“They’re comin’! They’re comin’!” Old Jerry croaked, rising unsteadily and motioning to the north. “For God’s sake, get everyone out of town!”
“Who is coming?” inquired one of the bystanders.
“Raiders,” Old Jerry answered. “Dozens of ’em. Saw ’em with my own two peepers.”
The news electrified the bystanders. Exclamations of alarm erupted, and mothers scooped their small offspring into their arms.
“Now hold on, folks,” Ike called out. “Let’s get the facts straight before we get into an uproar.” He waited for them to quiet down a bit, then stepped down the wooden steps and towered over the prospector. “Have you been hitting the shine again, old-timer?” he politely inquired, and sniffed loudly.
“I ain’t had a drink since sunrise,” Old Jerry replied angrily, his eyes blazing resentment.
“Where did you spot these raiders?”
“About two miles north of my shack. I went up the hill behind my place to get me some wood for my stove, and I was sittin’ there restin’ after doing a bit of choppin’,” Old Jerry related. “I happened to look to the north and there they was, a whole bunch of mounted men ridin’ toward me.”
Ike chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds. “How many riders were there?”
“I stopped countin’ at twenty-four.”
Another man interjected a question. “How could you tell they were raiders if they were two miles off?”
“I took a gander at ’em through my binoculars,” Old Jerry responded.
“What do you think I am, stupid?”
No one bothered to give an honest answer.
“Were they armed?” Ike asked.
Jerry snorted. “Do you think I’d be this excited if they was totin’ flowers? Of course they had guns, you blamed idiot. Rifles and automatics and the whole shootin’ match.”
One of the sturdy farmers moved forward. “It must be raiders.”
“What are we going to do?” a woman named Linda demanded.
“We don’t stand a chance,” commented a companion of hers.
A general commotion broke out again. Some of the youngest children, sensing the panic in many of the adults, provided the proper background chorus for the occasion by crying and whimpering.
“Calm down!” Dee thundered, moving to the top of the steps. “We’ve got to stay calm and plan on how best to defend Second Chance.”
“Second Chance, hell,” remarked a devout churchgoer. “We’ve got to get out of here pronto.”
“It’s every man for himself,” chimed in someone else.
“And don’t forget about the women and kids,” added a third voice.
The hubbub grew louder as everyone tried to talk at once. Ike shouted for silence, but no one paid him the slightest attention, which only made him shout louder.
Standing next to Jeffrey, Old Jerry broke into a lopsided grin and shook his head. “Danged fools,” he said into the donkey’s long ear. “They don’t have the sense the good Lord gave a turnip.” He surveyed the crowd, and as his gaze strayed to the west end of the street he spied the three men standing silently and observing the proceedings. His first thought was automatic: “That’s the biggest son of a bitch I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Then he went up the steps and tugged on Ike’s shirt.
“What do you want?” Glisson snapped, still trying to quell the spreading fear.
“Look!” Old Jerry urged, jabbing his finger to the west. “Look at ’em.”
Ike glanced around, did a double take, and vented a roar that would have done justice to an elephant-sized mutant. “Look over there!”
Most of the crowd swiveled in the right direction, and they all went rigid in their tracks, astounded by the arrival of the newcomers.
The trio walked slowly forward.
“They must be raiders!” a man yelled.
Old Jerry abruptly remembered the many stories he’d heard while sharing many a meal around many a campfire, and chuckled. He knew who the one in the middle was, and he snickered and stated for all to hear, “They ain’t raiders, you nincompoop.”
On the right walked a lean man attired in buckskins, the traditional garb of the postwar era. His shoulder-length hair and full mustache were both blond, his eyes a lively shade of blue. A smile played on his lips.
Draped around his waist were two holsters, and in each rode a pearl-handled .357 Colt Python revolver. Slung over his left shoulder was a Marlin 45-70. He strolled down the street projecting an air of nonchalant arrogance, his wide shoulders swinging with every step.
On the left walked a contrast to the gunfighter. This man had Indian blood in his veins as evinced in his finely chiseled features. He was short and stocky, built like a powerhouse, and dressed in a green shirt and pants, both sewn together from the remnants of a canvas tent. His hair and eyes were dark, his face clean-shaven. In his hands he held an FNC Auto Rifle. In a shoulder holster under his left arm was an Armanius .357 Magnum. Tucked under his belt over his left hip was a tomahawk.
While both these men were striking in their own right, they were dwarfed by the giant in the center, a colossus seven feet in height and endowed with bulging muscles that seemed to ripple and flow even when his arms were at rest. A black leather vest barely covered his chest. Green fatigue pants and black combat boots completed his apparel. On each stout hip hung a big Bowie knife. Bandoleers crisscrossed the vest. And clasped in his left hand, its stock resting against his side, was a Commando Arms Carbine.
No one spoke as the trio approached and halted. Ike walked tentatively down the steps and through the crowd until he stood six feet from the threesome.
Old Jerry stayed abreast of the civic leader.
“Hello,” the giant said in a friendly voice.
“What the blazes is all the ruckus?” the gunfighter queried.
Ike addressed them, the words squeaking out unnaturally. “Who are you?”
“We’re just passing through,” the giant replied. “We don’t mean you any harm.”
The blond took a step nearer, his hands drifting to within inches of those Colts. “I recollect askin’ you a question, friend. It’d be polite of you to answer.”
“Hickok?” the Indian said sternly. “Behave yourself.”
“Hickok?” Ike repeated, comprehension dawning, and took a step backwards.
An impish grin creased the gunfighter’s features and he looked at the Indian. “I’m so famous, it’s pitiful.”
“Pitiful is the operative word,” the man in green commented.
“Keep it up, pard,” Hickok growled.
The giant looked from one to the other and they immediately adopted serious expressions. Next he shifted his attention to Ike Glisson. “We couldn’t help but overhear. Did someone report raiders in the vicinity?”
“Yes, sir,” Ike said, nodding at the prospector.
“I did, Blade,” Old Jerry confirmed, proud to be speaking to the most famous man in the Outlands or anywhere else. “Upwards of two dozen of the varmints.”
Hickok inexplicably cackled.
“What did you say?” the Indian asked.
Mystified, Old Jerry said, “Upwards to two dozen.”
“No, the last word you used,” the Indian said.
“Varmints.”
Again the gunfighter cackled.
“I don’t get it,” Old Jerry said. “What’s so blamed funny?”
Hickok nearly doubled over with laughter.
“Ignore them,” Blade stated, moving closer so he could be heard over the gunman’s mirth. “How soon before these raiders get here?”
“At the rate they was movin’, I’d guess an hour, tops,” Old Jerry said.
“Do you plan to fight?” Blade inquired.
Ike swept his arm towards the onlooking farmers. “What chance would we have against men who kill for the fun of it? We’re mostly farmers and simple businessmen. The raiders would mow us down.”