Dakota Run

Chapter Twenty-Three

“You don’t have to do this!”

“You’re crazy if you go through with it!”

“Don’t do it! Please? For me?”

Geronimo glanced at the trio of speakers in the order in which they’d spoken: Kilrane, Hamlin, and Cynthia. Boone stood nearby, shaking his head.

“I still don’t get it,” Geronimo admitted. “Why did he pick me? I’m not with the Cavalry or the Legion.”

“He’s well aware of that fact,” Kilrane responded. “But you were riding with us, so technically he could choose you.”

“But you said I was a stranger,” Geronimo pointed out. “He can still do it? Select a stranger?”

Kilrane glared at the distant Rory, fifty yards away, seated on his horse and holding a metal-tipped lance in his right hand. “The bastard is clutching at straws. He picked you hoping we would say no. You see, the majority of us can’t stand his guts, but there are some who would become mighty upset if we did anything unfair, if there was the slightest hint of a frame or a setup.”

“Even after what he did to Adrian?” Cynthia interjected.

“They’d still want his fate to be decided justly.”

Kilrane declared. “We never kill anyone without a reason. You know that. And we always give the accused the chance to defend himself. Or herself. We believe in fair play.”

“What happens if I refuse to fight him?” Geronimo asked.

“Then the son of a bitch will claim a forfeit,” Kilrane detailed, “and skip out, free as a bird.”

“But you can’t honestly expect Geronimo to do it?” Cynthia asked.

“It’s up to him,” Kilrane said. “Hell, I’d challenge Rory myself, but I know he’d refuse, and where would that leave us? If I gun him down in cold blood, I’d be a marked man.”

“But just a while ago the men were clamoring for his death,” Cynthia reminded them.

“And they want him dead,” Kilrane stressed. “But he’ll demanded a trial by combat and we can’t say no.”

“Let me get this straight,” Geronimo interrupted. “If you tell Rory I’m not one of the Cavalry and won’t fight him, then he goes free?”

“On a technicality, yes,” Kilrane confirmed.

“And if I personally say I won’t do it,” Geronimo said, “then he claims a forfeit and can go?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“So the only way of preventing his departure,” Geronimo concluded, “is if I kill him in this duel with lances?”

“You got it,” Kilrane stated. “Unless one of us wants to shoot him on the spot.”

Geronimo sighed. “I wish my friend Hickok was here.”

“Why’s that?” Cynthia asked.

“Because he’d walk right up to Rory, give him to the count of three to draw, and then shoot him in the head whether he drew or not,” Geronimo explained.

“This Hickok would do that?” Kilrane inquired, impressed.

“Without hesitation,” Geronimo affirmed.

“I sure would like to meet this hombre some day,” Kilrane said wistfully. “He sounds like my kind of man.”

“So what are you going to do?” Cynthia addressed Geronimo.

“I guess some of Hickok has rubbed off on me,” Geronimo remarked.

“Someone get me a lance.”

“No!” Cynthia protested. “Don’t do it!”

“She’s right,” Hamlin joined the conversation. “There’s another reason why you shouldn’t do it.”

“What is it?” Geronimo asked.

“Have you ever used a lance before?” Hamlin questioned.

“No,” Geronimo admitted. “Never have.”

Hamlin looked at Rory. “He’s good with a lance. Real good. He’s had lots of practice and killed a number of good men with a lance. Not many use the lance on a regular basis. He probably figured you’d be no good at it.”

“We don’t have any choice,” Boone said, speaking up. “We can’t allow this man to fight Rory.”

“As much as I hate to admit it,” Kilrane said, “I have to agree. It would be suicide.”

“Good,” Cynthia smiled. “It’s settled.”

“No, it isn’t,” Geronimo disagreed. “I’m going to do it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because,” Geronimo told her, “I owe Kilrane for saving my life.

Because I can’t stomach the idea of Rory getting off the hook. Because he challenged me, counting on my cowardice. And finally, because I’m a Warrior. I don’t care whether it’s my Family or someone I don’t even know; if they’re threatened, then I’ll eliminate that threat. A long time ago I gave my word. I promised I’d be the best Warrior I could possibly be, and no Warrior worth his pledge would allow the Rorys of this world to run loose, to go free to probably kill or rape someone else. I’ve met men like Rory before. They don’t deserve to live.”

Kilrane was smiling. “Hickok isn’t the only one who’s my kind of man. This Family of yours must be tough. I’d sure hate to tangle with them.”

“After this is over,” Geronimo offered, “I’ll take you to meet them, if you’d like. We’d like to consider you as our friends.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Kilrane declared. “We’ll hold the election and escort you home.”

“Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves?” Hamlin asked, nodding toward Rory.

As if on cue, Rory suddenly shouted to them. “Let’s get on with it! Is he going to fight or not? I haven’t got all day!”

“Cocky turd!” Hamlin spat.

“If you’re set on doing this,” Kilrane said, “you’re going to do it right. Forget that brown stallion.”

“Then what horse will I use?”

Kilrane turned and grabbed the reins of his Palomino. “Here. Use my horse. It’s been trained to handle lance fighting. Use your knees to guide it. I trained this animal myself. It will do everything for you except plant the lance in his gut.”

“Are you sure?” Geronimo queried. “It’s a fine horse. I’d hate to damage it.”

“Be serious,” Kilrane replied. “What’s more important? Your life or a horse?”

Boone motioned, and one of the Cavalry riders approached with a lance. He gave it to Boone, who then presented the weapon to Geronimo.

Geronimo hefted the lance. It was ten feet long, as thick as a man’s arm, and tipped with a metal point. Despite its size, the weapon was surprisingly light.

“Geronimo!” Cynthia exclaimed, abruptly grabbing him by the shoulders.

“I’ll be all right,” he promised her.

“Take care,” she said, and kissed him on the lips.

Geronimo nodded and mounted the Palomino.

“Extend about two-thirds of the lance in front of your body,” Kilrane advised. “Keep your grip firm, but don’t lock your elbow in case you have to turn fast.”

“Keep your body as close to the horse as you can,” Boone suggested.

“Present as small a target as you can.”

“Watch that prick,” Hamlin joined in. “Rory likes to twist as he’s passing and jab the other guy in the back.”

“If you knock him from his horse,” Kilrane detailed, “you can finish him any way you want. It’s the rules.”

“I’ve got it,” Geronimo told them.

“Take care,” Cynthia repeated, her lovely eyes brimming with worry.

“Give him one for me!” Hamlin urged.

“Ride out until about twenty-five yards are between you,” Kilrane directed. “When you hear me fire my gun, that’s the signal. Remember, this Palomino knows what to do. Rely on its instincts.”

Geronimo nodded, gazed fondly at his newfound friends, and rode forward.

Rory saw him coming and tightened his grip on his lance, raising it to chest level.

Geronimo felt an adrenaline surge rush through his body.

Rory’s black horse was prancing in place, apparently accustomed to the duel and ready to begin.

It figured. Rory would own a well-trained horse too.

The Cavalry and Legion men were lined up to the east and the west of the duelists, about half on each side.

Geronimo glanced over his left shoulder and noted Kilrane was holding his revolver in his right hand.

Any second now!

He recalled every word of advice they’d given him, going over it again and again. Stay low, close to the Palomino. Keep two-thirds of the lance in front of him. Don’t lock the elbow. It all sounded easy enough, but one mistake could cost him his life. His best bet might be to knock Rory off his horse. According to Kilrane, if he succeeded, he could end the conflict any way he desired. He’d use the Arminius to…

Hold it!

Had he reloaded the revolver after the fight with the ants?

No!

Geronimo debated whether to attempt to load the gun before Kilrane fired the starting shot, but decided against it. Too risky. Besides, he still had the tomahawk tucked in his belt. If worse came to worst, he’d use the tomahawk against his foe.

Rory was eyeing his opponent with a smug expression on his rotund face.

Hamlin was right. Rory was a cocky turd, to say the least!

The blast of Kilrane’s revolver behind him was the signal for the contest to begin.

Rory immediately goaded his mount forward into a gallop, leveling his lance as the horse gained speed.

Geronimo barely applied pressure to the Palomino and it was off, charging at Rory. He found it difficult to hold the long lance steady as the horse moved; the point kept bouncing up and down. The two animals were eating up the distance at an astounding rate. He realized he’d never impale Rory on the initial pass, so he opted to concentrate on avoiding Rory’s first strike.

Rory came in fast and strong, his lance aimed for Geronimo’s midsection. He leaned forward, adding momentum to his lunge, as the two horses came abreast of one another.

Geronimo saw that gleaming metal tip sweeping toward his stomach, and he instinctively adjusted, using his lower legs and knees to retain his hold on the Palomino as he lowered his upper torso over the side of his steed, away from Rory’s thrust.

The lance missed, and the two horses were past each other and already circling.

Geronimo sat up, trying to hold his lance steady. He heard an outburst of applause from the assembled horsemen.

Rory, his features a mask of intensity, was coming in for the second strike.

Geronimo hunched over, keeping his eyes locked on the tip of Rory’s lance.

The horses were only feet apart when Rory made his move, ramming his lance at his enemy.

Geronimo was scarcely able to twist aside. He felt Rory’s lance scrape his right side, and knew his own weapon was held too wide to be of any use.

In an instant, the mounts were circling again for the next strike.

Geronimo changed his grip on his lance, extending more of it in front of him, hoping the additional length would compensate for his inexperience.

Rory was bearing down, grinning, confident in his superior ability.

Geronimo gauged the space between them, prepared to attempt a new tactic.

Fifteen yards.

Ten.

He tensed his body, his fingers holding the lance so hard the knuckles turned white.

Five yards!

Now!

Geronimo swung to his left as Rory jabbed with his lance. The tip passed to Geronimo’s right, just missing his chest. In that split second, Geronimo had swung his own lance outward. He caught Rory in the side, smashing the wooden section against his ribs, but missed with the metal point.

A rousing cheer arose from the men as the two steeds geared for the fourth run.

What were those idiots cheering about? Geronimo wondered. He’d missed, hadn’t he?

He suddenly realized Rory had reined in.

Why?

Geronimo did likewise, confused. What was Rory up to now? He was just sitting there, staring. What for?

“You’re better than I thought!” Rory called out.

What was this act? Reverse psychology?

Geronimo smiled and raised his lance. “I’m getting the hang of it! Let’s try it one more time!”

Rory frowned. “You’re awful eager to die!”

“No,” Geronimo yelled. “I’m eager to kill you!”

“You don’t even know me!”

“True,” Geronimo conceded. “And from what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t want to know you!”

Rory, insulted, started his next charge.

So much for Mr. Nice Guy!

Geronimo leaned forward as the Palomino galloped ahead. He had to try something new this time, something unexpected. He couldn’t expect Rory to miss forever. So far, only dumb luck and his quick reflexes had prevented disaster.

Twenty yards to go.

Let’s see. What would be completely different? Something Rory wouldn’t expect in a million years?

Fifteen yards.

What could he possibly…?

They were ten yards apart when the inspiration struck Geronimo, and he put his idea into operation instantaneously with the thought. He wrenched on the reins, the Palomino responding magnificently, the horse slewing to an abrupt stop, even as Geronimo rose to his full height, the lance clenched in his right fist. He elevated his arm and swung the lance back, gathering his strength.

Rory, startled by the unorthodox maneuver, vainly endeavored to turn the black aside before it was too late.

He failed.

Geronimo swept the lance forward, throwing this weapon as he had a spear many times in the past. Among the many weapons Kurt Carpenter included in the Family armory were several spears, enclosed in a rack labeled “Miscellaneous.” Under a section headed “Early North American”

were several genuine Indian spears, and Geronimo had become proficient in their use by his tenth birthday. He’d spent hours upon hours developing his skill, and it had finally paid off.

The lance left Geronimo’s hand and arced through the air, the shining tip tearing into Rory’s body, entering at the right shoulder and exiting near the shoulder blade. .

Rory shrieked in agony and released his hold on the black’s reins, toppling off the horse, falling to his left, still holding his lance as he fell.

Geronimo wheeled the Palomino clear of the still running black, then slid from his steed and dropped to the grass, drawing his tomahawk as he landed.

Rory was on his knees, his right hand clutching the lance in his shoulder, his own lance on the ground in front of him.

Geronimo charged.

Rory saw him coming. He gripped the shaft of the lance in his shoulder with both hands. His face turned red as he exerted himself in a herculean effort and tore the lance from his body. Blood flowed down his brown shirt as he frantically clawed for the automatic pistol in his left holster.

Geronimo realized he’d never reach his foe before he managed to draw his pistol. The Arminius was empty, so there was only one thing to do.

He threw the tomahawk.

Rory was already bringing the pistol up.

All action seemed to revert to slow motion, as Geronimo watched the tomahawk flip end over end. He plainly saw the sweat on Rory’s strained face; he could see the stark fear in Rory’s wide eyes as he pointed the pistol; he observed, as if from a distance, the keen edge of the tomahawk bite into Rory’s forehead, splitting the skin and penetrating the bone, crimson spurting over Rory’s face, blood covering his eyes, as Rory’s head jerked backwards from the impact.

The pistol discharged, the shot plowing into the ground at Geronimo’s feet, and suddenly the world was operating at normal speed again.

Rory opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out except for a dribble of red over the right corner. He gasped, a vastly protracted sound, seemingly striving to inhale all the air in the atmosphere. Then his entire form quivered violently for several seconds before falling to one side. He landed on his left shoulder, rolled slightly forward, and lay still.

Dead.

Geronimo sighed and wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his right hand. He felt so weary, so tired of all the conflict. All he wanted was to get to the Home, to see those he loved, to relax and enjoy life again.

What was that noise?

The horsemen were giving him a thunderous ovation.

Geronimo slowly walked to Rory’s body. He bent over, placed his right hand on the tomahawk handle, and pulled. There was a sucking sound and the blade popped free of the forehead, dripping blood on Geronimo’s pants.

Footsteps pounded on the ground behind him and arms encircled his waist.

“You did it! You’re alive!”

“How about letting me turn around?” he proposed.

She released her hold on him, and he twisted and smiled, delighted at the affection reflected in her admiring eyes.

“I thought I’d have a heart attack!” Cynthia exclaimed.

“You?” Geronimo laughed. “I did have one!”

“You did all right,” stated the deep voice of Kilrane.

Geronimo glanced around.

Kilrane, Boone, and Hamlin were standing behind him, Hamlin gaping at Rory’s body.

“I never would of believed it!” Hamlin said in awe. “If I hadn’t of seen it with my own eyes, I’d never believe it was possible!”

“Remember the technique in case you’re ever in a lance duel,” Geronimo suggested.

“I’ll remember it, all right,” Hamlin promised. “It’s something I’ll tell my grandkids about.”

“How’s your side?” Boone inquired.

Geronimo looked down, surprised to observe a rip in his green shirt and blood trickling over his pants.

“You’re hurt!” Cynthia cried.

“Just a scratch,” Geronimo remarked.

“You let me be the judge of that,” Cynthia said. “Sit down,” she ordered him.

Geronimo complied, grinning.

Cynthia looked at Kilrane. “Can you get me some cloth and a canteen?”

“You got it.” Kilrane strode toward the horsemen.

“Take your shirt off,” Cynthia directed, crouching next to Geronimo.

“You seem to enjoy bossing me around,” Geronimo observed wryly.

Cynthia stared fondly into his eyes. “You better get used to it.”

“I’ll try.”

Boone stepped closer. “I’ve never seen anyone use a hatchet like you.”

Geronimo held the tomahawk aloft. “It’s not a hatchet,” he informed Boone. “It’s called a tomahawk.”

“You reckon you could teach me how to toss that thing sometime?”

Boone asked. “A talent like that could come in mighty handy.”

“Whenever you want,” Geronimo told him.

“Well, it sure isn’t going to be right this minute,” Cynthia let them know. “He’s not tossing anything for a while. Not until he heals.”

Boone winked at Geronimo. “Ain’t true love wonderful?”

Cynthia smacked Boone on the left shin. “Don’t you have something else you can do besides bother an injured man?”

“I can take a hint,” Boone stated, smiling. He nodded at Geronimo and departed, just as Kilrane arrived with a canteen and a blanket. Hamlin waved and strolled off too.

“Here,” Kilrane said, offering the items to Cynthia. “You can cut the blanket into strips if need be.”

“Thank you,” Cynthia responded as she took the blanket and the canteen. “Now why don’t you run off and water your horse or something?”

Kilrane grinned. “Will do. But first I have something to say to Geronimo.”

“It’s not necessary,” Geronimo informed him.

“Yes, it is. By taking care of Rory for me, you’ve evened up the score.

You’ve also given my people a new lease on life, for which I can’t thank you enough. We’ll be able to unite the two factions again, and it will be just like in the old days. The Cavalry rides again!”

“I’m glad I could help,” Geronimo mentioned.

“You’re pretty anxious to get home, aren’t you?” Kilrane asked.

Geronimo nodded.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do. I’m going to dispatch riders to Pierre. If they ride all night, and borrow mounts as they need them from the farms and ranches they’ll pass along the way, they should deliver my message to Rolf sometime tomorrow. I’ll tell him to come to Redfield on the double. The election won’t take that long, and once that’s over I’ll get you to your family safe and sound. Okay by you?” Kilrane concluded.

Geronimo glanced at Cynthia and she nodded.

“If it’s not an imposition,” Geronimo said, “there is one more thing you could do for me.”

“True friends will do anything for each other,” Kilrane stated. “What do you need?”

“I need you to send out some riders,” Geronimo revealed.

“Where to? Your family?”

“No.” Geronimo looked at Cynthia. “You tell him.”

So she did.

Kilrane smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Hot damn! Are we gonna have one whopper of a wingding! I may have a hangover for a week!”

“Me too,” Geronimo commented.

“Over my dead body,” Cynthia vowed.

“Oh. Why not?”

“Because you’ll be too busy doing something else.”

Kilrane’s laughter filled the valley.