Chicago Run

CHAPTER SEVEN

“It would have been nice to sleep in a bed for a change,” Hickok remarked. “The ground gets real old after a while.”

Geronimo snorted and looked over his shoulder at the gunfighter.

“You’re becoming soft in your old age, Nathan.”

“Who you callin’ old, you mangy Injun,” Hickok said. “I’m only thirty, the same as the Big Guy and you.”

“True. But we look much younger, while your face bears a definite resemblance to a moldy prune.”

“Have you ever tried to breathe with a gun barrel shoved up your nose?”

Still looking back, Geronimo had opened his mouth to offer a witty rejoinder when he inadvertently bumped into something as hard as iron, forcing him to halt. He faced forward.

Blade’s gray eyes were narrowed in silent reproach and his brawny hands were on his hips. “Having fun?”

“What?” Geronimo blurted out.

“Are the two of you enjoying our little jaunt through the Outlands?” the giant said.

A sheepish grin curled Geronimo’s mouth. “Am I to understand that you’re ticked off at us again?”

“What do I have to be ticked off about?” Blade replied, and gestured at the forest bordering both sides of the narrow trail they were on. “Is it because you two morons insist on babbling like three-year-olds when we’re out in the middle of nowhere and your voices could draw wild animals or mutations like manure draws flies?”

“Your comparison leaves a little to be desired,” Geronimo protested.

“Yeah,” Hickok said. “Our voices don’t draw flies.”

“Will you shut up while we’re behind?” Geronimo asked.

Frowning, Blade wheeled and resumed their trek. “I can’t recall exactly when, but the two of you definitely lost it a while back. I think it was after our trip to Houston.”

“Lost what, pard?”

“Your sense of discipline. Belive it or not, at one time both of you were regarded as superbly disciplined Warriors.”

“We still are,” the gunfighter declared.

“Only in your dreams. Oh, sure, in a pinch you perform exceptionally well, and there’s no denying you’re two of the best Warriors in the Family, but you just don’t know when to clam up. And frankly, your nonstop chatter can get on a person’s nerves.”

“We don’t go overboard and you know it,” Geronimo said. “Why don’t you admit the real reason you’re so uptight.”

“Which is?”

“Yama.”

Blade stared at the ground, his wide shoulders slumping. In his heart he knew his friend had hit the proverbial nail on the head. Yama’s unauthorized desertion of duty had caused Blade many a sleepless night, had troubled him to the very depths of his soul. Initially he kept asking the same question over and over again: “How could you?”

In the 106-year history of the Warrior class, there had been few who’d betrayed their trust in any respect. Hickok’s own AWOL incident had been different, not as severe, because the gunfighter had gone to save a reckless youth from certain death and had left a note explaining his departure and promising to return. Everyone had known Hickok would leave, even the Elders who had cautioned him to remain at the Home. Everyone knew there was no stopping the gunman once he made up his mind about something.

Yama, however, had not bothered to leave a letter of explanation. He’d not told a living soul that he intended to depart. He’d simply failed to show up for guard duty when the Warrior Triad to which he belonged was scheduled for a shift.

The moment Blade had been informed of Yama’s absence, he’d known where the errant Warrior had gone. Technic City. He’d chided himself for not seeing it coming, for not taking Yama aside and discussing the torment that had been eating at the man’s insides ever since Alicia Farrow’s death.

Maybe I’m partly to blame, Blade reflected. As head Warrior it was his job to monitor the others, to be there when they needed him. The organizational structure of the Warrior class had been designed with simplicity in mind, allowing for an efficient chain of command and the ready detection of personal problems, so he couldn’t fault the system. The eighteen preeminent fighters were divided into six equal Triads; it couldn’t be any simpler. And although he didn’t work with other Triads on a daily basis except in a crisis, they attended briefings every morning when he was at the Home, and they frequently trained together under his supervision. He should have been sensitive to Yama’s turmoil and been there when the man needed him the most.

The way Blade saw it, he’d failed. In a way he was as much at fault for the stain on the Warrior’s record as Yama. Any honored position of leadership entailed certain obligations to those being led. A helping hand at a critical time was just one of them. He clenched his fists in annoyance at himself, and felt relieved when the gunfighter made a comment that curtailed his reverie.

“It’ll be dark soon, pard. How long before we make camp for the night?”

“Soft, soft, soft,” Geronimo muttered.

Blade gazed at the trail ahead. It stretched far into the distance on a southeasterly bearing. “As soon as we find a suitable spot,” he answered.

“Which one of us bags supper?” Hickok asked.

“I believe it’s your turn,” Blade noted.

“And try to do better than a few measly chipmunks this time,” Geronimo stated.

“I’ve never blown away sweet little chipmunks,” Hickok declared indignantly.

“Oh. That’s right. They were squirrels.”

For 20 more minutes they pressed onward, until the trail unexpectedly bisected a narrow paved road running from east to west. Dotted with potholes and lined with countless cracks, buckled in sections here and there, the road was typical of those found in the Outlands.

“We’ll camp here,” Blade announced.

Geronimo regarded the site critically. “Wouldn’t we be safer at a secluded spot in the forest?”

“We should be all right if we keep a big fire going,” Blade responded, and nodded at the sun dipping below the horizon. “Besides, we don’t have much time before dark. We’ll just have to make do.”

“I’ll get the wood,” Geronimo volunteered. He moved into the trees, picking up suitable fallen branches.

“And I’ll go fetch us some grub,” Hickok said, walking northward.

Blade watched them for a moment, then scoured the road in both directions. Nothing else moved. A stand of saplings to the left appealed to him; the trees would provide shelter from the winds that frequently arose at night, and give them a ready place to take cover should it become necessary. He walked over to the stand to set to work collecting leaves and twigs for use as kindling.

Geronimo returned bearing a load of limbs that he deposited with a loud crash. He went to go seek more, then paused. “There’s some kind of building off to the southwest.”

Looking around, Blade spied the vague outline of a two-story structure well back in the trees several hundred yards away. He wanted to kick himself for not spotting it first, and attributed his lack of alertness to his preoccupation with Yama.

“Want me to go see if it’s occupied?” Geronimo volunteered.

“We’ll check it out after Hickok gets back.”

They attended to setting up their camp. In short order Blade had a crackling fire going and he and Geronimo squatted on their haunches next to it. The dancing flames pushed back the gathering twilight and produced shadows that writhed all about them.

Looking into the woods, Geronimo frowned and asked, “What do you think is keeping that dummy? He doesn’t usually take this long.”

“I don’t know,” Blade answered thoughtfully. “There hasn’t even been a shot yet.”

The leaden minutes dragged past.

“Maybe I should go hunt for him,” Geronimo proposed.

“Worried?”

“About Hickok?” Geronimo rejoined, and snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m just hungry. Aren’t you?”

Grinning, Blade stood and unslung the Commando. “Let’s go find him together.”

Into the gloomy forest they went, treading softly, and traveled on a northerly heading for a quarter of a mile. The woods had become eerily quiet; not so much as a bird chirped or an insect buzzed.

“I don’t like this,” Geronimo whispered, his FNC leveled.

“Me neither,” Blade confessed, and cupped a hand to his mouth to shout as loud as he could. “Hickok! Where are you?”

Only the whispering breeze responded.

“Maybe the yo-yo got lost,” Geronimo said, and bent his head back to yell, “Hickok! Fire a shot if you hear us!”

No retort followed the request.

“We’ll go a little farther,” Blade proposed. He led the way, weaving among a sea of tree trunks and thickets, and eventually came to the base of a knoll. From the top they would have an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside, and with that in mind he ascended until he stood in a circular clearing at the very crest.

The sun had sunk from sight long ago. A full moon hung perched in the east and stars dotted the heavens. Their campfire was a small beacon in the night, steadily dwindling as the flames consumed the fuel.

“Hickok!” Blade bellowed several times without receiving a reply.

“Just between you and me, I’m getting worried.”

Geronimo said. “He’s got rocks for brains, but even he wouldn’t pull a stunt like this deliberately.”

Blade was inclined to agree. “Use your revolver and fire three shots into the ground.”

Nodding, Geronimo drew the Arminius, pointed the barrel straight down, and thumbed the hammer three times. The booming discharge seemed to echo out across the interminable forest.

Only silence ensued.

“We should separate,” Geronimo recommended. “We can cover more territory that way.”

“No,” Blade said. “We stay together. If something—or someone—did get him, we could be next.”

“But he might be wounded, unable to call out.”

“No,” Blade stressed, scanning the woods hopefully.

Geronimo’s anger surfaced in his words. “I never thought I’d live to see the day that you would desert another Warrior.”

“You’re overreacting. I’d never desert a Warrior and you know it. But we can’t go rushing off recklessly. Remember the rules we were taught,” Blade said, and quoted the Elder responsible for most of the training novice Warriors received. “In combat or any potentially life-threatening crisis, the person who loses his head is himself lost. It’s difficult to do, but when danger arises a Warrior must keep a cool head, must let calculated logic dictate his or her actions and not raw emotions.”

“I remember the teachings vividly,” Geronimo stated. “And the Elder mentioned there are exceptions to the rule.”

“Sure,” Blade agreed. “When you’re in a fight for your life against hopeless numbers, then going berserk might be your only option. Or when a loved one is in danger, quite often emotion wins out over the mind. But neither of those instances qualify here.”

Geronimo frowned. “I can’t believe we’re discussing elementary martial philosophy when our best friend might be lying at death’s door.”

“Don’t you think I want to find him?” Blade snapped. “But what good would it do us to wander around in the dark for hours on end? We’d never find his tracks now. Our best bet is to wait until morning and and set out at first light.”

“Logic tells me you’re right,” Geronimo conceded. “But my heart wants me to run through the woods screaming his name until I drop.”

Blade started down the knoll. “If it’s any consolation, I want to do the same thing.”

“Mind if I try one more time?”

“No,” Blade said, pausing. “Be my guest.”

The one time turned out to be a dozen as Geronimo rotated in different directions and shouted the gunman’s name over and over.

A mocking silence engulfed them.

“Let’s go,” Blade urged.

They were subdued on the return trip. Neither spoke until there were only a hundred yards to be covered and they could see the fire, which had not quite gone out.

“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this is Nathan’s idea of a practical joke,” Geronimo suggested. “Maybe he’s waiting for us now, laughing himself silly.”

“If he is he’ll be laughing out of a mouth that doesn’t have any teeth,” Blade pledged, partly in jest. He stared at the flames, hoping against hope Geronimo was right, but knowing in his soul that wasn’t the case.

Something suddenly ran in front of the fire from right to left, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

“Hold it,” Blade cautioned, crouching and training the Commando on their camp.

“What is it?” Geronimo whispered, imitating the giant’s actions.

“We’ve got company.”

Again the flickering flames were momentarily obscured by something dashing past the fire.

“I saw it,” Geronimo declared.

“Stay frosty,” Blade said, breaking into a run, swerving from side to side to minimize the target he presented in case the visitors were human and possessed guns. He realized he wasn’t swerving wide enough, though, seconds later when he heard a distinctive swishing noise and a long, thin shaft lanced out of the night into his right shoulder.