David L. Robbins
THE FOX RUN
Chapter One
The blasted dog pack still had his scent!
Blade paused, angry, his gray eyes smoldering, his head cocked to one side, listening intently. How long had they been after him now? Sweat soaked his thick, curly hair and caked his green canvas pants and tattered fatigue shirt to his muscular body. At least a dozen were on his trail, their eager baying filling the morning air. They were close, too close, and narrowing the gap rapidly.
Just what he needed!
Blade ran, balancing the deer carcass on his broad right shoulder, hefting his bow in his left hand. The quiver of arrows on his back and the Bowie knife on each hip bounced as he moved. He’d never make it to the Home with the extra weight, and after the three days of tracking it took him to bag the buck, three days with little sleep and less food, he wasn’t about to abandon the meat to the dogs.
No way!
Blade knew he was only two miles from the Home, two miles from shelter and comfort, two miles from help. But the others had no idea when he would return, they didn’t know which direction he would be coming from, and they wouldn’t be this far from the Home under normal circumstances anyway. In short, he couldn’t rely on any aid from his friends.
He was up the creek without a paddle. Blade smiled grimly. Who was he kidding? He was up the creek without a canoe.
The howling was louder, closer. The fleetest of the pack had the fresh scent of blood in their nostrils, and the aroma goaded them to increased speed.
Blade ran over the crest of a small hill and paused. A natural clearing was forty yards away, half the distance down the hill. It would be his best bet. He would be able to see them coming. Even better, they wouldn’t be able to sneak up on him and nip his hamstrings when his back was turned.
The first dog must have spotted him because a tremendous howl split the dawn.
Blade hurried, running for all he was worth, the buck slowing him down, though, impeding his progress, and he knew he was in trouble, knew he wouldn’t quite make the clearing, even before, he heard the patter of rushing pads on the hard ground and then the ominous, throaty growl from a canine pursuer. He tried to whirl, but he was too late, his movements hampered by the weight of the buck.
The dog hit him squarely in the center of his back, the buck absorbing the brunt of the brutal impact, the force of the blow still sufficient to drive Blade to his knees, and he dropped the deer and twisted, his right-hand Bowie drawn and ready, held waist high, the blade extended.
He’s show these bloodsuckers how he got his nickname!
The lead dog was a big one, called a German shepherd in the days before the Big Blast. Huge, hungry, and deadly, it curled its lips back to display long, sharp teeth, its body crouched, its legs tensed for the spring.
The bow had landed to one side. The buck was lying on the ground between them.
“Come and get it!” Blade hissed.
The dog obliged. The German shepherd leaped, snarling.
Blade side-stepped, his right hand flashing, the Bowie slicing into the dog, opening its neck, crimson spurting over the grass.
The dog yelped and landed unsteadily, wavering, stunned by the sudden loss of blood.
Blade put his Bowie in its sheath and scooped up his bow. He drew an arrow and fired in one smooth, practiced motion, the dog dead on its feet before it realized what had happened, and Blade was spinning, another arrow ready, because the pack was on him now, and the second dog was caught in midair, the arrow thudding into the hairy brown chest and toppling the animal to one side.
The pack didn’t miss a beat.
Another dog, a mixed breed, came in low and fast and struck Blade in the legs as he was notching another arrow to the bow string.
Blade fell, flinging the bow aside, grabbing his Bowie knives, one in each hand, and he rose to his knees, slashing right and left, frantically cutting and slicing, berserk, and he lost count of the number of dogs he laid open, the fur and the dust and the blood flying in every direction, the barking and snapping and yowling reaching a crescendo.
A Doberman pinscher fearlessly plowed into Blade, slamming into his chest, bowling him over, exposed and defenseless.
The pack expectantly howled with glee and closed in.
Blade managed to bury his left-hand Bowie in the Doberman. I gave it my best shot, he thought, which was small consolation for failing to get the meat back to the Family.
Teeth bit into his left calf.
Another dog had his left wrist in a vise grip.
Blade lunged with his remaining Bowie, ramming the knife into a black dog’s throat. He was surrounded by the raging canines.
One of the dogs to his right was abruptly picked up and smashed to the earth, and an instant later the blast from the 30-06 carried to Blade’s ears. Another dog, the one gripping his wrist, twisted and dropped away, flesh and blood erupting from its neck.
Hickok, Blade speculated.
A war whoop was added to the din.
And Geronimo.
Blade grinned, relieved, as the 30-06 continued booming.
Four more of the dogs were down now, and the ones still able took off, making for the nearest cover, a stand of trees and dense brush twenty yards to the west.
The rifleman was reluctant to let them go. Two more dogs were dead before the remnant of the pack reached cover.
Had to be Hickok, Blade knew. Hickok was the best shot, and Geronimo would be loath to waste the bullets.
Blade slowly stood, taking stock of his wounds. He was bleeding from a number of bite wounds, but none were particularly severe. His left wrist was throbbing, the bone exposed. He angrily kicked the dog responsible for his wounded wrist.
“I think the critter is dead,” someone commented.
“He’s obviously not a dog lover,” added someone else.
Blade turned, smiling.
“You always gotta do everything the hard way?” Hickok asked.
“He likes to do things the hard way,” Geronimo observed. “He thinks it builds his character.”
Blade faced his two best friends, grinning.
“We came out of the woods at the bottom of the hill,” Hickok said, pointing, “just as the dogs closed in on you. Had to fire and run at the same time. Tricky. I was hoping I wouldn’t waste a bullet by accidentally hitting you.” He laughed.
“You mean that you were aiming at the dogs?” Geronimo pretended to be surprised.
Blade shook his head at their antics, delighted they were there.
Hickok was examining the shot dogs, insuring that none of them were still alive, his lean frame coiled for action. He held his rifle loosely in both hands, casually sweeping the barrel from side to side. A leather belt was draped around his hips, a holster hanging from each side, his prized ivory-handled .357’s loaded and gleaming in the sun, reflecting the meticulous care and attention they received from their owner. And well they should. With a rifle, Geronimo and one or two others in the Family might come close to tying Hickok, but with a handgun Hickok was unequaled in marksmanship, almost uncanny in his speed and ability to hit any target without consciously appearing to aim his revolver. The .357’s were his by virtue of his skill, and he was called Hickok because he had selected it on his sixteenth birthday, at his Naming. One of the old history books called The Gunfighters told of a man long ago who was a legend with pistols, a man called Hickok, a tall man with blond hair and a sweeping moustache. It was fitting that sixteen-year-old Nathan, already a qualified member of the Warrior Class at that early age, should select as his namesake of the deadliest gunfighter of all time, simply because he, Nathan, was the most proficient gunman in the Family’s history.