It was the middle of the night. A chill wind from the north blew across the ramparts, causing several of the Family’s sentries to stamp their feet in an effort to keep warm.
One man, standing by himself in the center of the western rampart above the drawbridge, was immune to the cold. He stood with his right hand on the hilt of his broadsword, dressed in his blue shirt, buckskin pants, and a brown-leather jacket constructed by the Weavers from deer hide.
Spartacus was uneasy.
Had he done all he could possibly do?
His mind was racing a mile a minute. He had tried to get some sleep, but had tossed and turned until, exasperated, he had risen, donned his jacket, and walked from B Block to the western rampart.
Was there anything he had missed?
Spartacus was troubled to the depths of his soul. The Family’s very existence depended on his judgment in the crises ahead. If he failed, if he let them down, they would all perish.
A sobering thought if ever there was one.
Spartacus reviewed the steps he had taken so far. The Clan’s noncombatants had been placed in F Block and D Block. The Family’s children and elderly were in the cabins in the middle of the compound.
Weapons from the armory had been distributed. Theoretically, he had done all he could to prepare for the assault.
A skeleton crew was manning the ramparts during the night. At first light all of the fighters from the Family and the Clan would be on their assigned walls. Then would come the hard part.
The waiting.
How long would it take the enemy convoy to reach the Home? Probably by midmorning their vehicles would be within sight of the walls. Would they launch their attack in the afternoon, or wait another night?
Spartacus glanced to his right. One of the Tillers was on guard duty, a lean youth who nervously hefted the Iver Johnson M1 Carbine he was carrying. The Tillers weren’t accustomed to handling firearms; working with a plow, reaping a harvest from the soil, was their stock in trade.
Spartacus realized the M1 must feel as alien to the young Tiller as a plow would to him. Unlike the Tiller, he considered weapons a fundamental part of his life.
Like his broadsword.
Spartacus gazed down at his cherished blade. It hadn’t been his first choice; initially, he’d wanted to own the short sword. Unfortunately, the short sword had already been in the possession of Ares. Because the Founder, Kurt Carpenter, had only stocked one of each type of sword, Spartacus had been compelled to substitute the broadsword for the short sword. Now, years later, he wouldn’t part with the broadsword for anything; it had become an extension of his arm, of his personality. He looked down near his feet, at the Heckler and Koch HK93 leaning against the parapet. Spartacus had used it on many occasions on the Family firing range in the southeastern corner of the Home. But he lacked the sentimental attachment for the HK93 that he had for the broadsword.
Guns were too impersonal. He couldn’t understand how someone like Hickok could prefer a pair of Colt Python revolvers to a trusty sword. A bladed weapon enabled you to—
What was that?
Spartacus glanced up and out over the field in front of the western wall.
There it was again.
A dull rumbling sound of some sort.
“Horses are coming,” the young Tiller announced.
Spartacus grinned. There were certain advantages to working with horses and a plow after all. He bent over and retrieved his HK93.
Approaching horses undoubtedly meant Boone and the Cavalry riders, but he couldn’t afford to take chances.
The pounding of heavy hooves drew nearer.
Spartacus peered into the darkness. A vague, swirling mass became visible in the field, making a beeline for the drawbridge. He waited until he was certain the riders were all wearing buckskins, then he moved to the top of the stairs. “Open the drawbridge!” he shouted to the three men below.
Boone was at the head of the column of riders. They reined in, constraining their mounts until the drawbridge was fully lowered.
Spartacus hurried down the stairs to greet them.
Boone urged his steed forward, its hooves thumping on the wooden bridge as he crossed and entered the compound.
“How’d it go?” Spartacus inquired.
Boone grinned and jerked his right thumb over his shoulder. “See for yourself.”
The rider behind Boone was carrying an extra load. The indistinct form of a man was lying on his stomach across the horse’s rump, his body completely enveloped in a bulky brown hide. Loops of rope restrained him from his shoulders to his knees. Only his moccasin-covered feet protruded from under the hide.
“What’s this?” Spartacus asked.
Boone slid to the ground as his men milled about. “We were working our way to the Army camp when a lot of shooting broke out.”
“Were they shooting at you?” Spartacus queried.
“Don’t think so,” Boone answered. “There was a lot of lead flying around. It was too dark to tell what the fracas was all about. One of my men saw this one sneaking through the trees and pounced on him.”
The figure in the hide was struggling to break free and yelling. His words were too muffled by the hide to make any sense.
“We wrapped him up in a horsehide and brought him back here,” Boone went on. “We weren’t able to get close to the camp, but questioning one of them will get us the information we need.”
“Let’s take a look at our guest,” Spartacus proposed.
Boone nodded at the rider, who unceremoniously dumped his cargo onto the hard earth.
The man in the horsehide uttered an audible grunt.
Boone walked to the hide and began unraveling the lariat securing the prisoner.
Spartacus covered the figure while the Cavalry riders watched. Boone had done well. This man would talk, or Spartacus would use him for a pincushion.
That was when he finally noticed.
“He’s wearing moccasins,” Spartacus noted. “I thought that the soldiers all wore black combat boots.”
Boone was still undoing the rope. “Maybe he was a scout. I hear they sometimes wear civilian duds.”
The man in the horsehide had quieted.
As Boone continued to undo the rope, the folds of the horsehide loosened. The lower edge flapped in the wind, exposing the form underneath to the waist.
“He’s got a gun!” one of the riders cried in alarm.
Actually, he had two. A pair of pearl-handled revolvers, one in each hand.
Boone rose and started to draw his .44 Magnums.
“I don’t think those will be necessary,” Spartacus said.
Boone paused and glanced at Spartacus, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Take a good look at those revolvers,” Spartacus suggested.
Boone knelt and stared at the handguns. It took a minute for it to dawn on him. He looked up at Spartacus. “It can’t be!”
“You know it can’t be,” Spartacus said, “and I know it can’t be. But…”
He walked up to the hide and leaned over the prone figure, placing his mouth up to the hide in the general vicinity of the man’s head. “Hickok? Is that you?”
The form in the horsehide exploded, jerking and thrashing in an attempt to free himself. A string of barely audible, colorful phrases punctuated his effort.
“Calm down!” Spartacus advised. “We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”
Boone quickly finished removing the lariat from the thick hide. He grabbed the bottom edge and lifted, pulling the hide clear of the man inside and stepping back.
Just in time.
His face a livid red, his blond hair a mess, his buckskins disheveled, the Family’s preeminent gunfighter surged to his feet, caught in the glow from the lanterns placed in the nearby wall. He glared at everyone and everything, his knuckles white on the grips of his Pythons. He glowered at Spartacus, then Boone, then at the Cavalry riders. Even their horses were included in his baleful scrutiny. He had the menacing air of a man eager to shoot someone or something, anyone or anything. All it would take was the right provocation.
Boone broke the ice. He smiled wanly and gave a little wave. “Howdy, Hickok.”
It was all the opening Hickok needed.
The gunman advanced on Boone, furious, gesticulating with his revolvers. “You dang-blasted, dimwitted cow chip! Didn’t you know it was me?”
“How were we supposed to know?” Boone replied. “It was too dark.”
“I could of suffocated in that smelly hide!” Hickok bellowed. “And do you realize what all that bouncing around did to my kidneys?”
“I’m really sorry, Mr. Hickok,” said the Cavalry rider responsible for dropping the hide on the gunman.
Hickok faced the rider. “You did this to me?” he growled.
The hapless rider blanched and gulped. He simply nodded.
Hickok twirled the Colt Pythons into their respective holsters.
“I want all of you to listen up!” he shouted, his hands hovering near his revolvers.
Spartacus suppressed an impulse to laugh. The Cavalry riders appeared to be in a state of shock. Hickok’s formidable reputation had that effect on people.
“I know you hombres were just doin’ your job,” Hickok declared, “which is the only reason I don’t blow you away here and now! But if one word of this gets out, just one word, I’ll be lookin’ you up to talk this over real personal like. Do you get the drift?”
Everyone nodded or otherwise acknowledged they understood.
Boone was grinning.
“What are you doing here?” Spartacus inquired. “Why aren’t you with Blade and the others.”
The mention of Blade immediately sobered the gunman and soothed his intense embarrassment. “I plumb forgot,” he mumbled.
“What happened?” Spartacus asked.
“Blade sent Geronimo and me back in a truck,” Hickok explained. “We were bringin’ Bertha and Josh back to the Home so the Healers could tend to ’em.”
“Bertha and Josh? Are they hurt?” Spartacus questioned him.
Hickok nodded. “Bertha is hurt bad. She might not make it. Josh is hangin’ in there, though.”
“What about Blade?” Spartacus probed. “Are Samuel and the Doktor still alive?”
“We won’t have to worry none about the Doktor,” Hickok revealed.
“Last I knew, Blade was makin’ for Denver. Geronimo must still be back on Highway 59. We were spying on the Army camp when these nincompoops jumped me.”
“We can’t leave Geronimo out there alone,” Spartacus stated.
“He’s got a Cavalry guy named Morton with him,” Hickok disclosed.
“But you’re right.” He stared at Boone.
“Do you want us to go after him?” Boone inquired.
“Yep,” Hickok responded. “You’ll have to stay with him, because Bertha and Josh are in no shape to be ridin’ a horse. And there’s no way you’re gonna get that troop transport past the Army convoy.”
“I’ll leave half of my men here,” Boone offered.
“Thanks,” Spartacus interjected. “We can use them.” He looked at Hickok. By rights, and according to the established chain of command, the gunman was now in charge of the defense of the Home. Spartacus felt mixed emotions: on the one hand, he was relieved the burden had been lifted from his shoulders, but on the other, he experienced a faint resentment Hickok was taking over.
Boone walked to his horse and swung up. “We won’t let anything happen to Bertha and Joshua. Just make sure nothing happens to you.”
He paused. “Do you want me to send a messenger to Blade for help?”
Hickok shook his head. “The convoy will be here tomorrow. A rider could never reach Blade in time.”
Boone nodded his understanding. A man on horseback would take weeks to reach Colorado. “Take care,” he said. He quickly selected half of his men, choosing the ones to go by pointing at them.
Spartacus watched as Boone and ten of his men vanished into the night.
Hickok strode up to Spartacus. “Give me the low-down.”
“I think we’re all set,” Spartacus detailed. “All our arms have been distributed. I placed our youngsters and elderly in the cabins. Everyone from the Clan who can fight has been housed in F Block and D Block—”
“The Clan is here then?” Hickok interrupted.
“Yes,” Spartacus confirmed. “We have two hundred and sixty-five fighters, not counting the ten Cavalry men. I’ve divided them up and assigned them to a wall.”
“What about the Warriors?”
“Seiko and Shane will hold the north wall,” Spartacus divulged. “Carter, Ares, and Gideon have the south wall. I gave the east wall to Crockett, Samson and… Sherry.”
“You were plannin’ to take care of the west wall all by your lonesome?”
“I didn’t see where I had a choice,” Spartacus said.
“Sounds like you did a right proper job,” Hickok complimented his fellow Warrior.
“You’re welcome to change whatever you don’t like,” Spartacus commented.
“There is one thing that needs changin’,” Hickok commented.
“What?”
“You won’t be alone on the west wall,” Hickok informed him. “I’ll be joinin’ you.”
“What about Sherry?” Spartacus asked.
“What about her?” Hickok responded defensively.
“Do you want her moved to the west wall with us?”
Hickok studied Spartacus for a moment. “Thanks, but no. You assigned her to the east wall and that’s where she’ll stay.”
“But you’re in charge now,” Spartacus stated. “You can do whatever you want.”
“I’ve gotta do what’s best for the Family,” Hickok said. “Having at least three Warriors on the east wall makes sense.”
“You could transfer me to the east wall and have Sherry by your side,” Spartacus suggested.
“Nope.” The gunman sighed. “I can’t be showin’ any favoritism. You’ve already committed her to the east wall. If I change her post, the other Warriors are gonna get hot under the collar. We’ll leave things just the way you have them.”
“As you wish,” Spartacus said.
“And as far as me being in charge goes,” Hickok went on, “I ain’t lettin’ you off the hook that easy.”
“But according to the chain of command—” Spartacus began.
“Hang the chain of command,” Hickok declared. “This is all-out war. I’ll make the decisions, but I want your input on everything. And I mean everything. We can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
“Don’t I know it,” Spartacus agreed.
Hickok glanced at the ten Cavalry riders. “Get some shut-eye. Be up at sunrise. I want you ready to ride if I give the word.”
“Where do you want us?” one of the riders asked.
Hickok pointed at the nearest Block, C Block. “Wait on the far side of the infirmary.”
“We’ll be ready,” the bearded rider promised. The ten Cavalrymen rode off to get some sleep.
Hickok looked at the three Family men manning the drawbridge mechanism. He gestured upward with his right hand. They proceeded to elevate the wooden bridge, the massive chain rattling and clanking as it moved the gears.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Spartacus commented.
“I wish Blade and the rest of the Freedom Federation Army was with me,” Hickok commented.
“Do you have any idea how many we’re up against?” Spartacus inquired.
“Two thousand,” Hickok answered.
“Two thousand,” Spartacus repeated. “Our estimate was right.”
“That ain’t the worst of it, pard,” Hickok declared.
“What could be worse?”
“They’ve got a tank,” Hickok told him.
“A tank!” Spartacus couldn’t keep his shock from showing.
“Things are gonna get hot around here,” Hickok predicted.
“What are we going to do to stop their tank?” Spartacus asked.
“Beats me,” Hickok replied. “The Founder didn’t leave us any antitank guns or heavy explosives.”
“Then what will we do?” Spartacus queried, aghast at the idea of pitting puny automatic-rifle fire against a tank.
“We’ll do what I always do,” Hickok stated. “We’ll play it by ear. Trust me.”
“But a tank!” Spartacus exclaimed.
“Calm down, pard,” Hickok advised. “Don’t let it get you in an uproar.”
“How can you be calm,” Spartacus retorted, “knowing two thousand soldiers and a tank are going to attack our Home?”
“What good would it do me to lose sleep over it?” Hickok countered.
“You should have a philosophy of life like mine.”
“You have a philosophy of life?” Spartacus asked in amazement, emphasizing the first word.
“You bet your boots!” Hickok affirmed. “You’ve got to take what comes your way in life and make the best of it.”
“That’s your whole philosophy?”
“And don’t sweat the small potatoes,” Hickok amended his statement.
“A tank is small potatoes?” Spartacus rejoined.
“Look at the bright side,” Hickok recommended.
“What bright side?”
“They ain’t plannin’ to nuke us.” Hickok yawned. He stared to the east.
“Is Sherry in our cabin?” he inquired.
“As far as I know,” Spartacus responded. “She wanted to pull guard duty tonight, but I told her to get some sleep.”
Hickok gazed into his friend’s eyes. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“She’s supposed to be on the east wall by dawn,” Spartacus said.
Hickok smiled. “Dawn is hours away. I reckon I’ll mosey on over to our cabin and let her know her heartthrob has returned.”
“You go ahead,” Spartacus said. “I’ll be waiting for you here, on top of the wall. I don’t think I could get any sleep anyhow.”
Hickok started to amble off. “Give a yell if you need me.”
“I will,” Spartacus promised. He waited until the gunman was obscured by the night, then he turned and climbed the stairs to the western rampart.
How did Hickok do it? He always remained so cool and confident, even when confronted by the gravest danger. Nothing seemed to bother the gunfighter. Or did it really affect him, and he only pretended to be indifferent? Whatever the case, Spartacus was now wholeheartedly happy the gunman was back.
Spartacus wondered how he would fare in the battle ahead. He had fought scavengers, mutates, and Trolls in the past, but never a threat of this magnitude before. Neither had most of the Warriors. Their crucible of combat loomed with the rising of the fiery sun. If the Warriors proved unworthy, the Family would fade into oblivion, its memory erased from the historical record of humanity with few to mourn its passing. The wind from the north gusted again, and for the first time that night Spartacus felt the cold. He shivered.