Madman Run Page 2

  "I sure do like the outdoors," Hickok remarked, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. "Don't you, Lone Elk?"

  There was no answer.

  "You're serious about not talkin' to me, aren't you?" Hickok inquired.

  There was still no answer.

  "Fine. Suit yourself. See if I ever speak to you again."

  Blade grinned and stared at the crest. It would be a good spot to take a break and decide whether to continue or turn back. The heat was getting to him, and he wouldn't mind heading for the Home with their goal unaccomplished. Once back, he could take a refreshing dip in the moat.

  Minutes later they stepped from the trees and halted just below the rim.

  "Let's rest a bit," Blade proposed.

  "Sure, fearless Leader, whatever you want," Hickok said, sitting down on a log. He studiously refrained from gazing at Geronimo.

  "I'd like to take a vote. Do we head on or head home?" Blade asked them.

  "It makes no difference to me," Geronimo said.

  "I couldn't care less," Hickok added.

  "So the decision is mine," Blade declared and moved toward the top of the hill for a view of the country beyond. If there was no sign of the castle, he'd return to the compound. Perhaps, after consulting the Founder's diary once more and pinpointing the exact location, he might try to find it again one day—on a cooler day.

  "Hey!" Geronimo suddenly yelled. "What's that?"

  Blade spun and saw his friend pointing skyward. He tilted his neck and spied something flying far overhead. At first he thought it was a hawk, until the glint of sunlight off a metallic surface demonstrated otherwise.

  "It's not a bird," Hickok stated, rising.

  "The thing appears to be made of metal," Geronimo mentioned.

  Stunned, Blade watched the object perform a tight circle hundreds of feet above them. Could it be an airplane? he wondered. Thinking of all the books dealing with aviation in the Family library and all the plane photographs he'd admired, he decided the object was far too small to be an aircraft.

  "I hear a strange buzzing," Geronimo announced.

  Blade heard the sound, too, as if a million angry hornets were in flight en masse, and his brow knit in bewilderment. "Maybe we should try to shoot it down," Hickok suggested.

  "Why? It's not trying to harm us," Blade replied. "Unless it attacks, we leave it alone."

  "Yes, sir."

  The alien device swooped lower, revealing its shape.

  With a start, Blade realized he'd been wrong. He distinguished a set of long, thin wings and the unmistakable contours of a tail assembly; he realized it was a plane, but the smallest one he'd ever seen. One of the books he'd read came to mind, a volume detailing how to construct and operate tiny aircraft known as model planes. If he wasn't mistaken, the thing in the sky was a model plane. But it couldn't be.

  "It looks like a baby plane," Hickok noted, apparently having the same train of thought as Blade.

  "Such things don't exist any more," Geronimo said.

  "Peepers don't lie," Hickok stated.

  Buzzing even louder, the diminutive aircraft angled to the southeast and flew off.

  Eager to see where it went, Blade hastened to the top of the hill and stared after it. His gaze strayed to the valley below and every fiber of his being tingled at the sight of the structures less than half a mile off.

  "Bingo," he said. "We've hit the jackpot."

  Hickok and Geronimo were on the crest in seconds.

  "It's the castle!" the gunman exclaimed.

  "Or what's left of it," Geronimo amended.

  From a distance, the castle appeared to be in a severe state of disrepair.

  Windows were missing. One of the four turrents was damaged. Vines grew in profusion up the slate gray walls. A flock of starlings was flying above it, bearing eastward.

  "I vote we check the place out," Blade said.

  "Count me in," Geronimo agreed.

  Hickok nodded. "I've always wanted to see a real castle."

  The three of them hastened down the far side of the hill into yet more forest, revitalized by their discovery.

  Blade took the point, selecting the easiest route, bypassing the thickest brush and skirting clusters of large boulders. After traversing 50 feet, he looked at the ground and halted in astonishment.

  Hickok almost bumped into the giant. "What the heck did you stop for?"

  "This," Blade said, indicating a well-worn trail leading deeper into the valley. The path wound past them to the northwest.

  "So you found a game trail. Big deal."

  "Take a closer look," Blade advised.

  The gunfighter squatted and peered at a strip of bare earth, his eyes widening when he recognized the distinct impression of a shoe. "Someone has used this trail recently."

  "Within the past day or two," Geronimo said.

  "Stay alert," Blade instructed them. They followed the path until they arrived at the border of a spacious meadow. Blade stopped short again, shocked by the unexpected.

  Corn, wheat, oats and other crops covered the eastern half of the meadow, aligned in separate plots. From the hill, the meadow had been partly obscured by the trees, and the crops tended to blend into the surrounding vegetation. No one would ever suspect the land had been tilled unless they came right up on it.

  "Someone lives in this valley," Hickok said.

  "In the castle," Geronimo speculated.

  "There's enough there to feed a hundred people," Blade noted. "Maybe we've stumbled on a pocket of survivors."

  "Let's hope they're friendly," Hickok stated. Blade led them across the meadow. Halfway to the other side ther trail broadened, becoming a grassy road. Ruts formed by heavy wagon wheels lined the soil, and there were many more footprints in the intermittent bare spots. Except these prints were of naked feet.

  "What do you make of it, pard?" Hickok asked when they halted to examine the tracks.

  "Beats me," Blade said. He glanced at Geronimo, who was kneeling and lightly touching the impressions. "You're the tracking expert. What can you tell us?"

  "It's hard to determine precise numbers because so many have passed by, but I'd guess that ten to twenty people use this road on a regular basis, at least once a day. And the freshest wagon ruts were made this morning."

  "This morning?" Blade repeated, scanning the meadow. "Then they must still be close by." He had the oddest feeling that the three of them were being watched, but by whom was anyone's guess.

  "We'd be smart to take cover," Hickok suggested.

  "No. If we did, these people might get the wrong idea and think we're here to harm them. We'll stay out in the open and demonstrate they have nothing to be afraid of."

  "And what if they're the ones who want to harm us?"

  "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

  The gunman sighed. "Don't take this personal, but you're too trusting sometimes. Not everyone is as kind and decent as the folks at the Home."

  Suddenly, from the woods to the south, arose harsh, mocking laughter.

  Chapter Three

  Blade and his friends crouched and swung to the south, probing the trees for movement. After a minute Geronimo spoke.

  "There's no one there."

  "Go double-check," Blade said.

  The youthful Blackfoot glanced at the giant, then nodded. "Whatever you want." He was up and off in a flash, weaving as he ran, the Winchester at the ready.

  "Givin' orders just comes naturally to you, doesn't it?" Hickok asked.

  "Don't start," Blade warned. "Someone has to check, and he's more skilled at moving stealthily than the two of us combined."

  "Speak for yourself. Geronimo's good, but he has a long way to go before he's in the same class as Atilla."

  Blade said nothing, his eyes on the forest. Attila was the current head of the Warriors, an extremely popular, extremely deadly man whose mastery of the martial arts, marksmanship and combat tactics bordered on perfection. His partisans believed he was
the best Warrior the Family ever produced, a sentiment Blade shared.

  Geronimo had disappeared, melting into the foliage without disturbing a leaf.

  "That hombre better be careful," Hickok commented.

  "Do I detect a note of concern?"

  "Me worried about that no-account Injun? Don't make me laugh."

  "Why don't you just admit you love him like a brother?" Blade asked without taking his gaze from the woods.

  "Sure I care about him. I care about you, too. But that doesn't mean I'll get all misty eyed if he gets himself killed. I just don't want him to lose the rifle, is all."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Don't you believe me?"

  "In a word, no."

  Hickok made a hissing noise. "You're gettin' real sarcastic in your young age, you know that?"

  "Think so?"

  "I know so. You're changing, Blade. You're not the carefree kid you used to be."

  "Are any of us?" Blade responded. "And thanks."

  "For what?"

  "For calling me Blade instead of Mikey. If you don't stop, I'm liable to lose control and haul off and bust you in the chops."

  "Sarcastic and mean. I liked you better when your main interest in life was catchin' crayfish."

  "We all have to grow up sooner or later. Back in the old days, before the Big Blast, some people went through their whole lives without acquiring an ounce of maturity. It's not the same now. We don't have that luxury."

  "You've been listening to Plato again, haven't you?"

  "What's wrong with listening to the wisest philospher in our entire history? Even my dad looks up to him. Hearing Plato speak is like having the mysteries of the universe unraveled right before your eyes."

  "Oh, brother."

  Blade was about to elaborate when he saw Geronimo returning on the double.

  "Find anything?"

  "I didn't see anyone," Geronimo reported, "but I found a network of trails and a garden."

  "A what?" Hickok asked.

  Geronimo looked at Blade. "Kindly remind that know-it-all that I'm not talking to him until he calls me by my name or the earth plunges into the sun. Whichever occurs first."

  Hickok glared. "Enough is enough, already. Come on, Geronimo, give me a break."

  In two swift strides Geronimo reached the gunman and gave his startled chum a bear hug, actually lifting Hickok off the ground. "You did it! You called me by my new name!"

  "It slipped out," Hickok exclaimed, flustered by the embrace. "Now put me down, you cow chip, before somebody sees us!"

  Geronimo let go and beamed. "I knew you wouldn't let me down. For a White Eyes, you're not half bad."

  "Yeah, well, let's not get all mushy about this. Show us the garden."

  Nodding happily, Geronimo led them down the road through a narrow tract of woodland to a cleared area where flowers grew in profusion, neatly arranged in trimmed rows. There were roses, columbines, geraniums, violets, marigolds and more.

  Hickok shook his head in astonishment. "I never would've believed it if I hadn't seen this with my own eyes."

  "There must be someone living in the castle," Geronimo reiterated. "As far as I know, there aren't any towns nearby."

  Blade thought of the laugh they'd heard and nodded. "Let's go see." He led them along the road, which wound past the garden, through yet another strip of forest, and angled directly at the castle.

  The farther they went, the more obvious the damage became. The glass panes in those windows still intact were all cracked or splintered.

  Inch-wide cracks marred those sections of the outer wall where the vines had yet to get a purchase. And two other turrets were missing portions of their sides.

  "I don't get it," Hickok said as they crossed a narrow field toward the medieval edifice looming in front of them. "Why are the crops and the garden so well taken care of, but the castle hasn't been fixed up in ages?"

  Blade was wondering the same thing. He spied a wide wooden door at the base of the building. "We'll ask the owner."

  When they arrived at the closed door, a raven perched on the battlements vented a strident cry and flapped into the sky.

  "I'll do the honors," Geronimo offered, and knocked loudly. His blows seemed to echo within, then fade.

  A minute elapsed, and no one acknowledged the pounding.

  "Let me," Hickok said, delivering several firm kicks to the bottom panel.

  Again there was no response.

  "Maybe no one is in," Geronimo stated.

  Blade grabbed a large black handle and tugged, but the portal refused to budge. "It's locked."

  "Kick it in," Hickok suggested.

  "Be serious."

  "I am."

  "No," Blade declared. "I told you we must make a good impression on these people, and we won't if we barge into their home."

  "Then what do we do? Twiddle our thumbs until someone shows up?"

  The giant bore to the right. "No, let's have a look around." He craned his neck to view the top of the castle as he walked slowly to the corner. If he didn't know better, he'd swear the place was uninhabited. But how could that be when the garden and the crops indicated there were occupants?

  Around the corner lay more of the same, more vines and a cleared space between the structure and the trees. The lowest windows were all a good 20 feet from the ground, too high to reach without a ladder.

  "This dump is sort of spooky," Hickok remarked.

  "Don't tell me you're afraid?" Geronimo asked.

  "No. I'm just bringin' up a fact is all."

  Blade was halfway to the rear when he happened to glance at the grass near his feet. Lying within inches of his black combat boots was an apple core. "Look at this," he said and squatted.

  The others moved in for a better glimpse.

  "An animal, you think?" Hickok speculated.

  "No," Geronimo said. "Animals eat cores. They don't care about ingesting a few seeds."

  Blade jerked his thumb at the battlement. "My guess is that someone ate the apple up there and tossed the core over the side."

  "I wish to blazes they'd show themselves," the gunman stated gruffly. "I don't like playin' cat and mouse, particularly when I'm the mouse."

  Rising, Blade continued to the far corner. When he strode into the open, he couldn't quite credit the sight he beheld.

  "Will you look at those!" Hickok marveled.

  "What in the world are they?" Geronimo asked.

  There were six small buildings situated in the middle of the yard, three in one row, three in another. Constructed from polished marble, they were one story in height and approximately 20 feet wide. They were ornately embellished with miniature columns and intricate engravings depicting elaborate scenes.

  Blade scratched his chin, reflecting. He'd seen photographs of such buildings, but he couldn't recall where.

  "They're too dinky to be houses," Hickok commented.

  "Maybe they are memorials of some sort," Geronimo guessed.

  An image flashed into Blade's mind, a picture in a book dealing with twentieth century social conventions and customs. "They're mausoleums,"

  he informed his friends.

  "Mauzi-what?" Hickok responded.

  "Mausoleums. Places where the rich and famous were buried."

  "Why would anyone want to be buried in a small house?"

  "That was the custom before the war. Most people were buried in public cemeteries, and tombstones were placed over their graves. But those with money to spend could have a lasting monument erected in their honor."

  "And I thought Geronimo has a swelled head."

  Blade walked forward. "Loved ones visited regularly and deposited flowers in remembrance of those who died. Caretakers performed regular maintenance and upkeep to keep the tombs in top condition."

  "I'll never understand the bozos who lived back then," Hickok said.

  "What good is buildin' a monument if you won't be around to enjoy it?"

  They halted at the first ma
usoleum and studied the etchings. One scene displayed naked young men and women engaged in leaping over bulls by grabbing the horns and executing acrobatic flips.

  "What the dickens is that supposed to be?" the gunman inquired.

  "I believe it shows the bullfighters of ancient Crete."

  Blade surmised. "Don't you remember our classes on the subject?"

  Hickok snorted. "I remember the paintings of the soldiers marching off to war or in battle, but I never paid much attention to those other pictures and drawings of men wearin' dresses and women in their birthday suits prancin' around trees."

  "What a warped mind," Geronimo cracked.

  The gunfighter disregarded the gibe. "Why would anyone want Cretan bullfighters on their tomb?"

  Blade shrugged. "Maybe to show they were students of ancient history."

  "Or to prove they were idiots," Hickok amended.

  The giant moved to the recessed door and tried to open it, without success.

  "You're not plannin' to go in there?" Hickok declared.

  "I'm curious to see what's inside."

  "I can tell you. An old wooden coffin and a bunch of moldy bones. Let's leave well enough alone."

  Blade walked to the next tomb, which was slightly bigger than the rest, and stared at a pecular crest engraved near the top: A man in a suit of armor was holding the body of a child in one hand and the head in another.

  "Disgusting," Geronimo said.

  "Let me guess," Hickok stated. "This guy was tryin' to show that he was fond of the Middle Ages."

  "Makes no sense to me," Blade chimbed in.

  Geronimo dropped to one knee and ran his fingers over the grass. "This is strange."

  "What is?" Blade prompted.

  "A lot of people have been here within the past day or two."

  "Standin' in front of this tomb?" Hickok said skeptically.

  "No," Geronimo answered. "Going into the tomb."

  Blade and the gunfighter exchanged bewildered expressions.

  "You're crazy, pard," Hickok said.

  "Which one of us is the tracker here? I know what I'm talking about. At least ten, possibly fifteen people entered this mausoleum."

  "Did they come out again?" Blade asked.

  "It's difficult to tell. Either they went in first and came out, or they came out, then went in."