“We are a free people now,” Rainbow said. “And we will never let the whites control us again! If the army from the Citadel has taken my people prisoner, we shall find a way to free them. Did I ever tell you one of my favorite sayings?” she asked, grinning.
“No.” Geronimo was startled by the almost fanatical gleam in her eyes when she talked about the white race.
“Yes,” she giggled. “The only good white is a dead white.”
Geronimo, appalled, leaned against one of the tables. “You can’t be serious!”
“I most certainly am,” Rainbow affirmed.
“But not all whites are bad,” Geronimo objected. “I have close friends who are white…”
“So I noticed,” she said archly.
“But surely all of the Flatheads don’t feel the way you do?” Geronimo inquired.
“Of course they do,” Rainbow said with conviction.
“But your tribe took in that white man from the Citadel,” Geronimo reminded her. “The one who came to live with your people before you were born.”
“Him!” Rainbow snapped, sheer hatred twisting her lovely face. “I didn’t quite tell the whole truth there.” She smiled shyly. “I didn’t want to antagonize Blade.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wasn’t a fugitive.” Rainbow laughed. “He was part of a Citadel patrol we ambushed. We killed all of them, except for one. We took him to an old cabin and locked him in, but he escaped during the night. He was fleeing when he stumbled across some of our women bathing in a stream.”
She savagely pounded the nearest table. “There the bastard was, in our territory, unarmed, running for his life, and he still found the time to rape one of our maidens!”
Geronimo watched her tremble with the intensity of her emotions. He realized her aversion to the whites was all consuming.
“The irony of it all,” Rainbow was saying harshly, “was he raped one of my cousins. My own cousin!” She paused and her muscles hardened. “The fool should have kept going! Our warriors caught up with him and returned him to our meeting hall.”
“What did you do to him?” Geronimo questioned her.
“We tortured the son of a bitch!” Rainbow declared proudly. “We made him tell us everything we wanted to know about the Citadel, and then we peeled his skin from his body while he screamed and pleaded for mercy.
We castrated him,” she said with relish, “and forced him to eat his own genitals. Finally, we slit his throat.”
Geronimo was speechless with horror.
“Our warriors wrapped the body in a blanket and carried it far to the south,” Rainbow continued. “They deposited it in the middle of a heavily traveled road near the Citadel in the dead of night, leaving it as a warning.
That was my idea.” She beamed.
And this was the woman who wanted him to come live with her tribe?
Geronimo silently shook his head.
“Is something the matter?” Rainbow demanded.
“I had no idea,” he told her, “you were so bloodthirsty.”
“And I,” she said stiffly, “had no idea you were so weak.”
Geronimo went to speak, but thought better of it. Her hatred was too ingrained to be influenced by mere words. “I have found several pieces of equipment on the list. Would you give me a hand loading this stuff into the back of the SEAL?”
“Dropping the subject, eh?” she taunted him.
“For now,” he replied.
Working together in strained silence, they quickly loaded the microscope, the test tubes and vials, and other items into the transport.
On each trip from the laboratory Star would unlock the doors at their approach, wait while they deposited their burdens in the rear section of the SEAL, and relock the doors when they re-entered the hospital. On their final trip to the laboratory, as they were lifting a heavy machine designed to evaluate and diagnose hemoglobin properties, they heard a loud thump sound somewhere upstairs.
“What was that?” Rainbow nervously whispered.
“Don’t know,” Geronimo responded softly. “Don’t like it either. Let’s get this to the SEAL.”
They hastily loaded the last piece of equipment into the vehicle.
“I saw someone,” Star announced as Geronimo walked around to the driver’s side and prepared to climb up to the driver’s seat.
“What did you see?” Rainbow asked.
“Faces,” Star informed them. “At a window on the second floor. At least two or three.”
“Were they soldiers from the Citadel?” Rainbow questioned, glancing up at the windows.
“Couldn’t tell,” Star stated.
Geronimo hefted the FNC, debating his course of action.
Rainbow noticed his thoughtful expression. “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking!”
“Stay in the SEAL,” Geronimo ordered. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Why?” Rainbow demanded. “You have the stuff from the lab. Why risk going back in there?”
“Whoever is in there,” Geronimo reasoned, “may know something about Blade’s disappearance. I’ve got to find out.”
“But what if something happens to you?” Rainbow objected.
“Stay in the SEAL. Keep the doors locked. You’ll be safe inside the transport, and no one can see inside, remember. So wait for your chance and slip away. There may still be some of your tribe in the vicinity of Kalispell.” Geronimo detected the vague outlines of a face peering from a tinted second-floor window. The face withdrew a second later. “Find your tribesmen,” Geronimo advised. “There’s bound to be a few who escaped the Citadel army.”
“This is stupid!” Rainbow groused.
“Be careful, Geronimo,” Star urged him.
“Keep the doors locked.” Geronimo ran to the front entrance, paused to ensure mother and daughter were safely tucked inside the SEAL, and ducked into the ominous interior.
Chapter Eleven
“Hickok! Wake up!”
The urgent voice was besieging his pounding head, assaulting his sluggish, returning senses with a nagging insistency. “Hold the fort!” he said, his lips and tongue feeling thick and awkward. “Not so loud.”
“Wake up, damn you!”
The gunman slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on the ground, his head cradled in Sherry’s lap. The sun was high in the sky. “My aching head!” he muttered. What hit me? A two-ton meteorite?”
“Goldman,” Sherry answered, smiling. “Thank God you’re alive! I was beginning to think you’d never come around.”
“How long have I been out?” Hickok asked her.
“You were out almost a full day,” Sherry answered.
“What?” Hickok abruptly sat up and promptly regretted the motion as another searing pain lanced his head.
“He knocked you out yesterday afternoon,” Sherry explained, “about this same time.”
“Goldman did this to me?” Hickok gingerly rubbed a nasty bump on his right temple.
“Sure did,” Sherry confirmed. “He hit you, remember? And said he wanted to learn if you could do without breathing?”
“I vaguely recall it,” Hickok said, struggling to clarify his fuzzy memory.
“I couldn’t believe what you did next.” Sherry grinned. “Why did you do it?”
“What did I do?”
“You looked at him and said you could do as well without breathing as he was able to do without any brains,” Sherry replied.
“And that’s when he slugged me?” Hickok asked.
“Sure did. As hard as he possibly could. I thought you were dead,” she stated, concern reflected in her green eyes.
“This noggin of mine is as hard as granite,” Hickok boasted.
“Lucky for you,” Sherry mentioned. She reached out and gently stroked his injured temple. “It must hurt like crazy.”
“That’s an understatement,” Hickok muttered. “Looks like I owe Goldman,” he growled.
“First the Trolls, now Goldman.” Sherry frowned. “You’re real keen on revenge, aren’t you?”
Hickok simply nodded, flinching as he did so, squinting at her.
“Did you ever hear of forgive and forget?” Sherry asked him.
“I have a friend,” Hickok told her. “Name of Joshua. Old Josh is real big on the forgiveness stick. He’s always trying to convince me to forgive my enemies, to love them as I would have them love me. Nice ideal, but I wouldn’t be sitting here right now if I’d followed his advice. To answer your question, nope, I ain’t much for forgiveness. I prefer to do it to them before they do it to me, and if they do it to me first and leave me alive, I aim to ensure they never do it to anybody else again. Savvy?”
“What?”
“Do you understand?” Hickok inquired.
“Unfortunately, all too well,” Sherry responded.
Hickok opted to redirect their conversation. “Where the blazes are we, anyway?” For the first time he glanced around.
“We’re at the Mound,” Sherry informed him.
Hickok’s eyes widened in disbelief.
They were at the northern edge of a huge clearing, surrounded by a dozen Moles standing ten yards away. The clearing itself was several hundred yards in circumference and dominated by a massive structure in the center of the clearing, a gigantic mound.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Sherry queried him.
“Incredible,” Hickok acknowledged.
The Mound was at least seventy feet high and one hundred wide, constructed of a dark, heavy clay, packed into a tight, cohesive, sturdy dome. Windows dotted the outer surface, and entrance was gained through doorways imbedded in the base of the Mound at thirty foot intervals.
“How…?” Hickok began, glancing at Sherry.
“Silvester told me a little while you were out,” Sherry said. “The Moles have been working on this thing since the war. They get their clay from near the Upper Red Lake, about three miles south of here. Remember that man Silvester told us about, the one named Carter? Well, he started the whole thing when he came out here to escape the nuclear exchange.
Apparently, Carter and his followers didn’t have the material needed to build a genuine shelter, so they improvised by digging some tunnels and piling tons of dirt and clay on top of the tunnels for protection and insulation. The Moles have been expanding it ever since.”
“Speaking of Silvester,” Hickok said, glancing around, “where is our klutzy pard?”
“Goldman and Silvester went into the Mound this morning,” Sherry revealed. “Goldman said they were going to bring a man here to check us out.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“Beats me.” Sherry shrugged. She gazed at the Mound and pointed.
“Look! Here they come now.”
Hickok spotted them. There were a number of Moles, primarily women, outside the Mound. Some were tending to children, others hanging clothes on ropes tied between two poles, and still others idly engaged in animated discussion. Except for the presence of armed guards ringing the Mound, the scene was tranquil and pleasant.
Almost reminds me of the Home, Hickok mentally noted.
Goldman, Silvester, and another Mole were approaching, still one hundred yards distant.
“How did I get here?” Hickok asked Sherry.
“A pair of Moles carried you,” Sherry replied.
Carried? Had they found his backups? Hickok pretended to pat dust from his buckskins as he felt for the Mitchell’s Derringer under his right sleeve and the C.O.P. under his pants, above his left ankle. Both were still there. Thank the Spirit!
“You preening for Goldman?” Sherry asked innocently.
“Anyone ever tell you,” Hickok rejoined, “you have a warped sense of humor.”
“Just everybody.” She grinned.
“How did they carry me?” Hickok asked her.
“What?” Sherry seemed surprised by the question.
“I’m curious,” Hickok stated. “How?”
“One of them grabbed you by the armpits, the other by the knees, and they brought you here. Why?”
“Never mind.” Hickok kept his eyes on the trio heading their way.
“Listen up. We don’t have much time. If we get separated, I’ll come for you as soon as I can.”
“What can you do against so many?” Sherry asked doubtfully.
“You let me worry about that,” Hickok answered. “Just have faith. I’m going to get us out of this mess, and Shane too, if they haven’t killed him yet.”
“I have faith in you,” Sherry declared affectionately. “I’ll be waiting.”
Hickok smiled at her, noting the lovely contours of her features and admiring her strength and courage. She was some woman! If they managed to get out of this mess in one piece, he resolved to indulge in some heavy courting. His thoughts strayed to Bertha, awaiting his return to the Twin Cities, and he frowned. What in the blazes was he going to do about her? He knew she liked him; she flagrantly displayed her fondness for the whole world to see! But how did he feel about her? He cared for her, sure, but more as a close friend than a lover. Would Bertha understand if he became attached to Sherry? Knowing Bertha, she’d probably beat Sherry to a pulp.
“Is something the matter?” Sherry inquired.
“No. Why?”
“You look upset,” she said.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Hickok promised. Yep. The only way to confront Bertha would be with complete honesty. Lay all his cards on the table, and pray she understood.
“You never did tell me much about where you come from,” Sherry commented ruefully.
“Don’t worry,” Hickok said. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
“I will?” she asked hopefully.
“You can count on it,” Hickok vowed.
Sherry smiled. “That bump on the head has done you some good.”
“If he likes it so much,” someone sarcastically interjected, “I can put another one there, real easy.”
Hickok stood and turned, facing Goldman, Silvester, and the third Mole, a thin man dressed in clean clothes, a brown shirt, and blue pants and carrying a black-leather bag similar to the type used by the Family Healers.
“I’d like to see you try.” Hickok glared at Goldman.
Goldman took a menacing step forward. “Don’t think I wouldn’t love to cram this Winchester down your arrogant throat, but I have other orders.”
“Don’t let that stop you,” Hickok goaded him.
The skinny Mole walked up to Hickok and extended his right hand, smiling. “My name is Watson. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Hickok took the proffered hand and shook. “The name is Hickok.”
“I know.” Watson nodded. “Silvester told me about you and the charming lady you’re with.”
“You’re a bit out of place here, aren’t you?” Hickok commented.
“I don’t follow you,” Watson stated.
“You act almost human.”
Watson laughed. “Let’s just say I don’t necessarily appreciate the rougher element in our cloistered society.”
“You must read a lot,” Hickok reasoned.
“How did you know?”
“I’m psychic.”
“Really?” Watson took the claim seriously.
“No.”
Watson glanced at Sherry, uncertain whether to accept Hickok’s statements at face value. She was grinning from ear to ear. “I’m something of a physician,” he informed them. “I must check you over before you can enter the Mound.”
“How come?” Sherry inquired.
Watson placed his black bag on the ground and opened a worn flap.
“Some time ago,” he explained as he sorted the contents, “a prisoner entered the Mound and was sentenced to a tunnel crew. Unknown to us, he carried a new type of virus, a particularly deadly viral organism. We lost four dozen before the contagion stopped as mysteriously as it spread. Shortly thereafter, Wolfe de
cided all prisoners would be checked before they entered the Mound. That’s why I’m here.”
“Where did you learn to be a physician?” Sherry questioned, watching as he extracted a stethoscope.
“From my father,” Watson replied. “He taught me what he could. He learned from his father, a member of the original Carter group.”
“You any good?” Hickok bluntly demanded.
“I do my best,” Watson said. He fidgeted, hesitating.
“Get on with it!” Goldman ordered.
“I’m afraid,” Watson said, somewhat embarrassed, “you will need to remove your clothes.”
“What?” Hickok snapped.
“Right out here in the open?” Sherry asked. “You can’t be serious!”
“I am sorry,” Watson apologized.
“With all these men watching?” Sherry stressed her objection to the requirement.
“You’re not hiding anything I won’t see eventually,” Goldman declared.
“Strip.”
Hickok moved in front of Sherry, protectively placing his body between the Moles and his newfound romantic interest. “No way,” he said, looking directly at Goldman, challenging him.
Goldman aimed the Winchester at Hickok’s chest. “You’ll do as you’re told!”
“What about your orders?” Hickok defied him. “You think your boss is going to like it if you blow me away before he has a chance to interrogate us?”
Goldman paused, lowering the rifle. “Think you know everything, don’t you, smart ass? I was told you’re to be checked, and you will be whether you like it or not!” He nodded at the encircling guards and they began closing in.
Hickok tensed. What should he do? If they stripped, the Moles would find his hideouts and he would lose his edge. If he drew the Derringer, he might be able to catch them off guard, break free, and reach the nearby forest. But if they did escape, it would minimize their chances of rescuing Shane. He had only seconds to decide.
“I have a solution,” Watson proposed.
“Who cares?” Goldman snapped impatiently.
“Would you prefer it if I tell it to Wolfe?” Watson countered.
Goldman glanced at Watson, chewing on his lower lip, debating. “No,” he said finally. “You’re one of his favorites. He might become angry, and I wouldn’t want that.”
The Kalispell Run Page 10
