Dakota Run Read online

  “Rory raped Rolf’s woman?” Geronimo inquired.

  Kilrane nodded. “About ten years ago.”

  “Why didn’t Rolf kill Rory on the spot?” Geronimo prodded.

  “That’s what I would have done,” Kilrane stated harshly. “Hell, I offered to kill Rory for Rolf! Even promised to let the prick go for his gun first. But Rolf wouldn’t hear of it! He’s too damn decent for his own good.”

  “Rolf couldn’t bring himself to kill his own brother?” Geronimo asked.

  “You’ve got to understand how it was,” Kilrane explained. “Rory always was a troublemaker. It wasn’t so bad when their dad, Brent, was alive.

  Brent was able to keep Rory in line. But after Brent was shot in the back, Rory grew worse and worse. He resented having to share leadership of the Cavalry with Rolf. He caused trouble whenever he could. Rolf just took it all in stride, certain Rory would come around some day. Well, he was wrong! Rolf fell in love with a woman named Adrian. Rory decided he wanted her for himself. The son of a bitch raped her!”

  “What happened then?” Cynthia asked.

  Kilrane’s features clouded with the memories. “I was there when the three of them had it out. I was the only one there, and afterwards Rory made me promise never to tell any of the Cavalry what had happened.”

  “I’m not Cavalry,” Geronimo said. “You can tell me.” He sensed Kilrane wanted to tell someone, that it had been eating at his insides for a long, long time.

  Kilrane glanced around, insuring none of the patrol riders were close enough to overhear. The nearest was ten feet away.

  “Rory taunted Rolf,” Kilrane detailed, speaking in a low voice. “Dared him to go for his gun. Rolf wanted to. I could see it in his eyes. But Adrian intervened. You see, she didn’t tell Rolf right after the rape happened. No, she waited until she discovered she was pregnant with Rory’s child. She said she hadn’t told him because she didn’t want to cause trouble between them. She didn’t want their blood on her hands. Adrian is a sweet woman, you understand. The kind who wouldn’t kill a fly. But she’s missing a few marbles, if you ask me.” Kilrane paused, frowning. “Still, Rolf loves her, and he’s an honorable man. After Adrian pleaded with him to spare Rory’s life, he backed down. Never saw him do that before. He decided he was going to leave and made an announcement in front of everybody, although he didn’t tell them his reason. He’s well liked. A lot of the Cavalry went with him and formed the Legion.”

  “Cynthia told me a little about it,” Geronimo admitted. “What happened to Adrian? Did she go with Rolf?”

  Kilrane’s hands clenched and unclenched. “No! She said she loved Rolf too much to ask him to raise Rory’s child. So she stayed with the bastard! Can you imagine it! Now she has a ten-year-old son called Calhoun. He’s almost ten, anyway.”

  “And Rolf?” Geronimo queried him.

  Kilrane looked at Geronimo and shook his head. “Pitiful. Just pitiful. The man is a shadow of his former self. Oh, he looks the same on the outside, but he’s not half the man he used to be.”

  “And the brothers haven’t seen each other in a decade?” Geronimo questioned.

  “Nope.”

  “Who’s the oldest?” Geronimo casually inquired.

  “Neither,” Kilrane answered.

  “I don’t follow you,” Geronimo admitted.

  “Didn’t I tell you? They’re twins,” Kilrane explained.

  One of the other riders, a small man with a wisp of a moutache and a scruffy beard, wearing faded brown pants and a green shirt, rode closer to Kilrane.

  Geronimo remembered this one; he was carrying the Martin and had the Arminius and the tomahawk stuck through his belt. The man’s own Winchester was slung over his back.

  “What is it, Hamlin?” Kilrane demanded.

  “Aren’t we getting pretty close to the Dead Zone?” Hamlin asked, nervously glancing to the northwest.

  “We are,” Kilrane verified.

  The left corner of Hamlin’s mouth twisted downward. “Listen, don’t get me wrong,” he said to Kilrane. “I’m not questioning your judgment or anything, but aren’t we taking a big chance?”

  “I know we are,” Kilrane agreed. “But I figure the Cavalry patrols won’t come this close. We should be able to return to our own territory undetected.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Hamlin stated.

  “What’s the Dead Zone?” Geronimo interrupted.

  “You’ve never seen it?” Cynthia queried.

  Geronimo shook his head, shrugging at the same time.

  “Actually, there’s more than one,” Kilrane mentioned. “But this one is special.”

  “Why special?” Geronimo pressed him.

  “Dead Zones are areas devoid of life,” Cynthia said.

  “My Family calls them Hot Spots,” Geronimo revealed. “They were areas impacted by a nuclear weapon during the Big Blast. We haven’t entered any of them because we have no way of knowing what the level of radioactivity might be.”

  “Sounds like the same thing,” Cynthia confirmed.

  “But you still haven’t told me why this one Dead Zone is so unique,” Geronimo reminded them.

  It was Hamlin who responded. “This one has life in it, if the reports are true.”

  “What reports?” Geronimo quizzed them.

  “Only one person we know of ever returned from this Dead Zone,” Kilrane elaborated. “He told fantastic tales of bloodthirsty monsters before he died. That was years and years ago. Some curious types have ventured into the area in recent years, but not one of them ever came back.”

  “Can I ask about something else?” Geronimo inquired.

  “What is it?” Kilrane replied.

  “You can read, can’t you?”

  Kilrane’s surprise registered. “Yeah. My parents taught me. So what?”

  “I can read too,” Cynthia stated with a trace of pride. “My family owns a primer and a dozen other books.” She paused. “At least we did until this dimwit burned everything!” She whacked Kilrane on his right shoulder.

  Amazing behavior for a captive! Geronimo considered the information revealed during the course of their conversation. “How do the two sides feel about the conflict?” he questioned Kilrane.

  “They don’t much like it,” Kilrane answered. “They never did understand the real reason Rory and Rolf had their falling out. Most of them want the two factions to reunite. Whole families were divided by the breakup. Brother against brother. Cousin against cousin. Can you imagine what it’s been like?” He stopped, reflecting a moment. “Many of us feel the Cavalry will be whole again after Rolf or Rory die. Some of us have even been discussing how to accomplish it, if you get my meaning.”

  “I understand,” Geronimo said.

  “Hey,” Hamlin interjected, looking at Geromino. “Why’d you ask about the reading? I can’t read. What’s the big deal over a bunch of stupid books?”

  “My Family are readers,” Geronimo divulged. “I would imagine the citizens of the Civilized Zone can read too. But it’s not that way elsewhere. Reading and education are lost arts.”

  “So what’s the big deal?” Hamlin reiterated.

  “Readers are thinkers, Hamlin,” Geronimo told him.

  “So who needs to think?” Hamlin wanted to know.

  Their discussion was abruptly punctuated by the sharp retort of gunfire ahead.

  Kilrane reined in and the remainder of the patrol did likewise.

  The two point men were approaching at a gallop. Behind them rose a spreading dust cloud.

  “Three guesses what that is,” Hamlin remarked nervously.

  Geronimo knew what he meant, even before the point men arrived.

  “It’s a Cavalry unit!” one of the point riders shouted. “About three dozen.”

  “They took some shots at us,” the second point man yelled, “but they were too far off.”

  “We’ll head southeast,” Kilrane ordered. “Maybe we can swing around them.”

&nb
sp; The patrol wheeled.

  “Look!” someone cried. “There’s more of them!”

  Geronimo estimated another three or four dozen were fast approaching from the southeast. With the first group coming in from the west, Kilrane wasn’t left with many options. If he attempted to travel south, his patrol would be caught between the two larger Cavalry units. There was only one viable alternative.

  “We go north!” Kilrane directed, waving his right arm over his head.

  “We can’t!” Hamlin exclaimed, alarmed. “Look!”

  More Cavalry riders were coming at them from the north.

  “We’re boxed in!” a Legionnaire voiced the obvious.

  “No, we’re not!” Kilrane declared, and indicated the northwest.

  Many of the men exchanged anxious looks.

  “The Dead Zone,” Hamlin said in a subdued tone.

  “What if you just surrender?” Geronimo asked.

  “Rory would have us shot,” Kilrane replied. “No, there’s only one way out of this, and I’d bet they planned it this way.”

  “They’re trying to force you into the Dead Zone?”

  Kilrane nodded, his blue eyes glaring at the Cavalry riders. “What else? They outnumber us, sure, but why waste men and ammunition when they can let the Dead Zone do their dirty work for them?”

  “Maybe we could make a stand here?” Hamlin feebly suggested.

  Kilrane motioned with his arm and urged the Palomino forward, bearing northwest.

  After a moment’s hesitation, his men followed his example.

  Geronimo stayed alongside Kilrane, reluctant to allow Cynthia out of his sight. She was visibly pale, evidently quite frightened. Who could blame her? What was it Kilrane had said? Fantastic tales of bloodthirsty monsters?

  Great!

  Just great!

  The next time I want to be alone with my thoughts, Geronimo promised himself, I’ll simply dig a hole somewhere in the Home and meditate in it until I’m ready to come out again.

  Someone should have warned him.

  Introspection could be hazardous to your health!

  Maybe Hamlin had the right idea after all.

  Who needs to think?

  Chapter Six

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was concerned. The diminutive, wiry leader of Beta Triad counted eleven uniformed soldiers in front of him, meaning his Triad was outnumbered by almost four to one. Not the best of odds.

  Ultimately, though, the amount of their opponents was irrelevant. Orders were orders. There could be twenty-five soldiers and it wouldn’t negate their instructions. Blade’s directive had been explicit: “We can’t permit them to return to their headquarters with more information concerning the Family. Take them out. If possible, a prisoner or two would be nice. But beyond that, there must be no survivors. Understood?” All three members of Beta Triad had acknowledged their comprehension.

  Their moment of truth was upon them.

  Rikki was crouched behind a boulder on the western edge of the hillock.

  He wore his usual baggy black pants and shirt and ankle-high moccasins.

  His black hair and brown eyes matched the serious, intense expression on his angular face. Clutched in his left hand was a long black scabbard containing his prized katana, the only genuine Japanese sword the Family owned. It was his by virtue of his amazing skill in the martial arts, exactly as Hickok possessed the Colt Pythons and Blade his cherished Bowies; they were the best with those particular weapons. Every Warrior took lessons in unarmed combat, taught by an Elder, a former Warrior. These lessons were called simply Tegner, because the manuals of instruction were dozens of books written by a man named Bruce Tegner.

  Kurt Carpenter had placed every book Tegner ever wrote in the Family library: illustrated, step-by-step volumes on kung fu, savate, karate, jujitsu, judo, and other styles of martial combat. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was the Family’s premier martial artist.

  Rikki glanced to his left and spotted Teucer behind a tree, his compound bow in his hands, an arrow already notched on the string. A full quiver was attached to his belt and slanted across his right hip. His green pants and shirt provided perfect camouflage. A six-inch strip of leather secured his shoulder-length blond hair at the base of his neck, suspending his blond locks in a ponytail. His blond beard was trimmed so that it jutted forward on his chin, presenting a decidedly medieval appearance. As he had several times before, Rikki wondered why the bowman had selected the name Teucer instead of Robin Hood or William Tell at his Naming. It was probably for the same reason Rikki had picked his own name; Teucer was as ardent a fan of Homer as Rikki was of Kipling.

  The final member of Beta Triad was lying behind the fallen trunk of a former giant of the forest, off to Rikki’s right. Rikki could see his motionless, muscular form prone on the ground. Of all the Warriors in the Family, only one came anywhere close to matching Blade’s awesome physique and deadly ability with knives; of all the Warriors, just one could approximate Hickok’s incredible skill with handguns; and when it came to the martial arts, this same man was able to hold his own against Rikki and Seiko in competition. While not necessarily outstanding with any one weapon, or extremely exceptional in any lethal art, he was recognized as the best all-around Warrior the Family currently had, the one man capable of doing all things well. Rikki was grateful Plato had assigned him to Beta Triad. He just wished the man had chosen a more conventional name. Who in their right mind would want to be named after the Hindu god of death? And who else would have asked the Weavers to create a seamless dark-blue garment with the ebony silhouette of a skull on the back?

  Only Yama.

  There was another essential difference between Yama and the other Warriors. Although all of the Warriors were proficient in the use of various firearms and other weaponry, most evinced a predilection for a particular favorite: Blade, his Bowies; Hickok, his Pythons; Geronimo, his tomahawk; Teucer, his bow; and Rikki his katana. Yama displayed a small preference for a carved scimitar, but he tended to utilize a vast variety of arms, far more than any of the other Warriors. For this occasion he was armed to the proverbial teeth. He carried his scimitar in a sheath attached to his belt above his left hip. On his right hip was a fifteen-inch survival knife. In a shoulder holster under his right arm was a Browning Hi-Power 9 millimeter Automatic Pistol. Under his left arm he sported a Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum. Today he also had a Wilkinson “Terry” Carbine, converted to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths and adapted to hold a fifty-shot magazine instead of the standard thirty.

  Yes, sir, it definitely was wiser to have Yama on your side than against you.

  Rikki admired the discipline Yama exhibited. The man might be petrified for all the movement he showed. The only incongruity about him was his cropped silver hair and drooping silver moustache.

  Bright light suddenly flashed from the direction of the Home, arresting Rikki’s attention. He counted the times the light flicked out. One. Two.

  And the light was back. Now it was gone.

  So.

  It was time.

  Rikki studied the Civilized Zone troops in front of him, the men belonging to the Army of Samuel, the ones called the Watchers. They were busily engaged in erecting their monitoring equipment. Rikki was unsure of its function, but he knew that with it they were able to overhear Family conversations at great distances and to take photographs like the ones in the books in the Family library. There was a unit on a tripod, a large bowl-like affair with the convex end toward Rikki and a long metal stick pointed at the Home. A soldier was squatting beside this unit, headphones over his ears, adjusting the dials on a square metal case affixed to the base of the bowl. Another soldier was alongside the first, holding a pen and pad in his hands. Nearby two other soldiers were fiddling with what looked like a huge camera with a telescopic lens. Three more of the troopers were clustered around a portable radio placed on a flat rock. The rest of the troopers were idly standing around, relaxed, apparently not expecting any t
rouble. Why should they? According to Blade, the Watchers regularly engaged in this spying and had been doing so for years. They were unaware Blade knew about the clandestine operation; to them, this was simply business as usual.

  Yama had heard them approaching first. Within moments, Beta Triad had been hidden from view. Rikki, using a small mirror he carried in his right front pocket, had signaled the Home. The soldiers had congregated in this relatively barren section of the hillock. Beta Triad had assumed its positions, and Rikki had awaited the cue from Blade.

  Now, he had gotten it.

  “What’s the hold up?” one of the soldiers near the radio demanded, looking at the pair preparing the big dish.

  Rikki recalled Blade mentioning this thing. He’d heard about it in Montana and researched it after returning to the Home. What was it…

  “It’s a bit fuzzy, sir,” the soldier with the headphones replied. “There’s static from somewhere, distorting the microphone.”

  That was it! Rikki remembered. It was a parabolic microphone.

  “Clear it,” the first trooper commanded. He, evidently, was their officer.

  None of the others wore little gold bars pinned to their collars.

  The soldier responsible for handling the radio glanced up at the officer.

  “I have Colonel Jarvis on the other end, Lieutenant Putnam.”

  Lieutenant Putnam took the radio’s microphone from the operator and raised it to his lips. “Lieutenant Putnam reporting as ordered, sir.” He hastily donned a headphone set.

  Rikki, only twelve feet from the officer, clearly heard every word.

  “No, sir. No problems.”

  There was a pause while Putnam listened to Jarvis on the headset.

  “We’re just about set up now, sir.”

  Pause.

  “Twenty-four hours. Yes, sir.”

  Pause.

  “We have ample cassettes, sir. Anything in particular?”

  There was an extended wait while Colonel Jarvis dictated his instructions.

  “Yes, sir. Anything dealing with why Blade was in Montana shall be immediately brought to your attention. Likewise, any information pertaining to their efforts at reversing the senility.”