Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

then one of the guards left outside went in.

They found my things, he thought to himself with a sickening fear in his stomach. Now, they know someone has been here. He could almost hear Grandfather’s voice telling him to move deeper into the woods, to stay ahead of them.

He moved as slowly and silently as possible, deeper into the brush and crouched behind a pine tree some thirty yards from the lake. Even this far away, he could hear excited babble coming from the ranger station. He risked a glance around the trunk of the tree and saw all four Russians walking across the concrete landing pad, scanning the forest in all directions.

Now they hunt me, he moaned inwardly. Then he felt the anger stir again. His hand slipped down to the head of his tomahawk, ever present on his belt. The cold steel was reassuring and his mind cleared. No—now I will hunt them.

He waited, watching as the Russians talked among themselves, then the leader split them up into two groups. One two-man team turned and headed north into the tree line. The other headed south. On their present course, the south team would pass to Denny’s left.

He crouched lower to the ground, trying to blend in as much as possible. Ever so slowly, as he watched the two Russians start down the slope, he pulled his bow up from the ground and carefully slid an arrow over his shoulder. They were moving systematically and cautiously, peering to their left and right. Step, pause, look. Step, pause, look.

Denny held himself still as a pond on a calm day and shifted only his eyes, seeking the other two-man team. They had disappeared from sight on the south side of the lake, heading upslope to crest The Ridge. He turned his eyes back on his prey—they were almost even with him now, making a horrible amount of noise.

He grinned. They probably thought they were being stealthy. They had no idea. If he had his moccasins on, he would be no louder than the breath of a newborn baby. Slowly, he nocked the arrow and drew back the 80-pound bow to his cheek with his right hand. He held it steady there for one, two, three heartbeats. The Russians continued their search pattern walking close together: step, pause, look…step, pause—

Denny’s first arrow took the soldier in the neck. The broadhead, sharpened to a razor’s edge, sliced straight through, severing every vein and artery in its path before exiting the man’s neck on the other side and embedding itself in the second soldier’s left shoulder. The first man gurgled in surprise and went down spitting blood in a crimson fountain.

The second soldier screamed and a burst from his AK-47 split the silence of the forest. Birds exploded from trees overheard and bushes around them. He dropped to one knee, forgetting his rifle, and stared in horror at his comrade who was writhing on the ground, painting the plants around him in crimson. By the time the soldier noticed there was a 30-inch arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder, Denny, still hidden in the bushes, had already drawn back his second arrow.

Denny figured he was only about fifteen yards from the second soldier, well within his bullseye range. He was an excellent archer and imagined his grandfather smiling at him as the second arrow hit home, right in the open mouth of the screaming soldier. The energy, transferred from his bow, blasted the hickory-shaft of the arrow straight through the Russian’s oral cavity—the arrowhead struck the back of his helmet with a loud crack. The force of the impact jerked his head back, silencing his screaming and sending him toppling over to the ground.

Denny spared a moment for a deep breath and then noticed the first man was still; the second merely twitched in the silence of impending death. The second arrow trembled like a nervous rabbit as it stood straight up in the air out of the doomed invader’s mouth. Denny marveled that he'd just killed two men like deer and felt nothing more than admiration for his accuracy.

Not men, Grandfather’s voice said. Invaders. Foreigners. Soldiers who came to kill and plunder. Remember what they did in town?

Someone shouted farther up the slope. The others were coming. Denny figured anyone with the sense God gave a rock would figure out where the arrows had come from. He needed to move. Now.

The shouting got louder, closer. He could hear someone crashing through the undergrowth upslope. He slunk back deeper into the bush and then began slowly, cautiously making his way south and west around the slope of the mountain, always keeping trees and bushes between him and his prey.

In the distance, Denny thought he heard a helicopter once more. He resolved to take care of this problem quickly, lest more Russians arrived. Then the sound changed. It wasn’t one helicopter—there were two. One had a distinctly deeper thrum to the sound of its rotors.

Denny knew right away when the other two Russians found the bodies of their comrades; two voices cried out in surprise and anger. A few startled birds took flight, squawking in indignation. Denny watched as the Russians crouched low and started scanning the area, ignoring the approaching helicopters. As Denny had hoped, they looked back toward the general direction from which he’d fired his first two arrows. He drew back on his bow, keeping his body tight against the rough bark of a pine tree.

He examined his targets. They wore some kind of armored vests that looked similar to ones he’d seen on the news, with large rucksacks and helmets that had tubes and wires attached to the sides. He figured they were cameras and radio antennae.

Denny hoped the sound of the approaching helicopters would prompt one of them, at least, to look upslope toward the lake. Then, he thought of something. Grinning, he let out a Shawnee war whoop that split the silence of the forest.

One of the Russians shouted in surprise and dove for the ground. The other turned his head, confusion evident on his face. The arrow was already halfway to him when he spotted Denny by the tree. The broadhead took him full in the face and he was dead before he hit the ground, spraying his comrade with dark blood.

Denny dropped and rolled to the right, behind the tree, and got to his knees to pull another arrow. The second soldier, larger than his comrade, had been face-down in the dirt when Denny had fired, so he didn’t think the Russian had seen him. He slowly lifted his head and saw movement on the other side of the bush. The Russian had moved faster than he’d thought, and was nearly on top of him before he could get to his knees.

A shout of rage and a blinding flash of light coincided with incredible pain erupting on the side of his face. The next thing Denny knew, he was rolling down the slope through the loamy pine needles, his bow and arrows torn from his body by the fall. His ears were filled with the roar from the helicopters above. Soon, he figured darkly, there would be dozens of Russians on the hunt. He was quickly running out of time.

He tumbled to an abrupt stop against the side of a tree with a painful crash. His face throbbed, his back hurt, and everything was blurry. He was aware his mouth was filled with blood and pine needles, but he was still alive. Denny shook his head to clear his vision and spat a glob of blood onto the ground between his hands. He tried to keep his tears from blinding him. He heard some guttural speech and saw the remaining Russian swipe a tree branch out of the way with his rifle, his face a dark mask of anger.

Denny tried to get to his feet but the Russian was faster. He lunged the short distance between them and put a boot in Denny’s stomach. Denny grunted in pain and felt himself crash into the tree again. The Russian laughed and said something that sounded offensive. It wasn’t so much the words as the tone that Denny could understand.

When the Russian’s rifle was tossed to the ground in contempt, Denny realized the man knew he was an Indian. Denny glanced up, blinking through his tears, and saw the big Russian grin as he slowly removed his helmet and unsheathed a big knife from his belt.

Son of a bitch—he wants to scalp me!

Steel with steel, Little Spear, Grandfather calmly whispered.

Charged with adrenaline, Denny’s hand moved with lightning-speed and whipped the nearly forgotten tomahawk from his belt. As the knife came down, the tomahawk went up. Steel met steel with a spark.

The tomahawk won. The Russian gasped as Denny parried the knife and swung the tomahawk forward to gain a little respect and distance. Denny grunted with pain as he struggled to his feet. The Russian stepped back and chuckled as he swatted Denny's other arm away.

It seemed to Denny that the Russian had to be made of granite. The man was rock hard and incredibly strong. Soon, Denny began to realize that he was becoming fatigued, or perhaps he’d injured himself more than he’d realized during his tumble down the slope. Panic started to writhe its snake-like tendrils around his spine. Fear—paralyzing fear—tickled his senses and heightened them at the same time.

Bend, do not break, whispered Red Eagle.

Denny staggered to his feet one more time and rocked backwards, narrowly missing a haymaker that would have broken his jaw for sure. He felt the wind on his face as the Russian’s massive fist cruised past his face.

Denny could see in the Russian's eyes that his enemy knew he was off balance, but the cocksure invader didn’t seem to be worried about Denny mounting a counterattack. Denny saw only arrogance and contempt on the Russian’s broad Slavic face. Suddenly, a burning spark of rage flared to life in his gut, shattering what concern he had for his own safety as he was consumed in a white hot fury.

Denny whipped the tomahawk up in a vicious arc and was well-satisfied by the choked-off scream the Russian let fly. The 'hawk sliced right through the invader's right arm at the bicep. It wasn't a fatal wound, or even crippling, but it put the Slavic bastard on notice