The Fox Run

Chapter Sixteen

Joan was being followed.

The sun was high in the morning sky, a bright yellow island in a sea of azure blue.

She paused, listening. Her muscles ached and her right shoulder pained her if she made any quick movements. The lack of sleep was the worst part of her ordeal. She had decided to walk through the night, aware of the great personal risk, but motivated by her keen appreciation of the responsibility she had to her captured sisters. Twice during the night she had been compelled to climb nearby trees when ominous growls sounded from the surrounding vegetation. She was armed with the axe and the two long knives, but they would be useless against a large mutate or any other big carnivore.

What was on her trail?

Joan resumed her determined march, her pace unflagging. If a mutate was after her, it would simply charge, heedless of the clamor it might make. Wild dogs would be howling with glee as they closed in. The big cats would be completely silent; you wouldn’t know a cat was after you until too late. Every so often she would hear a twig break or a branch rustle.

Something was attempting to close in on her undetected, biding its time, waiting. For what?

It had to be the Trolls. Saxon would not permit her to escape. He would send some of his men after her. How many?

Joan concentrated, resisting the gnawing influence of her almost overpowering fatigue. She had hoped, by moving all night, to get a big lead on her pursuers. Apparently they had not stopped to rest either.

Whoever was on her heels wanted her real bad.

A small field opened up ahead, waist-high grass wavering in a stiff northerly breeze.

She found her mind wandering, her thoughts straying to her childhood.

She recalled her schooling years, her tutoring by the Family Elders, and her subsequent Warrior training. Her mother had attempted to dissuade her from becoming the first female Warrior in many years. “Be a Healer,” her mother had urged her, “or a Weaver or Tiller. Anything but a Warrior!” Her mother had feared for her life. The Warrior mortality rate was four times higher than that for the rest of the Family, and with ample justification. The Warriors were usually the first ones to encounter danger; they were pledged to give their lives in the protection of the Family and the Home.

The wind was increasing.

Joan reached the field and started to cross. The grass was thick, tugging at her moccasins and tangling around her ankles. She hoped she wouldn’t inadvertently step on a snake. The very idea made her skin crawl.

A bee buzzed by her head.

She held the axe aloft, over her head, preventing the handle from catching in the growth. The knives were securely tucked under her leather belt.

If she pushed herself, she reasoned, she might make it back to the Home by nightfall. Back to the Family. To Hickok. She was becoming especially fond of the flashy gunman, and she knew he was strongly attracted to her.

His lips had told her as much several nights before the attack, when they were lying in a secluded grove. He was the first man she had ever wanted.

During her youth, her tomboy years, the opposite sex had been a source of competition to best any way she could. In her teens, to her surprise and dismay, none of the men had seemed particularly interested in her. Then, to her astonishment, there was Hickok, shocking her one day at target practice. “You shoot well,” he had said, coming up behind her on the range. “You have a good eye.” He had awkwardly fidgeted with his gunbelt. “Goes with your great body.”

Her heart had nearly stopped.

Joan smiled with the pleasant memories. The long walks, the star-filled nights. Others had noticed. Her sisters had teased her. He had brought out emotions in her she never imagined existed. Many of the women had envied her. Hickok was considered quite a catch.

Involved with her reflections, she failed to notice the sudden stirring of the grass to her left.

When Plato had announced the Alpha Triad would be leaving for the Twin Cities, that Hickok would be gone for a lengthy spell, she had run off and cried, angry and hurt. Why hadn’t he told her? Why did he shy away from her after the announcement was made?

A wall of trees loomed in front of her.

Joan stopped and glanced over her right shoulder. Still no sign of the Trolls.

That was when Buck hit her. He jumped up, his club swinging, clipping her on the jaw as she whirled to confront him.

Joan fell, her vision spinning, onto her back.

Buck closed in, his metal rod raised. “We owe you, bitch! For my nose and for Galen and Trent. This is for them!” He brought the steel bar down.

Joan used the axe handle to block the blow, the impact jarring her shoulder and aggravating her knife wound. She rolled and rose to her feet, the axe poised.

Buck was gone.

She knew she was in trouble. The wind was whipping the grass, lashing the leaves of the trees, and drowning out any sound the Trolls might make.

They were toying with her, drawing out their fun, engaging in a little game. She was too exposed in the field, a virtual sitting duck.

Joan bolted, covering the intervening space to the trees and darting into the woods.

Behind her, someone laughed.

She ran, limbs tearing at her body, her eyes never still, dreading the next attack.

“Run, bitch! Run!” Buck was somewhere to her left.

Joan reached the trunk of an old tree, its girth wide, many of its limbs dead. She stopped for an instant, getting her bearings.

An arrow thudded into the trunk inches from her head.

Someone laughed.

Joan ducked around the tree and churned up a steep hill, an ache growing in her side, the exertion taking its toll.

“Run, bitch!” Buck was enjoying this immensely.

The hill crested, the other side a steep drop of thirty feet. She slowed, took a deep breath, and jumped.

“Run! Run!”

Joan winced as she landed, her legs buckling under the strain. She fell forward, onto her face, dirt filling her mouth.

The laughter wouldn’t stop.

Move! Get up and move! She tried to will her legs to function, to obey her, but they refused. There was a bank in front of her. If she could only get to the other side, maybe she could hide.

“The hunt is over,” Buck announced.

Joan shifted onto her back and looked up.

Buck and two other bearded Trolls were standing on the drop-off.

“Want her dead?” asked a brawny Troll with a bow. A quiver of arrows was perched on his back.

“Not yet,” Buck answered, grinning. “I’ve got plans for the bitch! Cover her.”

“Saxon did say we could have fun with her,” stated the third Troll, a sword in his left hand. “But he also said he wants her head. Should we cut it off before or after we have our fun?”

Buck pondered the question. “After,” he finally replied. “I may want to use her mouth.”

The other Trolls nodded their understanding.

“Cover her,” Buck repeated. He sat and slowly slid down the steep incline.

Joan knew what he intended to do. She grabbed one of her knives and pulled it free from her belt.

“Drop it!” ordered the Troll with the bow. An arrow was notched, the string drawn, his bead on her chest. “Now!”

Joan reluctantly complied.

Buck reached the bottom and stood, leering at her, swinging his club back and forth. “I told you, bitch,” he bragged, “I told you I’d get you for what you did to me.” His busted nose was still swollen and discolored.

“Anytime,” Joan said sweetly. One of the knives was hidden from their view, under her left arm. The Troll with the bow would probably nail her, but she would make sure she gutted Buck first.

Buck dropped the steel bar and began hiking his tunic above his thighs.

“This is going to be fun,” he told her.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, pard,” interjected another voice, “I reckon the lady would rather slurp horse piss than oblige the likes of you.”

Joan twisted, craning her neck, her eyes widening in disbelief, her pulse racing in relief. It couldn’t be!

It was.

He stood on the bank, smiling, his right arm casually draped in front of his body, his left pressed against his side.

The Trolls seemed flabbergasted.

“Kill him!” Buck found his voice, dropping his tunic.

The Troll with the bow elevated the point of his arrow, compensating for the distance, knowing there was no way this stranger could draw his guns before he loosed the shaft. He saw a blur and felt something slam into his torso and he fell, the bow and arrow tumbling from his limp fingers. The string released, the shaft driving into the ground.

The Troll with the sword turned to run.

“Leaving our shindig so soon?” asked the gunman. He shot the second Troll in the back of the head. “That leaves you.” He swiveled, pointing the Python in his right hand at the Troll with the broken nose. His left Colt was still in its holster.

Buck backed away. “No, mister! Please! I don’t want to die!” he pleaded.

Joan struggled to her knees, her gaze fastened on his face. “Hickok.” She whispered the name, her eyes brimming with love and tears.

“Please! Don’t!” Buck held his hands in front of his body, as if they could offer some protection from the inevitable.

“You sure are a wimp, pard,” Hickok stated. The Python roared and Buck was slammed into the drop-off, a red hole gaping in the center of his forehead. “Never could abide wimps,” Hickok commented, twirling the Colt into its holster. He jumped from the bank and landed beside Joan.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “Can you use a lift?”

Joan sobbed and clutched at his legs.

Hickok dropped to one knee and held her. “Hey, it’s okay! I didn’t realize. I’m here. You can let it all out.”

The silence of the forest engulfed them as she quietly cried in his arms.

Gradually, the birds and other wildlife resumed their daily activities, their patterns of living disrupted by the intruding humans and the shattering gunfire.

Blade and Geronimo appeared on the bank.

“So here you are,” Geronimo said, the Browning in his hands.

“We heard the shots,” Blade explained, the Commando at the ready.

“Thought maybe a wasp attacked you while you were relieving yourself,” Geronimo added. He moved to inspect the dead Trolls.

Blade walked over to Hickok and Joan. “Is she all right?”

Joan raised her tear-streaked countenance and nodded. “Just very tired and sore,” she told him.

“Is Jenny with you?” Blade asked hopefully.

Joan shook her head. “Just me. I escaped to tell you the Trolls are heading east, to a place called Fox.”

“We know,” Hickok informed her.

“You know?”

“We caught one of the Trolls,” Blade elaborated. “We prevailed upon him to tell us where you were being taken.”

“Remind me sometime,” Hickok said, squeezing her left shoulder, “to tell you how we did it. You might want to employ the technique yourself some day.”

Geronimo joined them. “The Trolls are dead.”

“Was there any doubt?” Hickok asked.

Blade stood, debating their next move. “We’ll collect any weapons and toss them in the back of the SEAL. Joan, if you’re not up to it, Hickok can take you to the Home and Geronimo and I will go to Fox to rescue the other women.”

“I feel up to it,” Joan declared.

“Are you sure?” Blade pressed her. “It looks like your right shoulder has been cut. You’re completely bushed. We can manage without you.”

Joan gritted her teeth and rose to her feet, Hickok by her side, supporting her. “I’m going with you, Blade. I’ll have some time to rest up before we reach Fox. Did I hear you right? You’re using that vehicle we dug up?”

Blade nodded.

“Even better. You won’t really need me until we reach Fox.” She paused.

“I’ve got to go. Blade. I owe it to my sisters I deserted…”

“You didn’t desert them,” Hickok quickly objected. “You did what you had to do.”

“I still feel like a deserter,” Joan said softly. “You must let me come with you.”

Blade found three pairs of eyes focused on him, awaiting his decision.

Instinctively, he wanted to send her back to the Home out of harm’s way.

But she was a Warrior; she knew the consequences. In addition, he did not know how many Trolls there were. Another good gun might come in handy. “Okay,” he told them. “You come along. We’ll need you.”

Hickok hugged Joan. “Let’s get you to the SEAL. I’ll tend to your wound.”

They trekked toward the transport, parked forty yards away to the west.

“How did you find me?” Joan asked Hickok as they walked arm in arm.

“By accident,” Hickok explained. “It’s like Geronimo said. I needed to relieve myself. Blade stopped, and I was watering this tree when I heard someone shouting and laughter. Naturally I came to investigate and found you.”

“I’m glad you did.” She stretched and pecked him on the cheek.

“These Trolls are going to pay for what they’ve done,” Hickok promised, his lips a compressed line. “I owe them.”

Up ahead. Blade was fighting waves of sadness. Finding and rescuing Joan was great, but she reminded him so much of his beloved Jenny it hurt. Both were blondes; Jenny had green eyes, Joan blue; Jenny was inches shorter than Joan, but fuller of figure; Joan’s facial features were broader, her frame more muscular; both women were attractive and intelligent. Every time he looked at Joan, he saw Jenny. Just what he needed to keep his mind on the matter at hand!