“They’re good kids,” Clyde said proudly.
“Sure are,” Hickok confirmed. “Now let’s get to business.” He motioned for Geronimo to bear right. “Fan out. Form a skirmish line.” He waved Joan and Clyde to his left. “Stay low. Move in on the gate. Go!”
“The Spirit be with us,” Joan offered, moving away. She winked at Hickok and blew him a kiss.
The three Warriors and the aged farmer advanced across the field until they were ten yards from the gate. Hickok raised his left arm and rested on his right knee, signaling a stop. There was still no sign of life in Fox.
What the blazes was going on here? Had the Trolls abandoned the town?
If so, why? Where the heck was Blade? It didn’t make sense!
Hickok gripped the Henry and risked standing erect, scanning the fence and the buildings.
Nothing.
The others warily followed his lead, converging on the closed gate.
“If the Trolls have left,” Joan whispered as they joined together, voicing her innermost fear, “and they’ve take the women, what will we do?”
“It appears like any other deserted town,” Geronimo observed.
“Only it smells worse,” Clyde corrected.
“We search the town,” Hickok ordered. “Look for any sign of Blade and the women.”
“All you can hear is the wind,” Clyde marveled.
“Wait a second!” Geronimo froze, his head cocked.
“What is it?” Clyde asked.
“Quiet!” Geronimo snapped. He walked to the gate, opened it, and stepped inside, the others on his heels.
“Let us in on it,” Hickok said.
“Sounds. Faint.” Geronimo was pacing in a circle, testing the intensity and the distance. “Lots of voices. Yelling.”
“Where?” Hickok asked.
Finally Geronimo was certain. “That way.” He pointed. “They must be inside a building,” he speculated.
“All of them?” Joan queried skeptically.
“Let’s find out,” Hickok said, leading the way along a narrow street, bearing east. Several blackbirds flapped on the roofs overhead.
“I’ll get my revenge for Bess yet,” Clyde stated, bringing up the rear.
Hickok’s senses were primed, his eyes never still, as they made for the subdued din. Two rats scurried across the road ahead. A pile of human feces littered a doorway.
The clamor was louder.
The street they were on ended at a large structure, as rundown as the rest, with two great swinging doors, both closed.
“It’s coming from in there,” Geronimo whispered, saying the obvious.
Hickok stopped at the corner of the last building before an open, paved lot between them and the swinging doors. He didn’t like the setup. They would be vulnerable as they crossed to the doors, and anyone inside would spot them in an instant.
The uproar was increasing.
“You stay put,” Hickok directed. “I’m going to peek inside and see what the blazes is going on.”
“I’ll do it,” Joan volunteered, and before he could prevent it, she was jogging toward the doors, hunched over to present a smaller target, the Commando at the ready.
Blast! Why did she do it? Hickok asked himself. She was trained better than that! What was she trying to prove? He kept his eyes glued to those swinging doors, sweat forming on his brow.
Joan was halfway.
“She’ll make it,” Geronimo assured Hickok, noticing his pale expression.
Pandemonium erupted inside the structure with the doors.
“No!”
Hickok was in motion before the word died on his lips, running after Joan, throwing caution to the wind, a round in the Henry’s chamber, his moccasins pounding on the pavement.
Joan was thirty feet from the swinging doors.
“Joan!” Hickok shouted, knowing those inside the building would not be able to hear him, hoping to stop her before she reached the doors.
Twenty feet now.
Why wasn’t she stopping? Was she that worried about Jenny and the rest?
Fifteen feet.
The swinging doors suddenly burst open, disgorging a veritable horde of Trolls, dozens upon dozens.
Coming directly at Joan.
“Joan!” Hickok screamed, raising the Henry to his shoulder. “Joan!”
He was too late!
Chapter Twenty-Four
The wolverine, according to a book in the Family library entitled North American Mammals, a volume used frequently by the children in the Family school as a reference guide, was once considered the most ferocious animal on the entire continent. Wolverines would attack bears and cougars, and their voracious appetites earned them the nickname “glutton.” They would consume anything they could catch and slay. Armed with razor teeth and claws, they were rulers of their wilderness domain.
Usually dark brown, with lighter patches on the head and shoulders, they could reach a weight of fifty pounds and attain a length of five feet including their bushy tail. Wolverines were the bane of trappers, feared by hunters, and, except for grizzly bears and the later-appearing mutates, the most dreaded animal in the north woods, to be avoided at all costs.
Unless, Blade reflected as the tableau momentarily froze after he leaped into the arena, you had no choice.
Like right now.
The wolverines, a large male, a dusky female, and an undersized stripling, reacted first. They picked their prey and attacked, instinctively going after separate targets.
On the bleachers above, his revolver in his hand, Saxon grinned as he watched. Initially apprehensive when the newcomer entered the pen, he calmed down when he realized there wasn’t a man alive who could take a wolverine one-on-one. So what chance did this guy have against three, all ravenous, all hating humans? None. He chuckled as the wolverines closed in, the one the Trolls called Wolvie making for the imposter, Momma going after Jenny, and Runt bounding toward the planned main course, Angela.
Blade’s first thought was for the women. Jenny was nearest, twelve feet away, backed against the pen wall as Momma bore down. The Bowie in his left hand was useless at that distance; he crouched, drawing the right Vega, praying his aim was accurate for once, ignoring the wolverine coming after him, sighting and firing.
The Vega bucked and boomed and Momma twisted, snarling, only three feet from Jenny, her rear legs tensing for the killing leap.
Blade fired again, and once more, the slugs ripping into Momma’s skull.
Jenny involuntarily screamed as the wolverine tumbled and slammed against her. She tripped as she desperately attempted to avoid the hurtling body, and panicked when the wolverine landed on top of her.
“No!” She kicked and punched and struggled to her feet, only to shudder at the gaping, oozing wounds as the animal’s brains flowed from the shattered cranium.
Momma was dead.
Saxon fumed. The bastard had a gun! He aimed his revolver, furious one of his prized pets was gone.
Blade had pivoted, his right arm extended, wanting to be sure, the smallest wolverine only inches’ from Angela. His finger was tightening on the trigger when two events occurred simultaneously; there was the sound of a shot somewhere above him and his right shoulder exploded in pain, and the largest wolverine crashed into his chest, slashing and tearing.
Jenny, horrified, saw the Vega fly from Blade’s fingers as he went down under the onslaught of the wolverine. She ran toward him, but abruptly stopped when Angela’s petrified shriek filled the arena.
Runt and Angela were on the ground, its steely jaws clamped on her right wrist, its claws gouging her body.
Jenny wavered, torn both ways. Who should she assist? The man she loved, or her friend? She watched as Blade heaved upward, the Bowie in his left hand flashing, driving into the wolverine over and over, making her decision easier. Blade could handle himself. Angela was another matter.