount, falling onto the grass in a crumpled heap, his Winchester flying from his lifeless fingers.
The newcomer turned slightly, hurriedly fixing on his next target.
Another thunderous report rolled across the valley as a third horseman collapsed.
Only one with a rifle left!
This one unexpectedly veered to his left and reined in, his rifle sweeping to his shoulder.
The two long guns boomed simultaneously, and the horseman jerked sideways and slumped over his mount.
Four down and four to go!
But the remaining horsemen had other ideas. They circled wide and returned to their original position. For a minute they engaged in animated conversation, then they wheeled and raced for the trees.
Good riddance!
The man in green moved toward the prone woman, reloading his Marlin as he went. If she were still alive, he had to get her out of there before the horsemen returned, possibly with reinforcements.
Moaning, the woman struggled to rise onto her hands and
knees as he approached. Her waist-length hair was caked with dirt and pieces of grass, her faded blue dress was ripped to shreds, and any visible skin was covered with bruises and welts.
“Is this your idea of a normal date?”
The woman, unaware he was standing there, glanced up, alarmed. Her lively green eyes scrutinized him from head to toe. “You’re not one of them,” she said, more a statement than a question.
He shook his head, watching the horsemen vanish into the trees. “After what I just did, I don’t think they’d let me join them for all the gold in Fort Knox.”
“The what?”
He studied her, pleased she wasn’t crying hysterically or wimpering in pain from her wounds. This one was tough. He liked that. “Never mind.
Fort Knox is a place I read about in the Family library.”
“The what?”
“I’ll explain later. What’s your name?”
She managed to stand, her legs still a bit unsteady. “I’m called Cynthia Morning Dove.”
“Cynthia Morning Dove?” the man repeated. “Are you an Indian?”
“I am part Indian,” Cynthia proudly admitted. “My father is a white, but my mother is Oglala Sioux.”
The man in green laughed.
“You find this funny?” she demanded defensively.
“It’s not what you think,” he told her. “Once upon a time, I believed I was the last Indian on the face of the planet. Now I’m running into Indians all over the place. We’re worse than rabbits!”
“You are Indian?”
“Part Blackfoot,” he informed her.
“How are you known?”
“My name is Geronimo.”
“I like your name,” Cynthia declared. “It has a clean, strong sound to it.”
“So does Cynthia Morning Dove.”
There was a pause. “Where are you from?” she asked. “How did you get here?”
“My trusty feet brought me.” He grinned. “I’m glad they did.”
For an instant their eyes met, conveying mutual respect and an incipient attraction.
“We’d better make tracks,” Geronimo advised, glancing at the trees.
“Your friends may return.”
Cynthia looked over her left shoulder. “They will return,” she stated, “and they will bring others.”
“Feel up to riding?” he asked her.
Two of the horses were nearby. The one belonging to the deceased lariat rider was twenty yards off, contentedly munching on the grass. Fifty yards out was the last of the riflemen Geronimo killed, still slumped over his mount’s neck, the horse standing quietly, evidently awaiting a command from its owner.
“I can manage,” Cynthia assured him.
“Wait here,” Geronimo directed. He hastily retrieved the two animals, neither of which displayed any inclination to bolt. They certainly were well trained.
“I’ll take the paint,” Cynthia announced as he returned with the horses in tow, referring to the mount belonging to the man responsible for dragging her over the hard ground.
“That leaves the big black for me,” Geronimo commented, gripping the leather reins and swinging up onto the stallion.
Cynthia nimbly followed suit and kneed the paint forward, heading due east.
Geronimo closed in alongside her. “Do you have a specific destination in mind?” he inquired.
“Head east. The further east we go, the better,” Cynthia revealed. “If we keep going, maybe ten or twenty miles, it’s not very likely they’ll follow us.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Geronimo inquired.
“The Legion.”
Geronimo twisted as they reached the top of the eastern hill and eyed the treeline. Still no sign of pursuit. “Tell me about this Legion,” he instructed her.
“You’ve never heard of them?” Cynthia demanded, sounding surprised.
“Nope.”
“What about the Cavalry?”
“The Cavalry? You mean an official military unit?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Cynthia shook her head, guiding the paint around a large boulder.
“Tell me about them,” Geronimo urged. “Go back as far as you can, back as far as the Big Blast if possible.”
“You mean the Third World War?” Cynthia stated, grinning. “How old do you think I am?”
“Well, you’re certainly not one hundred years old,” Geronimo ronceded.
“But tell me what you can. The more I learn, the better.” He looked over his right shoulder as they reached the bottom of the hill, relieved the rim was clear of horsemen. If they kept the black and the paint at a fast walk, not quite a trot, they’d conserve their energy until it was needed.
“I don’t know a lot of the details,” Cynthia clarified, “but I do remember what my grandfather told me.”
“Let me hear it.” Geronimo slid the Marlin over his shoulder, his left hand on the reins. Thank the Great Spirit the Elders saw fit to teach every Family member to ride! True, the lessons weren’t extensive, because the Family only owned nine horses, but the memories were coming in handy.
“Let me see…” Cynthia was saying. “After the war, after the Government evacuated many people to the Civilized Zone and established a new capital in Denver, there were still people here, people who refused to be forcibly removed from their homes. One of them owned a large ranch in eastern South Dakota. I forget his name, but he organized his neighbors and others into a vigilante group called the Cavalry. They protected themselves from the scavengers and the looters and the Government troops. This rancher owned a huge herd of horses and cattle, a couple of hundred head of each, on his ranch near Redfield…”
“Redfield?” Geronimo interrupted.
“A small town about sixty or seventy miles southwest of here,” Cynthia detailed.
“That explains the Cavalry,” Geronimo noted, “but it doesn’t explain the Legion, the ones after you/’
Cynthia sighed, fatigued. “The rancher died a long time ago. Another man, name of Tanner, took control of the Cavalry. He was killed, and the leadership passed to his son, a man named Brent. Brent was gunned down, and his two sons, Rolf and Rory, became joint leaders, running the Cavalry together until about ten years ago.”
“Then what happened?”
“They had a falling out over a woman…”
“What else?” Geronimo smirked.
Cynthia ignored the taunt. “Rolf took about three hundred of the Cavalry with him and established his headquarters in Pierre. It used to be the capital of South Dakota, before the war. It’s west of here about one hundred and fifty miles. Correction. Make that southwest of here, near the Missouri River.”
“So let me guess,” Geronimo interjected. “This Rolf, for some obscure reason, decided to call his followers the Legion. Am I right?”
She grinned at him. “Not bad, bright boy! The Cavalry and the Legion have been fighting ever since, mostly small raids and skirmishes. Neither side wants an all-out war. The Legion has around three hundred horsemen, the original Cavalry about four hundred, so they’re pretty evenly matched. An all-out war would be suicidal. Not to mention stupid.”
“How so?”
“It would leave us open to attack from the Civilized creeps, the Government troops.”
“Ahhh, yes,” Geronimo nodded. “I’ve had the supreme displeasure of encountering Government troops before.”
“And you’re still alive?” she marveled. “And free?”
“Remind me to tell you about it sometime,” Geronimo directed. “But tell me first how you fit into the scheme of things.”
“Well, it’s like this. The Cavalry and the Legion protect their respective territories, insuring all the farmers and the ranchers are safe from the scavengers, the troops, the mutations, and whatever else comes along. My mother and father own a small farm about twenty miles east of here. Not much, but we get by. We’re required to provide the Cavalry with a portion of our crops, our fair share for their protection. But
they can’t be everywhere at once. Yesterday morning a Legion patrol attacked our farm.
They burned our house and barn to the ground and abducted me. At least,” she said slowly, “they didn’t kill my mother and father or my younger brothers.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“I really don’t know,” she shrugged. “Unless the patrol captain had something to do with it. I think he wants me for himself, and he probably reasoned I’d be more… cooperative… if he left my folks alive.”
“So the patrol made camp for the night in that group of trees back there,” Geronimo deduced, “and you made a break for it today, the first chance you had.”
Cynthia beamed. “I am impressed. You are a smart one! Your mother must be real proud of you.”
Geronimo’s face clouded. “My parents passed on to the higher mansions when I was quite young.” He quickly changed the subject. “How many horsemen were in this Legion patrol?”
“That many,” Cynthia said, pointing behind them. “Plus four.”
Geronimo turned, unprepared for the sight of dozens of horsemen on the crest of the hill.
“Only thirty-two,” Cynthia elaborated as she goaded the paint into a gallop. “Now twenty-eight.”
“Oh. Is that all?” Geronimo urged the black stallion forward, keeping pace with Cynthia.
The riders on the hill voiced a collective shout—a loud, sustained “Yaa-hoooo!”— and descended on the fleeing duo.
And to think, Geronimo reflected, all I wanted was some quiet time to myself. Peace and solitude.
So much for that bright idea!
Chapter Two
There were three of them lined up in a row, their hands hovering near their revolvers, their concentration centered on three rusted tin cans lying on the ground twenty yards away, awaiting the command to fire.
The first was a youth of sixteen, dressed in a black shirt and black pants, his bushy brows knit as he squinted in the bright October sun. His brown eyes never left the can directly in front of him. A slight breeze stirred his brown hair. In a holster on his right hip was a Llama Comanche .357 Magnum.
The other two were women, both young and lovely, both blonde, both with green eyes—but there the similarities ended. One of the women, the one standing in the center, was taller and leaner, with a narrow waist and unusually small feet. Her cheekbones were more prominent, her forehead higher, and her lips thinner. She wore a brown blouse patched in half a dozen spots, and baggy green pants a size too big. In her holster was a Smith and Wesson .357 Combat Magnum.
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