Yellowstone Run

CHAPTER FIVE

“There goes our ticket home,” Geronimo commented.

Blade gazed skyward at the Hurricane streaking to the east, a gleaming arrow in the azure sky, and hefted the Commando Arms Carbine in his left hand. “Pete will be back to pick us up at this exact spot in one week.”

“I just hope we can get the job done by then,” Hickok mentioned.

“These Bear critters might not be easy to track down.”

“Never fear, my fellow Warrior. We shall persevere and triumph because the Spirit is with us,” declared the handsomely proportioned man to their left in his resonant voice.

“Whatever you say, Achilles,” Hickok responded dryly.

Blade looked at the aspiring Warrior, hoping he had done the right thing in bringing the man along.

Before his Naming, before the formal ceremony all Family members went through at the age of 16 when they were permitted to pick whatever name they wanted as their very own—a ceremony instituted by the Founder in an effort to insure his descendants maintained a historical connection to their past—Achilles had been known as James Cooper. He’d chosen his new name because of his abiding passion for the works of Homer, particularly The Iliad, a work he had read from cover to cover 24 times, corresponding to once for every year of his life.

Achilles stood six feet in height and possessed a muscular physique. A golden halo of blond curls adorned his head, and eyes the color of turquoise regarded the world at large with frank fearlessness. In keeping with the Family tradition of encouraging every man and woman to wear whatever clothing they felt best expressed their individuality, Achilles had prevailed on the Weavers to construct a special one-piece garment for him, a knee-length black tunic girded at the waist by a brown leather belt six inches wide. He wore heavy sandals, except in the winter when he preferred moccasins. The item of his apparel that drew the most attention was his flowing red cloak, which fell almost to his ankles and billowed in the wind from the northwest.

Attached to Achilles’ belt on his right hip was the only knife in the huge Family armory that could justifiably rival Blade’s Bowies in size and craftsmanship. Forged in the rain forests of Brazil by native artisans and exported by the Brazilian government at a substantial profit in the decades before the war, such knives were known as Amazons. The Amazon Achilles carried had a 16-inch blade and gave the weapon the reach of a short sword. Its Stag Micarta handle was virtually unbreakable. In addition to the knife, Achilles carried a Mossberg Model 500 Bullpup, a futuristic slide-action shotgun. A leather ammunition pouch hung under his left arm, its thin strap slanted across his chest.

“So which way do we go from here?” Hickok asked.

Blade pointed to the northwest. Captain Lasto had deposited the five of them in a large clearing on the west side of the Absaroka Range, within several hundred yards of the Lamar River. Blade reached behind his back, checking that the extra magazines were properly attached to his belt, and headed out, cradling the Commando. Of all the machine guns in the armory, he liked the Commando the best.

Resembling the popular Thompsons used during the Roaring Twenties, the 45-caliber Commando sported a 90-shot magazine.

“I still don’t understand why we landed at this spot,” groused the fifth member of their team.

The giant glanced at the Flathead War Chief. “According to the information relayed to Star from the man whose family was abducted, the last confirmed attack took place at the north end of the Lamar Valley. If the Bear People are continuing to migrate to the southeast, as we suspect, then they will be heading this way. They might still be somewhere in this valley, and with any luck we’ll run into them somewhere between here and the spot where Eagle Feather saw them.

“You hope,” Iron Wolf said sullenly.

“If you have a better idea on how to intercept these creatures, I’m open to suggestions,” Blade remarked.

“Your reasoning makes sense,” Iron Wolf conceded, then stared suspiciously at the head Warrior. “Why did you want me to come along, anyway?”

“As I explained back at the Home, I decided that I didn’t have the right to usurp total control of the hunt for the Bear People. You were right. This should be a joint mission. And since you were the only Flathead around at the time, you were the logical choice to accompany us, Blade explained.

“Unless you would have rather we brought Star along.”

“No. Of course not.”

“Was Star planning to stay at the Home until we return?” Geronimo asked. His prized tomahawk was tucked under his belt on his left hip. In a shoulder holster under his right arm rode an Arminius .357 Magnum. He held an PNC Auto Rifle in his hands.

“No,” Blade responded. “Laslo is going to pick her up and fly her to Denver. She’ll consult with President Toland, and I have no doubt he’ll dispatch a military unit to assist us.”

“Toland is dependable,” Geronimo concurred.

“We shouldn’t be too hard for them to spot,” Hickok cracked while inspecting the lever on his Navy Arms Henry, a rifle in 44-40 caliber.

“Why’s that?” Geronimo asked.

“All they have to do is look for a walkin’ red tent,” the gunman said sarcastically.

Achilles looked at Hickok. “Do you mean me?”

“No, I mean Little Red Riding Hood.”

“Why must you always make fun of my cloak?”

“Have you taken a gander in a mirror lately?”

“I’ll have you know that red cloaks were worn by the bravest warriors in ancient Greece. The Spartans, for instance, wore their red cloaks proudly into battle. A red cloak is a symbol of courage and manliness,” Achilles said condescendingly.

“For one thing, this isn’t ancient Greece. For another, you look like a character from one of those comic books in the library,” Hickok replied.

“Captain Raspberry. That’s what we should call you.”

Geronimo laughed.

“At least I know how to coordinate a colorful wardrobe.” Achilles said stiffly, “Meanin’ what?”

“Meaning that Geronimo and you apparently believe drab attire is the best attire.”

Hickok glanced down at his buckskins. “There’s nothin’ drab about my clothes.”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately? No one with excellent taste could possibly view your crude clothes as aesthetically exciting, with the possible exception of a buck in heat.”

The gunman made a choking sound. “I think I’ve just been insulted.”

Geronimo chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “A buck in heat!” he repeated, beaming.

“As for you,” Achilles said to the Blackfoot, “you actually are a walking tent. Whenever someone looks at you, they experience an urge to go find their sleeping bag.”

Hickok cackled. “Sleeping bag!”

“Excuse me,” Blade said, halting and regarding the trio critically. “We are on a mission, in case you’ve forgotten. Let’s try to keep the noise down to a low uproar.”

“My apologies, Blade,” Achilles responded. “We were simply indulging in the basic rite of male bonding.”

“Male what?” Hickok asked.

“I think he said male bonding,” Geronimo stated.

“What does he think we are? Glue?”

“That’s enough,” Blade declared. “Not another word unless it’s in the line of duty.”

“I’m impressed,” Iron Wolf interjected.

“Oh?”

“Yes, indeed. The discipline instilled in your Warriors is truly remarkable,” Iron Wolf said, and smirked.

Blade rolled his eyes and continued in the direction of the river. The mission was off to a rousing start, as usual. Maybe Plato was right about him being a glutton for punishment. As if dealing with the Bear People wasn’t enough of a challenge, he had to keep his eyes on the Flathead War Chief and try to force Iron Wolf into revealing his true nature. At the same time he had to watch over Achilles and make certain the novice didn’t commit a grave mistake. He also hoped that once Hickok and Geronimo got to know Achilles better, they wouldn’t rate him as the pompous egotist he appeared to be.

Yes, sir.

Definitely should be a fun run.

Blade alertly scanned the vegetation on all sides, noting the presence of birds and small mammals such as squirrels and chipmunks. He spotted a large hawk high in the sky to the north. The setting seemed so tranquil, but he knew from hard experience how deceptive appearances could be.

He patted his left rear pocket, verifying the maps he’d brought along were still there. Yellowstone National Park had been the largest National Park in the United States, and the maps would undoubtedly come in handy.

He’d spent 15 minutes in the library before departing the Home and read about the Park in one of the encyclopedia volumes.

Occupying the northwest corner of Wyoming, Yellowstone had been the largest National Park, embracing over two million acres. Situated on a plateau 8.000 feet abovesea level, the Park had been famous for its geysers and hot springs. The Snowy Mountains were on the north, the Tetons on the south, the Gallatin range lay on the west, and the Absarokas were on the east. According to the encyclopedia, wildlife had been abundant because hunting had been prohibited. The scenic attractions also included sparkling lakes and rivers, steep gorges and canyons, and beautiful waterfalls.

Blade wondered how much the Park had changed during the past century. If man hadn’t intruded, he expected to find animals everywhere.

As far as he knew, only a few Flatheads and occasional visitors from the Civilized Zone ventured into the region. He hoped there were none in the Park now, not with the mysterious Bear People on the rampage.

A narrow game trail materialized directly ahead, leading down to the Lamar River.

Blade took the point, his finger on the Commando’s trigger, scrutinizing the undergrowth. He’d opted to travel light on this mission, and consequently none of them had brought backpacks. They would live off the land, hunting or fishing for their meals and erecting makeshift shelters at night.

The banks of the river were low and skirted in places with groves of cottonwood. Birds sang and flitted about in the trees. A fish leaped out of the water and splashed down again.

The Warrior smiled as he neared the river. He could readily understand the reason the Park had been so popular prior to the war. If Yellowstone wasn’t so far from Minnesota, he’d be tempted to bring Jenny and Gabe there for an outing. Thinking about his wife and son filled him with sadness. They had not been pleased at his sudden departure. Jenny had protested that she’d like to receive more notice when he went “gallivanting off to save the world.” Her tone had been laced with sarcasm.

Blade came to the bank and halted, peering at the different tracks in the soft earth along the water’s edge. The Lamar River was one of the clearest he had ever laid eyes on, broad but not deep. He could see the bottom and spied a school of fish swimming to the north.

“This Park is a virtual paradise,” Achilles commented.

“Because the whites have not poisoned it as they have so much of the earth,” Iron Wolf said. “Your people destroy everything they touch.”

“Don’t go blamin’ us for what our ancestors did,” Hickok stated.

“Why shouldn’t I?” the Flathead retorted. “It was your race who fought World War Three. It was your race that contaminated the environment and tainted the air we breathe and the water we drink.” He gestured angrily at the Lamar River. “Even this river could have radioactive particles resting on its bottom, polluting the water in subtle ways.”

“Boy, what a grump,” Hickok quipped. “A little thing like a nuclear holocaust, and you hold a grudge against the white race for life, huh?”

“I make no secret of the fact I’m not fond of you whites.”

“Good. Then you won’t take it personal if I tell you that you’re a first-class scuzz-bucket.”

“Not at all,” Iron Wolf said smugly.

Blade glanced at the Flathead, recalling Plato’s words about Iron Wolf possibly being a bigot. How had his mentor known? Blade would have sworn that the War Chief was a power monger, but perhaps he had been wrong. Time would tell.

“Do you despise all whites?” Achilles asked the Flathead.

Iron Wolf nodded. “None of you are worth the air you breathe.”

“Even a superb physical, mental, and spiritual specimen of manhood like myself?” Achilles asked in all seriousness.

Hickok slapped his left hand over his mouth and his shoulders began bouncing up and down.

“Especially a conceited fool such as you,” Iron Wolf told Achilles.

“Most irrational. You can hardly fault us for the mistakes of our forebears. That would be the same as blaming you for the death of George Armstrong Custer.”

“Ahhh. You know some history. Then you must know that Custer was typical of your race. He was a prejudiced moron.”

“I beg to differ,” Achilles said. “Custer was a competent soldier, nothing more or less. His loss at the Little Big Horn could be attributed to the fact that he had failed to cultivate his reasoning powers to their full potential.”

Iron Wolf blinked twice, then looked at Geronimo. “What did he say?”

“You’re asking me?” Geronimo responded. “The day I start to understand Achilles is the day they can pickle my brain for posterity.”

Blade suddenly straightened and motioned for silence. “Do you hear something?” he asked, listening to a faint rumble emanating from the north.

“I hear it,” Geronimo replied. “Whatever it is.”

They all turned in the direction of the sound, which grew rapidly louder and louder, a continual heavy drumming, arising on the far side of a low knoll less than 70 yards from their position. A billowing dust cloud swirled into the air behind the knoll.

“What the blazes?” Hickok exclaimed, perplexed.

“It sounds like a herd of stampeding horses,” Iron Wolf mentioned.

A tingle of recognition rippled through Blade and he took a stride toward the water, wondering if they could escape across the river. “No, not horses!” he cried.

And an instant later a tremendous horde of buffalo pounded over the crest of the knoll and made straight for them.