Yellowstone Run Page 2

  “Never?”

  “Never. So if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay. If you’d rather let your Uncle Geronimo make my life miserable again, that’s okay. And if you’d rather hurt my feelings than break your word, I understand.”

  Ringo lowered his fishing pole and stared at his father for several seconds. “Do you want me to tell you their secret?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You’ve always told me to keep my promises.”

  “So?”

  “So I think you’re trying to trick me to see if I’ll break my word,” Ringo declared.

  “You think I’m testin’ you?”

  “Yep.”

  The man in buckskins grinned. “You know what, sprout?”

  “What?”

  “You’re right.”

  A new voice unexpectedly intruded into their conversation, coming from behind the gunman. “You had me worried for a minute there, Hickok. I thought you were trying to lay a guilt trip on your own son.”

  In a fluid motion the blond man stood and pivoted, his hands on his hips, an exaggerated scowl twisting his handsome countenance. He glared at the newcomer, a stocky Indian wearing a green shirt and pants constructed from the remnants of a canvas tent. The Indian’s hair was black, his eyes brown. “What the dickens is this about my missus and you havin’ some sort of secret, Geronimo?”

  “Ringo spoke the truth,” Geronimo admitted, walking toward them.

  “He always does. Takes after Sherry, I guess.” He smirked impishly.

  “I’ll have you know I tell the truth all the time,” Hickok said defensively.

  “Oh, you tell the truth, all right. You just expand it in the process.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like when?”

  “Like recently when you were bitten by that spider in Cincinnati,” Geronimo mentioned, halting next to the gunman on the bank of the sluggishly flowing moat.

  “What about it?” Hickok demanded.

  “Well, I heard that you told some of the kids the spider weighed eighty pounds.”

  “He told me ninety pounds,” Ringo chimed in.

  “Was that all?” Geronimo responded, and chuckled. “The thing keeps growing by leaps and bounds.” He beamed at Hickok. “As I recall, you originally told Blade and me that the spider was the size of your hand and didn’t weigh more than five ounces.”

  Hickok shrugged. “I wanted the young’uns to enjoy the story. It wouldn’t have been as exciting if they knew how puny the blamed spider really was.”

  “But a ninety-pound spider?” Geronimo said. “I’m surprised the mutation didn’t squash you to a pulp when it jumped on you.” He suddenly adopted a serious expression and snapped his fingers. “But I almost forgot! The thing landed on your head! No wonder you survived.”

  “You know, pard,” Hickok commented sarcastically, “you’d be a really funny guy if you ever develop a sense of humor.

  “Say, Dad?” Ringo interrupted.

  “What is it?” the gunman responded, still glaring at Geronimo.

  “Why are those two snakes trying to steal my line?”

  Hickok swung toward the moat, his hands drifting to his Colts at the sight of a pair of slim black heads near his son’s fishing line. Both heads were within an inch of one another, and the head closest to the line was actually biting at the filament. “What the devil?” he blurted out.

  Geronimo, his brow furrowed, walked to the edge of the bank and squatted, peering at the reptiles.

  “Should I reel in the line?” Ringo asked.

  “Go ahead,” Hickok directed.

  The boy began turning the crank quickly, and almost immediately the sinker and the hook rose out of the water, the two snake heads rising with the line, revealing a surprising spectacle. “Golly!” he blurted out.

  “What did you use for bait?” Geronimo quipped.

  Hickok stepped to the water for a better” view. “One of your old socks,” he rejoined.

  There turned out to be three snake heads, each with a neck approximately five inches long, and all attached to the same body. The first head continued to bite at the fishing line while the second head hung almost limp. Lower down, the third head had clamped its mouth on the belly of the fish Ringo had caught and was holding fast despite the fact it could never hope to swallow its prey.

  “It’s a mutant,” Ringo said.

  “It sure is,” Geronimo confirmed. “I’ve seen two-headed animals before, but this is the first one I’ve seen with three heads.”

  “It’s neat. I want to catch it and take it home to show my mom.

  “Forget it,” Hickok stated.

  “Ahhh, gee. Why?”

  “Because your ma isn’t partial to creepy-crawlies, and we’re not going to have this critter traipsin’ all over our cabin.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your father said no,” Geronimo translated.

  “He’s no fun,” Ringo muttered.

  “Tell me about it,” Geronimo mumbled in response.

  “Swing the line near the bank and Uncle Geronimo will take the snake off,” Hickok instructed his son.

  Geronimo glanced at the gunman. “Why me?”

  “You’re the one who thinks he’s the great expert on nature. I You’re the one who’s always tellin’ me he knows more about wild critters than I could ever hope to learn.”

  “True. But why me?”

  “You’re an Indian.”

  Geronimo’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “Everybody knows mat Indians have a way with animals.”

  “True again,” Geronimo said, and grinned. “I am your best friend.”

  Listening to the adults, frowning because he couldn’t take the snake home, Ringo sighed and gazed to the south at the compound, his eyes brightening when he spied the giant walking toward them. “Hey, here comes Uncle Blade!”

  Hickok twisted and regarded the seven-foot-tall titan for a moment.

  “We’ve got to get rid of that snake fast.”

  “How come, Dad?” Ringo queried.

  “Don’t you remember? I’ve told you about how Blade’s dad was killed by a mutant ten years ago. Ever since, he’s been right irritable around the varmints.”

  “I’ll take it off the line,” Geronimo offered.

  “There’s a better way,” Hickok said.

  “There is?”

  “Yep.”

  Geronimo saw the gunman’s jaw stiffen and knew what was coming. He stuck a finger in each ear.

  “Cover your ears too, son,” Hickok directed.

  “What about my fishing pole?”

  “Give it to me,” Hickok said, and took the handle in his left hand. He looked back once at Blade, who was still 20 yards distant, then faced the moat and chuckled. “This is for Blade’s dad,” he declared, and drew his right Python, his arm a literal blur, his practiced hand sweeping the Colt up and out. The .357 Magnum boomed three times in swift succession, the shots almost cracking as one, and with each squeeze of the trigger a snake head erupted in a shower of skin, flesh, and eyeballs. In the space of a heartbeat all three heads were gone and the body was sliding back into the moat. “Piece of cake,” he stated, and twirled the Python into its holster.

  “Wow! You must be the fastest man alive!” Ringo said proudly.

  “Is there any doubt?” Hickok replied.

  “Not bad for an amateur,” Geronimo remarked, lowering his arms and standing, his left hand brushing the tomahawk tucked under his brown leather belt.

  “Amateur!” Hickok said, and snorted. “I’d like to see you give it a try.”

  “I can’t. You shot all the heads.”

  “Can I have my pole?” Ringo asked, staring at the fish still attached to the hook. Part of its stomach was missing.

  “Sure. Here,” Hickok responded, and gave the pole back. He hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt, turned sideways, and beamed at the approaching giant.

  “Do you think he has another
mission for us?” Geronimo wondered.

  “I hope so. I’m itchy for some action.”

  “The itching is from your fleas.”

  “Are you going to leave the Home again?” Ringo inquired while reeling in the line.

  “I don’t know,” Hickok said. “Could be.”

  “Mom, Chastity, and I don’t like it when you go away so much.”

  “I know, son. But it can’t be helped. I’m a Warrior, and when the Family is threatened I have to protect everyone.”

  “Maybe another Warrior could go with Uncle Blade,” Ringo suggested.

  “How about Rikki or Yama or Ares or Sundance?”

  “The decision is up to Blade,” Hickok said. “You know that.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about your dad leaving right this moment,” Geronimo mentioned.

  “Why not?” Ringo inquired.

  “Because Blade is smiling.”

  The giant waved at them and nodded at the moat. “What are you doing, Nathan? Shooting the fish now?”

  “Everybody is a comedian lately,” Hickok grumbled, and returned the wave. “Nope. Just gettin’ in a little target practice.”

  Blade reached them and halted. Every inch of his enormous frame was packed with layer after layer of rippling, bulging muscle. His dark hair hung in a comma over his gray eyes. A black leather vest barely covered his massive chest, and he also wore green fatigue pants, combat boots, and a pair of Bowie knives strapped about his slim middle. He gazed at the fish suspended from the end of Ringo’s tine, noting the hole caused by one of Hickok’s slugs, and saw entrails hanging from the cavity. “Is this a new technique for gutting a fish?”

  “I was target-practicing and accidentally hit the fish,” Hickok said.

  The giant glanced at the gunman. “You’ve never accidentally hit anything in your life.”

  Hickok shrugged. “It happens.”

  “Are you taking my daddy away from the Home again?” Ringo asked.

  “Nope,” Blade replied. “I just came over to shoot the breeze.”

  “Good. Mommy said the next time you take him away without giving her warning, she’s going to kick your butt.”

  Blade smiled. “She did, did she?”

  “Yep,” Ringo replied, nodding.

  “She’ll have to wait her turn,” Blade stated. “My wife has first dibs on kicking my butt.”

  “Gee. Does Aunt Jenny pick on you like my mom picks on my dad?”

  “Your mother doesn’t pick on me,” Hickok interjected. “We just have a squabble every now and then when she can’t see the wisdom of my ways.”

  Ringo stared at his father in evident confusion. “Do you squibble because Mommy usually knows best?”

  Geronimo cackled.

  “The word is squabble,” Hickok said, correcting his offspring. “And your mom doesn’t always know best. I’m right some of the time.”

  “When, Dad?”

  The gunman stared off into the distance, pondering.

  “When?” Ringo persisted.

  “I’m thinkin’.”

  Geronimo continued to cackle.

  “What’s so funny?” Ringo inquired.

  “Ignore him,” Hickok said. “He has a corncob stuck up his butt.”

  Ringo’s mouth dropped open and he gawked at Geronimo’s posterior.

  “He does! Doesn’t that hurt?”

  The gunman sighed and shook his head sadly. “Forget I even brought the subject up.”

  “How did he get it up there?”

  “Drop the subject,” Hickok said, and glanced at the fishing pole. “Why don’t you go show the fish you’ve caught to your mom.”

  “But shouldn’t we take Uncle Geronimo to the Healers?” Ringo asked earnestly.

  “Geronimo is just fine.”

  “With a corncob up his butt?”

  “That’s a figure of speech,” Hickok explained.

  “A what?”

  “Never mind. Now go show the fish to your mom.”

  Ringo frowned and walked to the southwest. “Boy, you never tell me a thing,” he mumbled.

  “I heard that. I’ll fill you in on figures of speech later,” Hickok promised.

  “That’s okay. I’ll ask mom how Uncle Geronimo got the corncob up there,” Ringo said.

  “No, don’t bother your mother,” Hickok said hastily.

  “Why not?”

  “She’s busy doing housework, and you know how crabby she can get when she’s cleanin’.”

  “Mom’s never crabby. But I’ll let her know you think she is,” Ringo proposed.

  “No!”

  “See you later,” Ringo said, and gave a cheery little wave. The fishing pole over his left shoulder, he strolled toward the row of cabins situated in the middle of the 30-acre compound.

  “Uh-oh. I’m in deep doo-doo,” Hickok commented.

  “You’re always in deep doo-doo,” Blade concurred.

  “I don’t know why these things happen to me all the time,” Hickok said.

  Geronimo, whose fit of mirth was beginning to subside, snorted and pointed at the gunfighter. “I do.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then why am I always stickin’ my foot in my mouth?”

  “Because you’re an idiot.”

  “Says you, you mangy cuss.”

  The giant cleared his throat. “Are you two through?”

  “What do you need, pard?” Hickok asked.

  “I want to talk about Achilles.”

  Geronimo abruptly sobered. “Him again?” The gunman rolled his eyes and sat down on the bank. “Boy, when it rains, it pours.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Blade folded his steely arms across his huge chest and glanced from the gunfighter to the Blackfoot, the two best friends he had. “I didn’t expect you guys to react this way.”

  “What do you want me to do? Leap for joy?” Hickok quipped.

  “Haven’t we discussed the subject enough already?” Geronimo responded.

  “This is a man’s life we’re talking about here.” Blade noted. “His future is at stake. How can you dismiss him so lightly?”

  “Easy as pie,” Hickok said.

  Geronimo turned and gazed out over the survivalist retreat. “We’re not dismissing him. It’s just that we think you’re making a mistake if you nominate Achilles to be a Warrior.”

  “Why?” Blade asked.

  “We’ve been all through this, pard,” Hickok declared. “That uppity upstart doesn’t have the right temperament to be a Warrior. He’s too cocky for his own good.”

  “Cockier than you?”

  “Me? I’m as humble as they come.”

  “Yeah. Right. And cows fly,” Blade said.

  “Hickok’s right,” Geronimo interjected, then did a double take. “I don’t believe I just said that.”

  “I am?” the gunman responded, and beamed.

  Blade sighed. “Everybody and their grandmother seems to be dead set against Achilles becoming a Warrior. Plato doesn’t like the idea. You two are opposed. Even Rikki-Tikki-Tavi took me aside last night to express his reservations.

  “Rikki too?” Geronimo said. “He’s one of the more levelheaded Warriors. What more proof do you need that your idea isn’t so hot?”

  “Achilles is the best man for the job,” Blade insisted, and surveyed the compound, thinking of the vacancy in the ranks of the Warriors, a vacancy that had to be filled as quickly as possible. He disliked having the Warriors undermanned. When there was a manpower shortage, the other Warriors had to make up the slack by pulling extra duty, and extra duty meant more rotating schedules, less sleep, and impaired effectiveness. As the head Warrior, he preferred to have the people under him performing at 100 percent of their capability at alt times. With so many lives at stake, he could afford to demand nothing less than their very best.

  Over 100 persons now resided at the compound that had been constructed by a wealthy survivalist named Kurt Carpenter shortly before the war. Carpenter had called hi
s retreat the Home, and gathered together selected friends into a close-knit group he called the Family. For over a century the Family had lasted, despite the threats of madmen, scavengers, mutations, androids, drug lords, and others.

  Carpenter, now referred to as the Founder by the Family members, had spared no expense with his considerable fortune in having the compound built. Predicting, that civilization would crumble after the war, and foreseeing mat his followers and their descendents would need to cope with a world driven insane by the devastating Armageddon, a world where barbarism would rule and law and order would no longer exist. Carpenter had constructed a veritable fortress. Sturdy brick walls, 20 feet high and topped with barbed wire, enclosed the site. Along the inside of each wall a deep trench had been dug, and using aqueducts, a stream had been diverted into the compound, entering under the northwest corner and exiting to the southwest. This inner moat was their second line of defense in case of a major assault by enemy forces.

  In order that the Family would be adequately protected, the Founder had created the Warrior class. Divided into fighting arms designated Triads, there were currently 17 men, woman, and hybrids who had taken the Warrior Oath of Loyalty. One of their number had recently died, leaving Zulu Triad one man short.

  “Do you really think the Elders will go along with your recommendation?” Geronimo inquired.

  “They will if I can find someone to co-sponsor Achilles with me,” Blade said.

  “Are you fixin’ to ask one of us?” Hickok queried.

  “I was hoping one of you would make the offer on your own initiative,” Blade replied, and was discouraged by the silence that greeted his remark.

  Candidates for Warrior status had to pass through an ordained selection process. First, an active-duty Warrior had to agree to act as a sponsor.

  Usually only one sponsor was required, although there had been instances in the past where more than one active-duty Warrior had sponsored the same candidate. Once a candidate acquired a sponsor, then Blade would submit the candidate’s name to the Family Leader, Plato and the rest of the Elders. After carefully reviewing the candidate’s qualifications, the Elders would decree whether the candidate was acceptable or not. And if the hearsay getting back to Blade was true, Achilles might well be rejected.

  Am I making a mistake? Blade asked himself. True, Achilles had attained a black belt in karate, but prowess in the martial arts was only one of the prerequisites for the post. It was also true that Achilles had qualified as an outstanding marksman, but marksmanship by itself meant very little. Where choosing a Warrior was concerned, personality and temperament were most important.