David L. Robbins - Endworld 05 - Dakota Run.pdf

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Dakota Run by David L.
Robbins
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?"
 

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