The gunman’s shots caught Luther near the right ear and exploded out his forehead, raining blood and brains on the tank.
Even as the gunfighter drew, Spartacus was in motion. He took a flying leap from the rampart, his broadsword clutched in his right fist, and sailed over the heads of the soldiers below. His feet landed on the rear of the tank, on the very lip, and he nearly lost his balance before he recovered his footing and lunged at the man with the helmet.
Helmet-head heard the pounding of a heavy object behind him and spun.
Spartacus swung his broadsword with all the power in his muscular shoulders.
Helmet-head was about to yell an order when the point of the broadsword ripped into the left side of his throat and drove out the other side in a magnificent crimson spray.
Hickok pivoted, aiming for the machine-gun port, and fired three rounds into the small open space between the barrel and the port.
There was a ghastly scream from within the truck.
“Open fire!” Hickok cried at the top of his lungs.
The defenders on the western rampart entered the fray, all 133 of them concentrating their fire on the soldiers behind the tank.
About a dozen of the hapless troopers were on the drawbridge, and they bore the brunt of the onslaught. Their bodies jerked and rocked as bullet after bullet slammed into them.
The column of soldiers on the other side of the wall suffered the same fate; they were decimated by the hail of lead.
“Raise the drawbridge!” Hickok yelled.
A few of the troopers managed to return the fire, but they were speedily downed.
The mass of soldiers in the field beyond raised their voices in a mighty whoop and charged the Home.
“Raise the drawbridge!” Hickok shouted again.
The four men handling the mechanism were doing their best, but it was difficult for them with the added weight of the dozen troopers on the drawbridge.
On the tank, Spartacus stooped and shoved Helmet-head downward.
The lifeless body dropped from sight. Spartacus swiftly sheathed his broadsword and unslung the HK93. He stuck the barrel into the hatch and pulled the trigger.
There was screaming from within the metal coffin as the slugs whined and ricocheted from one side of the tank to another.
Hickok raced past the tank to the drawbridge.
There were a dozen bloody forms sprawled on the drawbridge. Another two dozen were lying on the ground outside the wall. Dashing toward the Home, already halfway across the field beyond, was the bulk of the strike force.
They had to get the blasted drawbridge up!
Hickok bolstered the Pythons and frantically began rolling bodies from the drawbridge. The dead soldiers struck the water with a pronounced splash.
Two, three, four bodies landed in the moat.
The strike force was getting closer.
Hickok shoved two more troopers from the drawbridge. “Keep trying to raise it!” he ordered the quartet at the mechanism.
The four men were straining to their utmost, pushing on the metal lever responsible for activating the gears and chain.
“Need some help?” Spartacus joined the gunman, flinging bodies into the water as rapidly as he could.
Some of the charging soldiers began shooting. One or two bullets bit into the drawbridge near the harried Warriors.
The defenders on the west wall blasted away at the approaching soldiers.
Only one dead trooper left to go. Hickok grabbed the man’s ankles and hauled him to the edge of the drawbridge. He kicked the body with his right foot, and it toppled from sight.
The drawbridge was beginning to elevate.
“Let’s go!” Spartacus urged, running for the bank.
Hickok took three steps, and then something bit into his left thigh, wrenching his leg from under him. He fell to the wooden planks, clutching at his injury, blood flowing over his fingers.
He’d been hit!
Hickok glanced over his left shoulder.
A pair of soldiers had far outdistanced their companions. Miraculously untouched by the barrage of lead from the western rampart, they were rapidly closing on the drawbridge.
The drawbridge was still rising. It was now a foot above the inner bank.
Hickok rose to his hands and knees and made for the end of the drawbridge. He had to make it! He’d be cut to ribbons otherwise!
Spartacus, already safe on the bank, spied the gunman’s predicament and jumped onto the drawbridge.
“Go back!” Hickok prompted. “Save yourself!”
Spartacus ignored the injuction and ran to Hickok’s side. He looped his right arm under the gunman’s shoulder and hauled Hickok to his feet.
“You can take a nap later!”
A stitch work pattern of bullets bit into the wood at their feet.
Spartacus twisted, the HK93 cradled in his left arm. He leveled the barrel at the pair of nearest soldiers and let them have it.
The two soldiers reacted as if they had smacked into a wall, coming to an abrupt stop, their chests erupting in red dots, as they were brutally slammed onto their backs.
The drawbridge was now three feet above the bank.
The chattering of the M-16’s and the popping and booming of the other guns involved in the battle attained a deafening crescendo. Exposed in the open, realizing their vulnerability, the soldiers in the field had checked their headlong rush and many were retreating, leaving dozens of their fallen comrades behind.
Spartacus and Hickok reached the end of the drawbridge.
The ground was four feet below.
“Can you make it?” Spartacus yelled in Hickok’s left ear.
“I was hopin’ you’d carry me piggyback,” Hickok responded, grinning.
He stepped free and pushed off with his good leg, vaulting to the inner bank of the moat. His left leg buckled as he landed and he tumbled onto his stomach.
Spartacus sprang to the grass. He leaned over and assisted the gunman in rising.
“Thanks, pard,” Hickok said. “I owe you one.”
With the drawbridge devoid of extra weight, the four men were able to speedily lift it to a vertical position.
The firing on the western rampart was tapering off.
Spartacus knelt and examined Hickok’s left thigh. “It looks like it caught you in the fleshy part on the outside of your leg,” he informed the gunman.
“Then it ain’t nothin’ to fret about,” Hickok remarked. He began reloading the spent rounds in his Pythons.
“You should see the Healers,” Spartacus recommended.
“Not now,” Hickok said.
“But you’re bleeding!” Spartacus protested.
“Not now,” Hickok reiterated. He headed for the stairs, limping. “Come on.”
Spartacus reluctantly followed.
Hickok replaced the Pythons in their holsters and ascended the stairs, gripping the railing to retain his footing until he reached the rampart.
“They’ve turned tail!” a man yelled.
Hickok and Spartacus peered over the top of the wall.
The strike force had reassembled near the woods. A tall man attired in brown clothing was bellowing at them.
“Who’s he?” Spartacus absently asked.
“Beats me,” Hickok replied. “Check our people. Give me a tally.”
Spartacus nodded and left.
Hickok grimaced as a spasm lanced his left thigh.
Great!
Just great!
The battle had barely begun, and here he’d gone and gotten himself hit!
Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!
What a cow chip!
Hickok stopped berating himself and counted the bodies littering the field. Some of the dead soldiers were piled on top of one another, so an accurate count was difficult. As near as he could estimate, Hickok reckoned there were close to four dozen.
Plus the dozen on the bridge.
Five dozen. Not bad, he told himself. That only left about 1,940.