“Will do,” Zahner said and turned. He hurried off, Bear and Brother Timothy in tow.
Boone, his thumbs looped under his brown belt, strolled up to Spartacus. “Kilrane told me to put myself and my men at your disposal. What would you like us to do?”
“Can you have your men ready to leave before dark?” Spartacus inquired.
“We’re ready to go anytime,” Boone replied. “We’re Cavalry,” he added proudly.
“Good. I want you to get as close to the enemy convoy as you can. See if you can get a reliable count on their number, and find out if they have any artillery with them.”
Boone beamed. “Some action, at last! We’re on our way!” He ran off.
Spartacus heard a slight cough behind him and turned.
Plato was standing a few feet to his rear, his hands clasped behind his stooped back, smiling.
“What’s so funny?” Spartacus inquired, puzzled.
“Oh, nothing,” the Family Leader responded. “I’m merely happy to perceive the Family is in such capable hands.”
Spartacus glanced around to insure they were alone. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said softly, “but I’ve never been so nervous in my life!”
“That’s encouraging,” Plato stated.
“Encouraging?” Spartacus repeated. “Why?”
“It would be extremely unusual if you weren’t nervous,” Plato said.
“Being nervous at a time like this is normal. If you weren’t nervous, I’d begin to suspect something was wrong with you.”
Spartacus stared at the drawbridge, then scanned the rampart above it.
“I can hardly believe the Home is going to be attacked.”
“It is,” Plato declared. “Which reminds me. Where do you want the Family’s noncombatants?”
“I’d say B Block,” Spartacus answered, “but I think it’s too close to the west wall. How about putting them in the cabins in the middle of the compound?”
Plato nodded. “A commendable choice. Where do you want me?”
“In the cabins with the older men and women and the children.”
Plato’s eyebrows arched upward. “What?”
Spartacus cleared his throat. “In the cabins,” he repeated.
“I can still handle a firearm,” Plato said with a trace of indignation.
Spartacus walked up to Plato and gently placed his right hand on the Leader’s left shoulder. “I know you can. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.
But I can’t allow anything to happen to you. We really won’t need you on the walls.”
“I will not tolerate any special treatment,” Plato declared testily.
“Plato,” Spartacus said tenderly, “you are the heart and soul of our Family. The Family would go to pieces if you died—”
“Nonsense!” Plato snapped.
“I’m doing what I think best for the Family,” Spartacus told him. “Blade would do the same thing if he were here.”
“I won’t hide in the cabins!” Plato countered.
“I’m not asking you to hide,” Spartacus informed him. “Making sure the women and children remain as calm as possible is an important task.
You won’t be alone. Ten of the men will be assigned to defend the cabins to their dying breath. You will be in charge of them.”
“I will?”
“You will,” Spartacus affirmed.
“Well, in that case,” Plato reluctantly concurred.
“I’m going to be busy at the armory,” Spartacus mentioned. “Would you take care of getting the women and children to the cabins?”
“I would be delighted,” Plato said, and walked off.
Spartacus turned and surveyed the frantic activity taking place in the compound. Was there anything he had missed? Boone and the other Cavalrymen were preparing to depart on their reconnaissance patrol.
Plato was going to make sure all of the Family’s children and other noncombatants took shelter in the cabins. The Clan’s children, some of their women, and their few elderly would be somewhat secure in F Block.
So what did that leave him?
He could expect 220 fighters from the Clan, women and men. If he took 10 of the Family’s men and assigned them to protect the cabins, he was left with 55 men and women from the Family capable of manning the walls. Not counting the Warriors or the 21 Cavalrymen, he had 275 combatants at his disposal.
No!
Wait!
About ten of the Family’s members were too old. He would need to put them in the cabins, as he had told Plato he would.
Spartacus completed his mental calculations. If he had 265 fighters, and there were four walls to man, he could position 66 on each wall.
Only 66! Was that all?
Spartacus, like every member of the Family, had been raised in a deeply religious environment. The Founder, Kurt Carpenter, had advised his followers to cultivate an abiding spiritual faith in their offspring.
Carpenter maintained that a strong faith was essential for the development of noble character and wisdom. He instructed all parents to promote their children’s spiritual inclinations. Carpenter firmly prohibited the establishment of an official Family religion; each individual was free to select whatever theology he or she wanted. Consequently, it was with complete reverence and respect that Spartacus gazed skyward, trying to compose his racing thoughts and offer a heartfelt prayer to the Spirit.
But try as he might, there was only one plea he could think of.
One simple word.
Help!
Chapter Five
“What the blazes are we gonna do now?” the gunman demanded.
“You’re the one who wanted to come this way,” Geronimo retorted. “I said we should swing to the north, but nooooo! Mr. Know-It-All had to do it his way!”
Hickok pounded the dashboard in frustration. “How the heck was I supposed to know they’d be here! They could’ve gone another way, you know?”
“Oh, yeah? With all the trucks they’ve got? And a tank? Did you expect them to take a back road?”
The troop transport was parked on the shoulder of U.S. Highway 59, slightly over four miles south of Halma. The road ahead curved around a wooded section. Camped a quarter of a mile beyond was the Civilized Zone convoy.
Sitting on the seat between the two Warriors, his hands and feet bound and a cloth gag jammed into his mouth, was Mitchell.
Hickok glanced at the trooper. “We’re gonna have to leave you for a spell.” He opened the driver’s door. “No hard feelings about this?” He leaned over and groped under the seat for a moment. Smiling, he straightened, holding a rifle in his right hand.
Geronimo opened his door and dropped to the road.
“I hope you don’t have to tinkle anytime soon,” Hickok said to Mitchell.
He winked and jumped to the ground, closing the door behind him after he landed.
Geronimo walked around the front of the troop transport. “So what’s your great plan?”
“I don’t have one,” Hickok admitted, wiping a dirt smudge from the stock of his Navy Arms Henry Carbine.
Geronimo hefted his FNC Auto Rifle. “No plan, huh?”
“Nope.” Hickok grinned. “I’ll do what I always do.”
“Which is?”
“We’ll play it by ear,” Hickok said. “Trust me.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Geronimo stated.
Hickok walked to the back of the truck, Geronimo on his heels. The gunman drew aside the canvas flap and peered inside. “How’s everybody doin’?” he inquired.
There were three occupants of the rear section. One was a short man in his forties. He wore buckskins and carried a large brown-leather pouch.
He was balding, had puffy cheeks and an oval chin. His name was Morton, and he was a Cavalryman. He was also skilled in the healing arts, and his services were sorely needed because of the condition of the other two occupants; one of them, a lovely black woman, was in critical condition, while the second,
a man, was in serious condition.
“They’re still alive,” Morton said in a raspy voice.
Hickok climbed up onto the bed of the transport and walked to the woman. She was lying on a makeshift bed of blankets, her black hair cradled on a white pillow appropriated from the garrison in Catlow, Wyoming. Hickok knelt alongside her and tenderly touched her right cheek. “Bertha? It’s me, Hickok.”
“She can’t hear you,” Morton advised him.
Hickok frowned, his mind flashing back to the battle in Catlow. Bertha was a fighter from the Clan, and one of the dearest friends he had outside of the Family. She had fought valiantly against the Doktor in Catlow, and during the course of the conflict had taken three hits. The ones to her right thigh and the left side of her head weren’t life-threatening. Her third wound, though, was another story. Bertha had been shot in the left side of her chest.
“Why have we stopped?” Morton asked. “How soon before we reach this Home of yours?”
Hickok glanced at the Cavalryman. He was glad Kilrane, the Cavalry leader, had agreed to send Morton along. Bertha required skilled medical care, and Blade had ordered Hickok and Geronimo to transport her to the Home so the Family Healers could properly take care of her. “We stopped because we got some bad hombres up ahead,” he told Morton. “Don’t know how soon we’ll get to our Home.”
Someone groaned to Hickok’s right.
Hickok twisted.
Lying three feet from Bertha was a lean man with long brown hair and a lengthy beard. Like Bertha, he was swaddled in green Army blankets to keep his body temperature elevated. Unlike Bertha, his injuries weren’t due to gunshots. His name was Joshua, and he was recognized as the most spiritual member of the Family.
The Doktor had crucified him.
“How’s Josh doin’?” Hickok inquired.
“Joshua sustained severe wrist and ankle wounds,” Morton replied. “He has a high fever, but he’s in much better shape than Bertha is. We must get both of them to your Home as fast as we can.”
Hickok nodded in agreement and stood. “We’re workin’ on it. Geronimo and I gotta scout ahead. We left that soldier boy tied up in the cab. You might want to check on him now and then.”
“I will,” Morton said.
Hickok walked to the edge of the truck bed.
Evening was descending.
Geronimo had overheard Morton’s words. He studied Hickok’s face, striving to read his reaction. “Bertha will pull through,” he offered by way of encouragement.
“She’d better!” Hickok stated, his tone low and gravelly. He dropped to the ground. “Let’s go.”
The two Warriors crossed the highway and entered the woods beyond.
Geronimo was picturing their position in his mind. They were on U.S. Highway 59, south of Halma. Between them and Halma was the army convoy from the Civilized Zone. A mile north of Halma, the Family had cleared a direct path from Highway 59 to the Home, driving several troop transports back and forth to flatten any weeds or bushes while four men with axes walked ahead of the transports and chopped down all intervening trees. This had been accomplished immediately prior to the departure of the Freedom Federation’s invasion force.
How were they going to get past the Army convoy?
The sky progressively darkened as the two Warriors cautiously moved nearer to the enemy camp.
Hickok slowed as the vegetation ahead thinned out. The sounds of a large encampment filled the cool air: the subdued jumble of hundreds of voices participating in restrained conversations; the crackle of branches and logs burning in a dozen campfires; the clink of metal against metal as many of the troopers savored their evening meal, field rations consisting of baked beans and midget hot dogs; and dozens of other normal camp noises, the belching and burping and laughing which usually accompanied the congregation of so many people in one spot.
Geronimo stopped behind a tree trunk and glanced at the gunfighter.
Hickok was standing with his arms folded, studiously scrutinizing the camp.
“Should we risk getting any closer?” Geronimo asked in a whisper.
“We’ve got to get a heap closer than this,” Hickok replied.
“What does that pea-sized brain of yours have in mind?” Geronimo inquired.
Hickok glanced at Geronimo and grinned, his teeth, a white patch in the gloom of twilight, “Infiltratin’!” he said excitedly.
Geronimo walked over to his friend. “What?”
“You heard me,” Hickok declared. “We’ll do some infiltratin’!”
Geronimo stared at the camp for a bit, noting the brightness of the campfires, the number of the enemy, and the merits of Hickok’s idea.
There was only one logical reaction. “Are you nuts?” he demanded.
“It’ll be a piece of cake!” Hickok assured him.
“Sure it will,” Geronimo retorted.
“It will!” Hickok insisted. “We’ll tippy-toe in, mosey around for a spell, and see what we can learn about their plans.”
“I’d like to tippy-toe on your head,” Geronimo grumbled.
“If you don’t like the idea,” Hickok said stiffly, “just say so.”
“Do you want me to engrave it on your forehead?”
“So what’s the matter with my plan?” Hickok demanded.
“For starters,” Geronimo pointed out, “won’t we be just a little bit conspicuous walking around in these clothes?”
“I’ve already thought of that,” Hickok stated.
“You can think?”
Hickok started to move toward the camp. “If you don’t want to come, fine! I’ll go it by my lonesome.”
Geronimo prayed to the Great Spirit for guidance, and promptly caught up with the gunman. “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to be sorry about this?”
“SSSssshhh!” Hickok hissed.
Geronimo resisted an impulse to kick Hickok in the seat of his pants.
Somewhere to their left, in the dark depths of the forest, an owl hooted.
They reached the final row of trees before the camp. The outer perimeter of the encampment was only 15 yards from the woods. When it had come time to stop for the night, the convoy had simply braked to a halt in the middle of the road. The soldiers had pitched their tents around the trucks and other vehicles, serving as a buffer in case the convoy should be attacked. Guards had been posted at 20-yard intervals. A ring of alert soldiers completely encircled the encampment.
Hickok knelt on the turf, scratching his head.
Geronimo, sheltered behind a nearby tree, spotted a guard about ten yards to their right, slowly walking in their direction. Another sentry was the same distance to their left, drawing nearer. He shook his head, discouraged by the setup. There was no way they would be able to take out any of the guards without being seen by some of the soldiers in the camp.
Hickok must have reached the same conclusion. He was carefully backing away, his Henry at the ready.
Geronimo dropped to his hands and knees and crawled up to the gunman. “Any more bright ideas?” he whispered.
“Where there’s a will, pard,” Hickok quipped, “there’s a way. What say I amble to the right and you take the left? Scout around a bit. See if there’s a way in. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Before Geronimo could offer an objection, Hickok, bent over at the waist, jogged to the right and vanished in the undergrowth.
Just great!
Geronimo rose and moved to the left, treading cautiously, watching for limbs in his path or objects underfoot. The darkness made a silent passage all the more difficult. One snap of a twig might apprise the sentries of his position.
The owl wanted to know who was there.
Years of training and discipline, combined with his finely honed instincts and a lifetime spent in the wild, had sharpened Geronimo’s senses to the keenest possible level. He felt the breeze on his skin and detected the pungent scent of the pine trees and the rich earth. His ears distinguished the faintest rustling o
f branches overhead as nervous birds stirred at his passing. He was primed for anything out of the ordinary.
Consequently, he heard the muted voices long before he spotted the speakers.
Geronimo crouched and eased forward, avoiding protruding twigs and circumventing dry bushes.
What was this?
Two men were outside the camp, beyond even the sentries, standing near the forest. From their postures and gestures, it was evident they were arguing.
Odd.
Geronimo eased onto his stomach and inched ahead. A small pine provided an ideal place of concealment only two yards from the duo. He slid under the lowest branches and strained his ears.
“…called you out here because I don’t want the men to hear what I have to say. It wouldn’t be good for morale.”
“Screw morale!” snapped the second speaker.
Geronimo twisted to his left, risking a glance upward.
The first speaker was an officer, judging by the insignia on his green uniform. He was about six feet tall, his lean frame straight as an arrow, his brown hair cropped close to his head. His hands were on his narrow hips, his angular chin protruding in a defiant posture. “The morale of my men is important to me,” he coldly informed the second speaker.
The other man snickered. “The only thing important to me, and the only thing the Doktor will care about, is whether you do as you’re told and achieve our objective. We were told to destroy the Family, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“Don’t lecture me about my duty, Brutus!” the officer said harshly.
The second man stiffened. He was well over six feet in height, and even in the subdued light from the campfires his body emanated raw power and… something else. He was solidly built, his brown shirt and pants scarcely able to contain his rippling muscles. A sneer twisted his bestial features as he glared at the officer. His hair was black, his eyes smoldering pools of an indeterminate color. “I’ll lecture you, Captain Luther, whenever I feel like it!” he stated in a guttural growl.
Captain Luther wasn’t intimidated. “I’ll remind you for the last time, Brutus. The Doktor put me in charge of this mission, and I’ll thank you to stop giving orders to my men!”
Denver Run Page 5
