The bird had regained his balance and was hurtling toward the Warrior with his axe upraised for a death blow.
Hickok backpedaled, knowing his carving knife couldn’t withstand the axe, but as he retreated his moccasins slipped on the drenched, slippery ground and he fell to one knee. The movement saved his life.
The chicken had aimed a terrific swipe of the axe at the Warrior’s head, but the gunman’s misstep dropped him below the swinging axe.
Hickok found himself on his left knee, within arm’s reach of the chicken’s legs. He took instant advantage of the situation, stabbing the carving knife up and in, imbedding the blade in the bird’s groin.
The Second cannibal shrieked and released the axe, bending over and grabbing for his genitals.
Hickok yanked the knife out, then rose, bringing the carving knife up with the tip held vertically, savagely ramming the blade into the chicken’s neck.
The chicken squawked and frantically clawed at the Warrior’s eyes.
Hickok pulled the knife loose and sidestepped.
The chicken stumbled, almost straightened, then pitched onto his bill on the muddy turf.
Hickok twirled.
Tab was still on his feet, lurching toward the barracks, weaving and tottering, not ten feet off.
Hickok raced in pursuit and caught the cannibal by the scruff of the neck. He tugged, drawing Tab backwards, tripping the cannibal with his right leg.
Tab fell onto his back, the blood pouring from his throat, whining plaintively.
Hickok went to his knees, plunging the carving knife into Tab’s right eye.
Tab’s left eye widened and he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. His arms flapping, he began convulsing uncontrollably.
Hickok maintained his pressure on the hilt until Tab’s spasms ceased.
He took a deep breath, then glanced at the barracks to see if more cannibals were after him.
None were in evidence.
Hickok quickly reversed his grip on the knife and applied the edge to the rope binding his wrists. Fifteen feet of rope trailed from his arms along the ground. He was lucky he hadn’t become entangled during the fight! And he was fortunate the howling wind and the pummeling rain had prevented the cannibals in the barracks from hearing the struggle!
After a minute the rope parted.
Hickok’s hands flashed to his Pythons, and he raised them aloft with a smile of exultation. The feel of the pearl grips against his palms sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through his body. He stood, the wind whipping his blond hair, the rain battering his buckskins, but he ignored the storm as he faced the barracks.
So they were going to eat him for supper, were they?
Gut him like a fish and fry his flesh in a skillet!
Hickok grinned, tingling with expectation. It was time to settle accounts, to avenge the countless nameless victims of the cannibals over the years, to teach these vermin the meaning of the word justice. He bolstered his Colts and stalked toward the barracks, calculating the odds.
Eight cannibals had jumped him at the dock, but others had been waiting at the fort when he was brought there. Fourteen all told. Four were women, four were kids. He wasn’t partial to blowing away ladyfolk and young’uns, so he’d let them live if they didn’t intervene. But the male cannibals were going to meet their Maker. Tab and the bird were dead, which left eight.
The fight would be about even.
The gunman stopped outside the barracks door and checked his Pythons. Both were loaded with five rounds in the cylinder. He replaced them in their holsters, squared his shoulders, and knocked on the door.
The barracks building was a low, squat affair with a single door on the north end. The flicker of a lantern was visible through one of the two drape-covered curtains. Laughter and boisterous gab emanated from inside.
Hickok knocked once more.
“Who’s there?” called a gruff voice.
Hickok recalled an ancient custom Plato had told him about when he was a small boy. In the prewar society, one night a year, the parents had sent their children out to collect as many bags of sweets as they could, simply so the parents could spend the next eleven months taking their youngsters to the dentist where the kids could have their sugar-corroded teeth repaired. A very strange custom.
“Who the hell is it?” the gruff voice demanded. “Tab? Is that you?”
“Trick or treat,” Hickok declared.
“What?”
“Trick or treat! Are you hard of hearing, you numbskull?”
“Tab, you and your stupid tricks…” the man began as the door opened.
“How’d you guess?” Hickok said.
The cannibal, a stocky man with unkempt hair and greasy clothing, armed with a revolver angled under his deer-hide belt, gaped at the Warrior. “You!” he blurted, trying to draw.
There was no contest.
Hickok’s arms were nearly invisible blurs as he pulled his irons, and the cannibal hadn’t even touched his firearm when the right Colt boomed and a crimson cavity blossomed in the cannibal’s forehead.
The stocky cannibal was hurled backward by the impact, crashing over a chair and smacking onto the hardwood floor.
Seven to go.
Hickok calmly stepped into the barracks, looking to the left and the right, finding cannibals on both sides.
A lean man grabbed a makeshift spear from the top of a wooden table and swept his arm back for the throw.
Hickok fired his left Python.
The spearman was hit in the nose, his head snapping backward as he was flung against the far wall.
Six left.
Pax and two other men were standing next to a row of beds aligned along the west wall. Pax’s Ruger was on the nearest bed and he made a lunge for the rifle.
One of the women was screaming.
Hickok sent a slug into Pax’s head and saw the chief cannibal drop like a plummeting rock. The gunfighter advanced toward the beds, his Pythons thundering twice more and the other two cannibals shared Pax’s fate.
Three men remaining.
Hickok felt a tug on his left sleeve as a gunshot sounded to his rear. He whirled, discovering a male cannibal with a derringer. His right Colt cracked and bucked, dispatching the man into eternity.
Two.
“Die, you bastard!” someone shouted to his right.
The gunfighter swiveled, Pythons leveled, and there were the two men charging toward him, one armed with a short sword, the other with a knife. The left Python blasted twice.
The pair of cannibals died side by side.
Hickok grinned. And that was that!
Not quite.
There was an inarticulate scream of sheer rage from behind him.
The gunfighter spun, finding a female cannibal in a grimy brown dress three paces away with a meat cleaver waving above her head. He shot her squarely between her green eyes and she pitched onto her face at his feet.
A sudden hush descended on the barracks.
Hickok surveyed the room, recounting the bodies. The four kids and the three surviving women were huddled in the southwest corner of the barracks, their features reflecting their abject fear. He took several steps in their direction. “If I were you,” he advised, “I’d stay put. Don’t leave this building. I’m going to tell tha Free State Army about you, and they’ll most likely send a squad over here to tidy up this mess. Don’t worry none. No harm will come to you. I’ll see to it, personal-like.” He paused, wondering if he was being understood. “You’ve got to stop livin’ like animals. You’ve got to stop treatin’ folks like portable munchies. The Free State people will help you. I’m sure of it. So don’t skedaddle.”
None of them said a word.
Hickok walked to the door, double-checking all the corpses as he went.
Satisfied they were dead, he halted and reloaded the spent rounds in his Pythons. He chuckled, feeling happy and content and so… so alive!