HENTY'S FIST 1: GAUNTLET RUN by Andre Jute, Dakota Franklin, Andrew McCoy

43. HENTY'S FIST 1: GAUNTLET RUN by Andre Jute, Dakota Franklin, Andrew McCoy

HENTY'S FIST 1: GAUNTLET RUN: birth of a superhero by Andre Jute, Dakota Franklin and Andrew McCoy. 60,000 words in 76 chapters.

CHAPTER 43

“Get those dogs sorted!” George shouted, laying about the handlers with his whip. “She’s escaping while you laze about, you wretched buggers.”

They looked at him sullenly but only briefly and none said a word of protest before running to do his bidding: they were all illegal immigrants from south of the border and after a year’s service they would be rewarded by the Humble & Poor in the person of their ubiquitous, energetic paid secretary sponsoring them for US residence permits.

By the time they finally did get the dogs sorted out. Henty was four or five furlongs ahead of the riders and the main body of dogs. But that was small consolation to her, because the leaders of the pack, the most vicious and persistent of the Dobermans, had made it onto the bridge before the general mêlée among the crush of dogs broke out. Now these dogs were right behind her and gaining. She could hear them panting and when she could no longer prevent herself casting a terrified look behind her she could see their pink tongues lolling out of the sides of their mouths with their exertions. But they did not seem tired and the blank brown eyes regarded her expressionlessly, fanatically. They could and would run her down and tear out her throat, those eyes told her.

“That stupid woman is going to let the dogs pull my horse down.” George’s voice was high-pitched with anger. “Move!” In his anger he forgot the time-honored usages of the hunt and reverted to his everyday speech.

“But our horses—”

“Do you want her to escape justice, Madam?” the MFH roared and set his horse across the bridge. Though Henty was further in front of them than at any time since the hunt began, they could see her clearly because she was keeping to the line of the rail. If the horse couldn’t outrun the Dobermans on the level, Henty thought, perhaps its longer legs and taller stature would give it an advantage in the rough. She therefore headed the big bay to the left, using considerable power with the Fist to do so: he was a headstrong horse in more than one sense of the word. Henty suspected the horse was running so hard to get away from George rather than to save her.

When next she looked back, she had gained maybe ten yards on the dogs but the Hunt had turned after her and was gaining on her again. Ten yards gained on those dogs was like nothing and the red-coated hunters would soon be there to spur the dogs on or catch her themselves.

How Henty wished she'd kept that car!

The bay launched himself into the air and barely cleared a big stream, his hind legs scrambling for purchase on the steep far bank. The impact of the landing sent Henty over his head, flying in a high parabola to land heavily on her back. Henty was thoroughly winded; she wanted to be ill; she was certain her back was broken. But she clenched her teeth and rolled upright and scrambled across to the horse and, pausing only for a fraction of a second to stare at the frenzied Dobermans jumping into the water from the far bank, managed to swing a leg over the saddle just as the bay rose to his majestic height. She would never have gotten back on if he had been standing.

The horse set off immediately. Henty, all thought of pride now consumed in fear and the urgent need for breath, clung to his neck and let him have his head.

Behind her, the leaders of the Humble & Poor had jumped the stream more or less cleanly but the middle ranked riders landed in the river on top of the dogs and the backmarkers on top of them. Nobody counted the handlers, already in the water to help the dogs up the far bank, who got their heads stove in or their necks broken by having horses land on them. It was a disaster.

George shouted stentoriously to sort out the mess. He was a master organizer but, even so, it took him eight minutes to restore order, to appoint a deputy to shoot the injured horses, to boost the rest of the dogs up the steep bank of the stream (during which operation many handlers and two members of the Hunt were savaged), and to set off once more in pursuit of Henty.

But he wasn’t worried she'd get away. The leaders of the pack had made it up the riverbank before the horses had landed in the river and they could still be heard baying in pursuit of Henty. There was a clear trail for the remaining dogs to follow, even without the aural direction. 

Henty swayed with fatigue and she fancied the horse wasn’t going as strongly as it used to. It was now full morning with a blistering sun and she had been going at this pulverizing pace for hours without rest, after a night without sleep, and with no breakfast.

But mainly her thirst was killing her. Henty hardly knew that the Dobermans had caught up with her until one jumped for her ankle. She jerked her foot away, into the horse’s side. The horse thought the sharp pain was caused by the impertinent dog and stopped, kicked the dog in the head to crush its skull, and then started grazing.

Henty landed face down. First she heard the sickening thud and then she felt it throughout her battered body. With the last of her energy she pressed the Fist on the ground to roll her over so that at least she could breathe. The three remaining dogs were aiming for her head with gaping jaws, ready to grab her head in those concrete crushers and shake her to break her neck if her skull didn’t collapse first. Now they paused, waiting for Henty to expose the softer target of her jugular instead.

Henty saw the pink gums and the teeth but she was gasping for breath and had no energy to spend to defend herself. That enforced lack of resistance was Henty’s good fortune.

As she lay there, quite still except for her chest heaving for breath, the dogs thought she was submitting. It was their instinct — and couldn’t be taken from them by any amount of training and selective breeding to accentuate their vicious streak — to let another animal who passively exposes the jugular lie unmolested, though they would stand over it and, at the first sign of movement, tear out its throat.

Henty, a country girl, of course knew this, but she would never have remembered to lie still in her panic at the dogs coming straight for her throat. But, once she had caught her breath, though she was still heaving for more air, her mind had a break to catch up with her reflexes and she remembered. She therefore lay quite still until the Humble & Poor Hunt rode up and the handlers pulled the dogs, snarling from frustration at being deprived of their quarry, away from her.

“Poor-spirited!” George shouted at her from a safe distance. “Cowardly horse-thief.”

The tear jerk publisher pointed. “There’s a marina on the river there. Plenty of rope to hang a horse-thief.”

“And a derrick to serve as a gallows,” Nicholas added enthusiastically.

“Excellent!” boomed George. “After we hang her, we can have a picnic breakfast on the river-bank, what?”

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• MORE ABOUT THE AUTHORS AT: 

Andre Jute http://coolmainpress.com/andrejute.html  Andre’s latest book is VANGUARD ELITE Book 1 of COLD WAR, HOT PASSIONS http://www.amazon.com/DREAMS-COLD-WAR-PASSIONS-ebook/dp/B00A3BSJM2  Dakota Franklin http://coolmainpress.com/Dakota%20Franklin.html  Dakota’s latest book is NASCAR FIRST http://www.amazon.com/NASCAR-FIRST-RUTHLESS-WIN-ebook/dp/B00A72A556  Andrew McCoy http://coolmainpress.com/andrewmccoy.html  Andrew’s latest book is STIEG LARSSON Man, Myth & Mistress http://www.amazon.com/STIEG-LARSSON-Myth-Mistress-ebook/dp/B004GXAZAM

Copyright © 2012 André Jute, Dakota Franklin, Andrew McCoy. The authors have asserted their moral right. Published by CoolMain Press 2012 www.coolmainpress.com. Editor: Lisa Penington. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or performed by any means without the written permission of the publisher.