Yellowstone Run Page 3

  “Achilles will have to prove himself to me before I’ll agree to co-sponsor him,” Geronimo said.

  “There isn’t any way that peacock can prove himself to my liking,” Hickok added. “He thinks he knows the answer to everything.”

  Geronimo glanced at the gunman. “Just like someone else I know.”

  “Like who?”

  Blade cleared his throat. “What if Achilles could prove himself to your satisfaction? Would you vouch for him then?”

  “How’s he going to accomplish that miracle?” Geronimo quipped.

  “If he does my dirty laundry for a month, I might reconsider,” Hickok said.

  “I thought Sherry washes your dirty clothes,” Geronimo mentioned.

  “She does. But the way I figure it, the less time she has to spend doing laundry and such, the more time she has to spend cuddling with her favorite hunk.”

  Blade took a step toward them. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  The gunman shrugged. “Sure, pard. If you can figure a way for Achilles to prove himself to me, I’ll vouch for the yahoo.”

  “The what?” Geronimo asked.

  “A yahoo. If you had smarts like me, you’d know what the dickens a yahoo is.”

  “I know what a yo-yo is. I work with one every day.”

  “Quit callin’ Blade names. You know how touchy the big guy gets.”

  “Why do I bother,” Blade mumbled. He pivoted and headed for the enormous concrete blocks due south of their position.

  Kurt Carpenter had divided the compound into thirds. The eastern section was maintained in its natural state or devoted to agricultural pursuits. In the center of the Home, arranged in a row from north to south, were the log cabins for the married Family members. The western section contained six immense bunkers, each devoted to a specific purpose. They were aligned in a triangular formation. Farthest south stood A Block, the Family armory. One hundred yards to the northwest of the armory was B Block, the sleeping quarters for single members. C Block, another hundred yards to the northwest, served as the infirmary.

  Due east of C Block a hundred yards was the Family’s carpentry shop and general-purpose construction facility, D Block. Located at the northeast apex of the triangle sat E Block, the library Carpenter had personally stocked with hundreds of thousands of books. And finally, 100 yards to the southwest, was F Block, the building utilized by the Tillers for storing their farming equipment, and also for preparing and preserving food.

  “See what I mean about touchy?” Hickok said to Geronimo, and hurried after the giant. “Hey, pard. Wait for us.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because we’re your best buddies.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Blade said. “With buddies like you, who needs enemies?” He rested his hands on the hilts of his Bowies as he walked toward C Block, smiling and nodding at Family members he passed en route. The western third of the Home, particularly the wide track between the blocks, was where the Family congregated to socialize. Musicians sang or played their instruments, children laughed and played, and adults engaged in pleasant conversation. The weekly worship services were also conducted mere, and most Family meetings, when the weather permitted, were also held outdoors between the blocks.

  Hickok and Geronimo caught up with their friend, walking on his left.

  “What’s eatin’ you, pard?” the gunman inquired.

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t fool me. I know something is bothering you.”

  “Maybe I’m ticked off because no one seems to think I know what I’m doing,” Blade stated.

  “Who said that? I’ll personally shoot their toes off.”

  “You did.”

  Hickok almost tripped over his own feet. “I did? I never said no such thing.”

  “Neither of you believe Achilles would make a competent Warrior,” Blade pointed out.

  “So?”

  “So I do. And by disagreeing, you’re implying that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  The gunman and Geronimo exchanged glances.

  “You’re blowin’ this thing out of all proportion. Just because we disagree with you doesn’t mean we think you’re a cow chip.”

  “It’s the same thing, Nathan.”

  “It is not,” Hickok responded defensively.

  “Perhaps the real reason you’re upset is because everyone feels the same way we do,” Geronimo noted. “Maybe you’re just taking your frustration out on us.”

  “Yeah. Not nice,” Hickok declared.

  Blade looked at them. “Haven’t I done a fair job as the top Warrior?”

  “You’re the best Warrior the Family has had in its entire history,” Geronimo answered.

  “He can’t draw a six-shooter worth spit,” Hickok commented.

  “Well, if I’m halfway proficient, then why is everyone doubting my judgment when I say that Achilles will make a damn good Warrior?” Blade snapped.

  “It’s not that we have anything against you,” Hickok said. “It’s just that Achilles rubs practically everyone the wrong way.”

  “Yeah,” Geronimo agreed. “He’s too…” he began, then abruptly stopped and cocked his head.

  “What is it, pard?” Hickok inquired.

  Geronimo gazed to the west. “Don’t you hear it?”

  An instant later everyone in the compound heard the sound, a rumble resembling distant thunder. The rumble grew in volume dramatically, and in seconds became a deafening roar as a gleaming, silvery jet streaked over the Home, flashing past almost at treetop level, seeming to shake the very ground with the din from its passage. Banking to the north, the jet arced high into the sky and began to execute a wide loop.

  “It’s the Hurricane,” Geronimo said absently.

  “What the blazes is it doing here now?” Hickok asked. “I thought the regular courier run wasn’t until the day after tomorrow.”

  “That’s the schedule,” Blade said, watching the technological marvel swing toward the Home and thinking of all the times he had ridden in the aircraft.

  The Hurricane belonged to the Free State of California, an ally of the Family’s. Together they were but two of the seven factions comprising the Freedom Federation, an alliance formed when the leaders of the seven groups had signed a mutual self-defense treaty, resulting in a loose confederation of disparate members. California was one of the few states to retain its administrative integrity after the war, and due to the state’s abundant resources had been able to preserve a level of culture similar to the prewar society.

  Other members of the Federation included the Flathead Indians, who now controlled the former state of Montana, and the Cavalry, superb horsemen who ruled the Dakota Territory. There were also the Moles, inhabitants of an underground city located in north-central Minnesota, and a group known as the Clan. Refugees from the Twin Cities, the Clan had intentionally resettled in the small town of Halma in northwestern Minnesota, not far from the Home, so they could be close to the Family.

  The seventh Federation member was the Civilized Zone, an area embracing the former states of Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Oklahoma and part of Arizona and the northern half of Texas. The U.S. government had evacuated thousands of its citizens into the region during the war, and later, when the government collapsed, a dictator had seized power and renamed his dominion. Six years ago a descendant of the dictator had attempted to reclaim America as his own and been defeated, killed by Blade.

  “I wonder why the Hurricane is here early,” Geronimo said.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Blade responded, his lips compressing.

  A monthly courier service had been established, using the jets to carry correspondence and passengers from one Federation faction to the next.

  Because of the vast distances between them, the only means the Federation members had of keeping in regular contact was through the Hurricanes. The pilots normally stuck to their assigned schedules like clockwork, and wh
enever they deviated from their route there had to be an excellent reason.

  It usually meant trouble.

  Hickok glanced at the giant. “Maybe they need you to take the Force on a mission.

  “I hope not,” Blade said. “I’m not slated to return to California for another week and a half.”

  The Freedom Force—or simply the Force, as most referred to the unit—was an elite tactical team formed by the Federation leaders to deal with any and all threats to Federation security. Composed of a volunteer from each faction, the Force could be dispatched on a moment’s notice to any point on the continent. Blade had agreed to serve as the head of the Force, and he alternated his time between the Home and the Force headquarters near Los Angeles. Recently he had adjusted his schedule so that he spent two weeks out of each month at the Home and two in L.A.

  Eventually he hoped to reduce his Force workload to where he would only need to stay a week in California every month. He intensely disliked being away from his wife and son, and now, as he saw the Hurricane dropping in altitude, coming in for a landing, he clenched his brawny fists and scowled.

  This could only mean one thing.

  He was about to put his life on the line again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Hurricanes possessed vertical-takeoff-or-landing capability, enabling them to ascend or descend much like a helicopter. Instead of the traditional lengthy runway required by most planes, they needed only 80 square feet of space from which to take off or land. As the pilot neared the west side of the Home, he put the aircraft into the VTOL mode and hovered over the field bordering the brick wall. As a security precaution, the Family kept the ground cleared for 150 yards in all directions from the compound.

  An arrival of a Hurricane was always a fascinating event for the Family members. They flocked to the ramparts or streamed across the drawbridge situated in the center of the west wall, eager for a glimpse of the mighty jet, the only functional aircraft the majority of them had ever seen.

  Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo joined the crowd moving across the drawbridge, with the giant in the lead.

  “Hey, pard,” Hickok said. “If the Federation bigwigs have another assignment for you, why don’t you take us along instead of flyin’ all the way back to Los Angeles? Geronimo and I can use the exercise.”

  “Speak for yourself, ding-a-ling,” Geronimo retorted. “I’m not addicted to action like you are.”

  “Who says?”

  “Face facts. You can’t get by without your daily adrenaline rush.”

  The gunman snorted. “That’s not true and you know it.”

  “Well, excuse me. Your weekly adrenaline rush, then,” Geronimo amended, grinning.

  “I hope there isn’t another assignment,” Blade reiterated.

  “If there is, you can always take Achilles.” Geronimo joked.

  The idle suggestion prompted the giant to blink a few times, then smile.

  He threaded his way through the gathering throng, taking long strides, repeatedly saying, “Excuse me.”

  Its engines whining, the Hurricane slowly lowered to the turf 40 yards from the drawbridge, its nose pointed at .the Home.

  “Blade! Over here!” called out a friendly voice.

  The Warrior spotted the speaker, an elderly man with kindly blue eyes and a long gray beard who was wearing a brown shirt and faded jeans.

  “Plato,” he said in greeting, and walked over to the Leader of the Family.

  “Any idea why the Hurricane is here ahead of schedule?”

  “None whatsoever,” Plato replied, eyeing the aircraft. “This is most unusual.”

  Blade stared at the cockpit. The Hurricanes were designed to transport up to five passengers, and he could see two or three others seated behind the pilot.

  Moments later the engines were shut down. The canopy slid back and a familiar face smiled at the giant and waved. “Yo, Blade! How goes it?”

  “Fine, Pete,” Blade replied.

  “Captain Laslo seems to thoroughly enjoy his work,” Plato commented.

  “He does,” Blade confirmed. “The man loves to fly.”

  Laslo lowered a green rope ladder from the cockpit and climbed down.

  “I’ve brought some guests,” he announced, turning to the crowd and motioning upward.

  Two people appeared, a woman and a man, both Indians, both attired in finely crafted buckskins. They immediately began to clamber down.

  “Isn’t that Star?” Plato inquired in surprise.

  “It sure is,” Blade said, wondering what had brought the leader of the Flathead Indians to the Home again.

  Nineteen-year-old Star was following in her respected father’s footsteps. He had been the previous Chief, and he’d perished in battle while opposing the forces of the dictator who’d previously ruled the Civilized Zone. The rest of the Flatheads had been defeated and compelled to work as slaves until they were eventually freed by Blade. In large measure because of her tireless efforts to reunite her tribe and inspire her people, the Flatheads later selected Star to be their new leader. Despite her youth, she projected a stately bearing and exhibited a maturity far beyond her years. Lovely black hair hung all the way to her waist, swaying as she came down the ladder. She reached the grass, turned, and scrutinized the assembled Family members, her dark eyes settling on the giant Warrior and Plato. She beamed and hurried over to them.

  Blade smiled at her, his eyes straying to the other Flathead, a man in his mid-twenties whose features were a little too bard for Blade’s liking.

  The man had black hair down to his wide shoulders, and he packed a pistol in a holster on his right hip and carried an M-16 slung over his left shoulder.

  “Plato! Blade!” Star declared happily, walking up to the Family leader and giving Plato an affectionate hug before he had time to react. “Oh, I’ve missed you!”

  “And I’ve missed you, child,” Plato replied tenderly, embracing her gently.

  A hearty laugh issued from Star’s throat. “Child?” she repeated, and stepped back to take a good look at the man who had raised her for a while after the death of her father. “I don’t think I qualify as a child anymore.”

  “You’ll always be my little girl,” Plato said softly.

  Star glanced at the giant. “What do you think, Blade? Am I still a child?”

  The Warrior chuckled. “I refuse to answer on the grounds my wife might overhear and beat me to a pulp.”

  “I don’t mind answering,” Hickok interjected. “I think you’re a foxy momma.” He straightened and scanned the crowd, then added, even louder, “Of course, you’re not as foxy as my missus. No one is.”

  “Coward,” Geronimo muttered.

  “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” Plato asked.

  Star looked at Blade. “We need your help.”

  The Flathead bearing the M -16 had halted behind her and was regarding the Warriors rather coldly. Now he arrogantly stated, “No, we don’t.”

  Blade faced the Warrior. “And who might you be?”

  “I’m Iron Wolf, War Chief of the Flatheads,” the man declared proudly.

  “War Chief?” Blade gazed at Star. “I thought you were the Chief of the Flatheads?”

  “She is the Principal Chief, but I am War Chief,” Iron Wolf emphasized.

  The giant locked his eyes on the Flathead’s. “I wasn’t speaking to you.”

  Iron Wolf bristled, his mouth curling downward and his eyes narrowing. For a moment he appeared ready to hurl himself at the giant, but a quick movement on Blade’s left drew his attention to the gunfighter, the one called Hickok. The blond man stood with his hands on the pearl handles of his Pythons and a gleam in his blue eyes. Iron Wolf forced himself to relax, recalling the many stories he had heard about the man in the buckskins, and mustered a grin. “I didn’t mean to offend you. My people have selected me as their War Chief, and I must be true to their best interests.”

  Star pivoted. “And I don’t have their best inte
rests at heart?”

  “We don’t need these outsiders to help us,” Iron Wolf said.

  “These outsiders are our friends.”

  “Friends do not butt in where they are out wanted.”

  “I want them to help us, and so do most of the other leaders of our tribe,” Star remarked testily.

  “Which is why I have bowed to the will of my people,” Iron Wolf said humbly.

  Hickok snickered.

  “What is this all about?” Plato inquired. “Why are you here?”

  Star nodded toward the drawbridge. “Can we talk inside?”

  “Certainly,” Plato said, and took her hand. They walked off, Iron Wolf following, and Plato looked back at the giant. “Coming, Blade?”

  “Be right with you,” the Warrior replied.

  “I don’t trust that varmint,” Hickok said softly.

  “Nor do I,” Geronimo agreed.

  “So that makes it unanimous,” Blade stated. “Geronimo, I want you to take care of Peter. See if he’d like some food. Hickok and I will get to the bottom of this.”

  “Save a piece of Iron Wolf for me,” Geronimo said. He headed toward the pilot, who was busy inspecting the underside of the Hurricane.

  “Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Hickok asked Blade as they hastened after Plato and their visitors.

  “I think Star is in more trouble than she realizes. Did you notice the tone he used when he referred to the Flatheads as his people?”

  “I sure did.”

  “Star could have a power monger on her hands.”

  “She’s a bright gal. She must know he’s pond scum.”

  “Maybe. But I’ll have a talk with her the first chance I get.” Blade said.

  They caught up with Plato and the others in time to overhear Star addressing the Family Leader.

  “—held a council meeting of all the subchiefs and it was agreed that I should come see you. I persuaded Captain Laslo to fly us directly here instead of continuing on his normal rounds; He was supposed to fly to the Moles next, but he realized the importance of our mission once I explained everything to him.”