Dakota Run Page 2

  The third member of the trio enjoyed a fuller figure and slightly longer hair. Her even white teeth were clenched, her rounded chin jutting outward, as she maintained her focused determination. Her slender fingers were inches from a Ruger Super Blackhawk 44 Magnum. She was attired in blue pants constructed from an old blanket and a yellow shirt so discolored from use and age it appeared almost white.

  “Are you three ready?” asked the tall man in buckskins standing nearby, his left arm upraised, a matched set of pearl-handled Colt Pythons suspended around his trim waist. He sported a full blond mustache, a perfect complement to his golden hair.

  “Any time, Hickok,” the youth in black declared.

  “Don’t get cocky, Shane,” advised the man. He noted their obvious intensity and suppressed an impulse to laugh. “On the count of three. One…”

  The trio became immobile, their nerves high-strung, their muscles rigid.

  “Two…”

  Somewhere in the distance a bird was chirping.

  “Three!” Hickok barked.

  Shane cleared leather first, his shot striking the tin can and sending it skidding to one side. He twisted and fired twice more, each slug scoring a direct hit.

  The women drew simultaneously, with the taller of the pair firing a fraction of a second sooner. The sound of the gunfire thundered in the clearing.

  Both missed.

  “Damn!” the taller woman exclaimed, venting her frustration.

  “Not bad,” Hickok commented as he walked up to them, his blue eyes twinkling.

  “Bull!” the taller woman snapped. “We missed!”

  “Give yourselves a break,” Hickok told them. “It’s the very first time you’ve tried the fast draw. It requires practice. Lots and lots of practice.

  You don’t always hit what you aim at.”

  “You do,” said the other woman. “I’ve never heard of you missing a shot.”

  “Listen, Jenny…” Hickok began.

  “How do you do it, lover?” asked the tall blonde.

  “He has natural talent, Sherry,” explained Shane. “He’s the best gunfighter in the history of the Family, maybe the best who ever lived.”

  Hickok, embarrassed by the praise from his number-one fan and star pupil, idly poked the toe of his left moccasin in the dirt. “Don’t measure your ability by mine,” he said quietly. “Everybody has some talent, something they can perform extremely well. It’s just a question of finding it.”

  “So what did we do wrong?” Jenny inquired.

  “You ladies were a mite too tense,” Hickok stated. “Relax. Practice every day until drawing and firing becomes as natural as breathing or loving.”

  Sherry winked at Jenny and leaned in closer to Hickok. “If you’re leaving it up to me, I’d much rather practice our loving.”

  The Family’s preeminent gunman actually blushed.

  Sherry and Jenny laughed.

  “Hey!” Shane broke in, annoyed the conversation was straying from the original subject. “What about me?”

  “What about you?” Hickok reiterated.

  “I didn’t miss,” the youth boasted. “All three of my shots were right on target.”

  “That’s right, pard,” Hickok concurred. He stepped over to Shane, nodding his head, his hands behind his back. “You did hit the can, didn’t you?”

  “Sure did,” Shane beamed.

  “Yep,” Hickok said, nodding one more time. His right hand swept upward and smacked Shane on the forehead.

  Shane recoiled in surprise, not really hurt. “What did you do that for?”

  he demanded.

  “It took you three shots to kill one little ol’ tin can!” Hickok rejoined.

  “That’s two shots too many.”

  “But all three hit…” Shane started to protest.

  “I don’t care if you had fired six shots into it,” Hickok said, cutting him off. “Then you would have wasted five shots. Why do you think I’m always advocating going for the head? For the same reason I believe it should be one shot per customer. If you hit someone anywhere else but in the head, then you risk being taken down yourself because your first shot wasn’t immediately fatal. By the same token, if you’re facing five enemies and you put three slugs into one of them, you’ve wasted two shots and given your opponents time to waste you.”

  Shane was staring thoughtfully at the tin can.

  “Remember our fire fight with the Moles?” Hickok reminded him.

  “Of course,” Shane admitted sheepishly.

  “There we were,” Hickok said, shaking his head and frowning, “surrounded by Moles,” outnumbered better than two to one, and when the shooting commenced you fired three shots into one of them. Just like you did with the can.”

  “But I wanted to be sure,” Shane objected.

  “Can’t fault you there,” Hickok conceded. He sighed and gazed up at the blue morning sky. “Shane, you want to become a Warrior. You asked me to sponsor you, and I reluctantly agreed. You’re young, and I don’t hold that against you because I was young once too, but you’re also inexperienced and that could be fatal. You must appreciate what being a Warrior really means.”

  “I do know what it means,” Shane commented.

  “Do you?” Hickok scrutinized his prodigy. “I think you see being a Warrior, serving as a protector of the Family and a defender of the Home, as an exciting adventure, providing a welcome break in the montony of daily living. You better wake up to something else real fast.” Hickok reached out and squeezed Shane’s left shoulder with his right hand.

  “When you’re a Warrior, you’re a killer. Plain and simple. When you get right down to it, it’s you or the other guy. Or beast. Or thing. Whatever, kill or be killed is the name of the game. You’d better become the best killer you can possibly be, or you won’t last long in our line of work. You’ve got to realize this, for your own sake.”

  Shane carefully considered Hickok’s sage advice.

  Sherry suddenly squealed in delight and clapped her hands. “Did you hear him?” she asked, glancing at Jenny. “Did you hear my hunk?”

  “That I did,” Jenny confirmed, grinning.

  “There is a brain somewhere between those ears, after all!” Sherry continued. “You see! I knew those rumors weren’t true.”

  “What rumors?” Hickok inquired, taking the bait.

  “That you have rocks for brains,” Sherry responded, giggling.

  “And where did you hear this rumor?” Hickok played along.

  “From Geronimo.”

  Hickok laughed, reflecting on one of his best friends in all the world.

  Where was that miserable Injun?

  “Where is Geronimo, anyway?” Shane questioned. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “He’s been gone almost two weeks,” Hickok said, concern etched on his rugged features. “Said he had to get away for a while. He wanted time to think over his experiences in Kalispell.”

  “I was there when he requested a temporary leave of absence from Plato,” Jenny chimed in. “I thought Plato was going to refuse the request, but instead he okayed it.”

  “I almost wish Plato hadn’t,” Hickok said wistfully, staring at the brick wall forty yards away, the twenty-foot-high wall completely surrounding the thirty-acre plot known as the Home.

  “Well, do we keep practicing or what?” Shane wanted to know.

  “We keep practicing,” Hickok answered, glad for the diversion, for a reason to suspend his worry about Geronimo. He moved off to one side and raised his arm again. “Are you ready?”

  All three nodded.

  “Good. Then when I count to three, we go again. Get set.”

  They didn’t appear as nevous this time around.

  “One…”

  Shane was even smiling.

  “Two…”

  “Is this a private party or can anyone join?” interjected a new, deep voice.

  Jenny spun, catching sight of the bronzed, muscular man with his
brawny hands on his hips, his black hair hanging over his forehead, and his gray eyes surveying the firing range. He wore a black leather vest, fatigue pants, and moccasins, but the singularly distinctive aspect of his attire were the twin Bowies hanging in scabbards on both hips.

  “Blade!” Jenny ran to her fiance and threw her arms around his neck.

  “There goes the lesson for today,” Hickok muttered.

  Blade kissed Jenny and they strolled toward the other three arm-in-arm.

  “Did you see that?” Sherry ribbed Hickok. “Some men don’t turn into a beet every time they display affection in public. It won’t kill you, you know.”

  “My personal life is none of anyone else’s business,” Hickok groused. “I reckon you’d prefer it if we stuck a bed outside one night and charged admission.”

  “Sounds like fun!” Sherry grinned. “I’m not ashamed of anything I do.”

  “Have you been to the library lately?” Hickok inquired.

  Sherry, mystified by the query, shook her head. “No. Why?”

  “The next time we’re there,” Hickok casually commented, “remind me to show you the meaning of the word ‘modesty’ in the dictionary. It promises to be one of the major revelations of your life.”

  Blade and Jenny reached them.

  “What’s going on here?” Blade demanded, eyeing Hickok.

  “Why are you looking at me?” Hickok asked innocently.

  “Because you have a natural knack for getting yourself into trouble,” Blade replied. “If something is going on here, I assume you’re the mastermind.”

  “That’s a bad habit, Blade,” Sherry mentioned.

  “What is?”

  “Assuming,” she told him.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Sherry inquired.

  “Heard what?” Blade responded impatiently.

  “When you assume something,” Sherry detailed, “you make an ass of you and me. Get it? Ass-you-me. Assume.”

  “I got it,” Blade assured her. “But no one has told me what’s going on here yet?”

  “It was my idea,” Jenny revealed.

  “Yours?” Blade stared at her, genuinely surprised. His beloved was one of the Family Healers, a woman devoted to easing pain in the service of her brothers and sisters. “Why would you want to take shooting lessons? Is it time for your annual certification?”

  Every Family member was required to take yearly firearms refresher and safety courses. If the Home were ever subjected to a full-scale assault, its preservation might well depend on the Family’s ability to wield its arsenal. The Warriors, naturally, practiced their deadly skills more frequently. Only a few of them, though, practiced as often as Hickok: every chance he got.

  “It’s not for my certification,” Jenny said to Blade. Her man was the leader of the Family Warriors, the man responsible for insuring the Home was guarded and secure at all times. She knew he partially blamed himself for the successful Troll attack some months ago.

  “Then why?” he gently pressed her.

  “I thought it might come in handy,” Jenny reasoned. “After the Troll fiasco in Fox, after the horrible loss of Angela, I realized I’m woefully incapable of defending myself. I want to be ready in case I ever find myself in a similar situation again.”

  “What about me?” Blade questioned. “You know I’d protect you with my dying breath.”

  “That’s just it!” Jenny said in an angry tone. “I can’t rely on you all the time.” She saw Blade move his mouth to object, and she quickly continued, cutting him short. “That’s not meant as an insult or anything! I know you love me, and I’ve seen what you will do to protect me. But let’s face facts. You’ve been gone from the Home a lot lately, what with running errands all over the countryside for Plato. What if I were attacked while you were gone? Who would save me? Hickok? He’s usually with you.

  Geronimo? The same. Rikki? He’s in charge of the Warriors in your absence and he has the entire Family to think about, not just me. No.” She paused, searching his eyes for understanding and support. “This isn’t a reflection on your ability as a Warrior. It simply means I realize we can’t be together one hundred percent of the time, and I must be prepared to protect myself during the times we’re apart. Are you upset with me?”

  “A little,” Blade confessed, miffed.

  “Because I’m learning to stand on my own two feet?”

  “No,” Blade replied.

  “What, then?”

  “Because you went to Hickok for lessons instead of coming to me,” Blade revealed.

  “Touchy! Touchy! Touchy!” Hickok cracked in a falsetto whine.

  “There are two reasons I went to Nathan first,” Jenny explained, using the original name bestowed on Hickok at birth by his parents, the one he had opted to change at his Naming.

  The Founder of the Home had instituted a special ceremony for each Family member’s sixteenth birthday, a practice designated the Naming.

  Each member selected the name he or she wanted to be known by for the rest of his or her earthly existence. Members were encouraged to pick a name from some period before the Third World War, possibly the name of a hero or heroine or anyone they admired. This way, the Founder hoped, the Family would be compelled to remain in touch with its historical antecedents. Without a solid education and a thorough comprehension of history, the Family might tend to forget the suicidal course mankind had pursued before the war. It might neglect to learn from the folly and stupidity of its ancestors. On his sixteenth birthday, Nathan had picked the name of the man he considered the greatest gunfighter who ever lived: James Butler Hickok. Sixteen-year-old Lone Elk had become Geronimo.

  Young Michael had opted for a name predicated on his affinity for bladed weapons.

  “What two reasons?” Blade said, prodding Jenny.

  “The first reason should be obvious,” Hickok said, interrupting, coming to Jenny’s defense. “I’m a better shot than you are.”

  “You’re definitely more modest,” Blade rejoined.

  “He’s right,” Jenny spoke up. “Hickok is the best shot in the Family, and I might as well learn from the best.” She reached out and tenderly stroked Blade’s right forearm. “You’re the best knife fighter, sure, but what good would it do me to learn knife fighting? It wouldn’t help me much if I was attacked by a mutate, would it? I need a weapon I can use at a distance, and guns have it over knives in that respect. So that’s one of the reasons I went to Nathan without consulting you.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “Actually,” Jenny said, grinning, “I was hoping to keep it as a surprise until your return from your next trip to the Twin Cities. I was planning to shock your shorts with my deadly prowess!”

  Blade smiled, recognizing the validity of her reasoning. If the affair with the Trolls had taught the Family anything, it was one paramount fact: complacency could be fatal.

  “You see my point?” Jenny asked.

  Blade nodded.

  “No hard feelings, pard?” Hickok inquired.

  “Why should there be?” Blade demanded. He looked at Sherry, eager to drop the topic. “What about you? You learning to protect yourself too?”

  “Nope,” Sherry responded. “I’m practicing to become a Warrior.”

  “What?” Blade and Hickok cried in unison.

  Blade glanced at Hickok, noting the gunman’s slack jaw and shocked expression. Sherry wasn’t a Family member; she’d been rescued by Hickok from the Trolls, and the two, rumor had it—although Hickok would not confirm the report—were an item. Did Sherry know. Blade wondered, about Hickok’s last love, a Warrior woman named Joan? Joan had been savagely killed in front of Hickok’s eyes, and Blade knew his friend still wasn’t fully recovered from that profound tragedy. How would Hickok react to this development?

  “Like hell you are!” the gunfighter snapped, answering Blade’s query.

  “What’s wrong?” Sherry demanded, perplexed by the hurt express
ion on Hickok’s face. “I thought you’d be proud of me if I could qualify to become a Warrior.”

  “You thought wrong,” Hickok growled.

  “Don’t the Elders allow women to become Warriors?” Sherry questioned him.

  “There have been a few,” Hickok stated, his features clouding.

  “Then why don’t you like the idea?” Sherry goaded him. “Is it because I’m not one of the Family? Is that it?”

  “No,” Hickok snapped.

  “Then what?” Sherry asked, confused. “You don’t think I’m good enough to qualify?”

  “That’s not it either,” Hickok said harshly.

  “Then what?” Sherry asked, annoyed, stamping her left foot in frustration.

  “Yeah,” Shane interjected. “What’s so wrong…” He stopped, startled when Hickok spun on him, the gunman’s visage contorted in rage.

  “When I want your opinion in a personal matter,” Hickok warned, his voice low and menacing, “I’ll ask for it.” He looked at Sherry a moment, muttered something about “damn contrary females” under his breath, whirled, and stalked off into the trees.

  “Whew!” Shane said, letting out his breath. “For a second there I thought he was going to draw on me.”

  “He’d never do that and you know it,” Blade stated.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Sherry inquired of no one in particular.

  “What did I say to get him so mad?”

  “You don’t know?” Jenny questioned.

  “Know what?” Sherry’s eyes were rimmed with tears.

  “You’d better come with me,” Jenny said, placing her left arm around Sherry’s shoulders. “We’re going to have a girl-to-girl talk.”

  “You know why he’s acting this way?” Sherry asked hopefully.

  “I’ve a pretty good idea,” Jenny confirmed. “Let’s go find a spot where we can be alone.” She blew a kiss at Blade and led Sherry from the firing range.