But his aid wasn’t needed.
Yama’s incredible speed was equal to the occasion. He slammed the butt of the Wilkinson into the trooper’s head just as the soldier was bringing the M-16 into play.
The final Watcher bolted, tearing into the trees, bearing to the south.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi started in pursuit. He looked over his left shoulder and spied Teucer emerging from his vantage point. “You two mop up!” he ordered, then dove into the undergrowth on the trail of the last soldier.
More than likely the trooper was making for the jeeps. Rikki realized he must prevent the Watcher from escaping at all costs. If word of this ambush managed to reach Samuel II, the dictator might opt to launch a full-scale assault on the Home. The Family was well armed, and the Home adequately fortified, but there was no way the Family could fend off a determined attack by a vastly superior force.
From somewhere up ahead came the noisy sounds of someone crashing pell-mell through the forest.
Good.
It made his task easier.
Rikki focused on the snapping and crackling sounds generated by the Watcher’s passage. He judged the trooper to be about twenty yards in front of him, and slightly to his left. How far from the hillock would the soldiers have parked their jeeps? Not too distant, because they had to lug all that equipment. Yet not too close either, for fear the Family might hear the engines and come to investigate.
The Watcher abruptly altered direction and was now heading due west.
Rikki slowed, debating his next move. Was the soldier lost and uncertain of where they left the vehicles? Was he aware he was being chased and attempting to elude his pursuer? Or, even more likely, had the man fled south in his initial panic and was now compensating and correcting his escape path?
Whatever, the move placed the Watcher at a disadvantage.
Rikki accelerated, angling toward the southwest, running as rapidly as he could and as silently as possible. If he pushed himself, he might be able to outdistance the soldier and pounce on the Watcher unexpectedly from concealment.
The hillock was far behind them, at least half a mile, when the woods tapered into a large field.
Rikki stopped at the border of the field. What should he do? If he went into the open, the Watcher would spot him instantly. But if he stayed in the forest, the soldier would be…
The matter was abruptly rendered moot.
The Watcher burst from the tree line fifteen yards south of Rikki’s position, his youthful face caked with sweat and his green uniform in disarray. Without missing a beat, he continued his breakneck pace, his brown eyes alighting on the far side of the field, a satisfied smile creasing his features.
Rikki followed the trooper’s line of vision and promptly darted on his heels.
Four jeeps were parked on the other side of the field.
Rikki found himself at least twelve yards behind the soldier. He concentrated, pushing his muscles to the utmost, his legs flying.
The trooper either heard or sensed he was being followed, because he glanced over his left shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight of the black-garbed Warrior after him. His exertions intensified and he pulled slightly ahead.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was calculating probabilities. Fifty yards separated the Watcher from the jeeps. The soldier enjoyed a longer stride and his flight was fueled by the impetus of stark fear. It would be impossible for Rikki to overtake the trooper before he reached the vehicles. The Watcher might be able to start a jeep and drive away before Rikki reached him. Or the soldier might decide to try to get Rikki with the M-16. If the trooper reached the vehicle first, Rikki would have ten yards of open space, minimum, to cover before he could engage the Watcher. Plenty of time for a competent marksman to nail a moving target.
Rikki was compelled to try a long shot.
So to speak.
The Warrior slowed as he reached behind his back and unsnapped the flap on the leather pouch he carried attached to his black belt. His probing fingers closed on the object he required and he slipped the metal into his hand, cautiously avoiding lacerating his skin on the wicked points.
Convinced he was winning their race, the Watcher looked back again confidently.
Rikki was now fifteen yards behind the fleeing trooper with his mind centered on the soldier’s head.
Nine yards separated the Watcher from the nearest vehicle.
Rikki held his ace in the hole in his right hand, his katana in his left.
Seven yards.
The soldier was gripping his M-16 in both hands.
Five yards.
Rikki stopped and raised his right arm over his head, his elbow bent, his hand clasping one of the points.
Three yards.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi tensed his shoulders and arms, judging the trajectory and determining the angle for a perfect throw.
Two.
One.
The elated Watcher reached the first jeep and whirled, the M-16 up and ready, his finger tightening on the trigger, a self-satisfied look on his face.
Rikki threw, all the power of his steely frame unleashed along his right arm, his technique honed during hours and hours of practice. The sunlight glittered on the four-pointed shuriken as it sped from Rikki’s hand and flashed across the intervening space to penetrate the soldier’s forehead.
The Watcher’s eyes comically crossed as he endeavored to pinpoint the object buried in his forehead. His hold on the M-16 relaxed, his fingers going limp, and the weapon dropped to the ground. Feebly, the trooper tried to speak, to no avail. His mouth opened and closed several times, his body stiffened, and he toppled to the grass and lay there, quivering.
Rikki carefully approached the vehicles, surprised there wasn’t a guard posted.
Birds twittered and a squirrel chattered, the normal forest sounds, indicating all was well.
The jeeps displayed evidence of advanced age; some of the tires were bald, a few of the seat covers were ripped and in need of repair, one of the vehicles had a cracked windshield, and all four were filthy with dirt. Still, they would make a welcome addition to the Family’s sole means of mechanical transport, the SEAL.
Rikki searched the jeeps for their keys, but could find none. The Watchers undoubtedly carried the keys on their persons. It would be easy to check the bodies and find which ones had them.
The forest suddenly went deathly silent.
Rikki spun, his katana at the ready, scanning the vegetation. What was out there? A mutate? He waited and watched, his ears straining, alert for anything out of the ordinary.
Nothing.
The woods gradually filled with wildlife calls and cries again: birds in the trees, crickets in the grass, and somewhere to the south the croak of a frog.
Rikki decided to return to the hillock, but first he bent over the dead soldier and extracted his shuriken from the trooper’s forehead. He wiped his crimson fingers and the gory shuriken on the green grass at his feet.
Not a bad day’s work! Plato and Blade would be immensely pleased at the outcome of the conflict. From Lieutenant Putnam and the other captured Watcher, the Family might be able to learn considerable information concerning the Civilized Zone and Samuel II. Every tidbit of new data they could glean would be crucial. The more they could learn about their enemies, the better.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi slowly traversed the field and disappeared in the trees.
Mere moments later, two grotesque creatures stepped from the forest near the jeeps and glanced at one another.
“We should have finished him when we had the chance,” the taller of the creatures stated. It stood over seven feet in height and weighed over four hundred pounds. Except for a deerskin loincloth, the being was naked. Its skin was light blue and had a scaly aspect. Blazing red eyes peered at the world from under a sloping forehead. Its wild shock of hair and prominent eyebrows were colored black. A pointed nose and a cruel slit of a mouth completed the picture.
“Oh, sure,” the smaller of the duo retorted, its voice raspy and
low.
“And arouse their suspicions! Great idea, Ox!”
“Are you making fun of me, Ferret?” the giant demanded.
The second creature chuckled. This one only reached four feet in height and attained sixty pounds in weight. Brown hair, on the average about three inches long, covered its entire form. Like the first being, this one wore a loincloth. Its head was outsized for the body, its nose long and tapered, its beady eyes always shifting as it scanned the surrounding terrain. “I wouldn’t think of making fun of you, Ox,” Ferret replied.
“Well, you better not!” Ox threatened.
“Did you see the way he took Private Murray out?” Ferret said, changing the subject and nodding at the deceased soldier.
“These Warriors are very skilled,” Ox admitted.
“Which is precisely the reason we didn’t kill the Warrior with the sword,” Ferret explained. “The Doktor gave us explicit orders. If we fail to follow them to the letter we’re as good as dead. You know that!”
Ox visibly shuddered. “The Doktor! Ox forgot! We must do exactly what the Doktor says.”
Ferret reached up and touched the metal collar around his neck. A small indicator light was placed in the center of the collar. “We have no other option,” Ferret stated.
“We must be good!” Ox reiterated. “We must not make the Doktor mad!”
“We won’t,” Ferret promised. “We’ll surreptitiously enter their Home tonight and kill him as ordered. We’ll be in and out before they know what hit them!”
“Can I terminate?” Ox beseeched his companion. “You know how I love to snap their puny necks!”
“Be my guest,” Ferret said.
Ox walked over to the fallen Watcher, grasped the man’s left arm in his brawny right hand, and effortlessly tore the arm from its shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Ferret demanded.
Ox held the arm under his nose, sniffing at the torn flesh and the dripping blood. “Ox needs a snack.” He extended the arm toward Ferret, smiling. “How about you? Would you like a bite?”
“I’m not hungry,” Ferret replied.
“Suit yourself,” the giant shrugged. “But there’s nothing like fresh munchies.” Ox stripped the sleeve from the arm and hungrily tore a chunk of flesh off, exposing a row of wickedly pointed teeth. He greedily gulped the mouthful, grinning broadly.
“UmmmMmmm, good!”
Chapter Ten
There were ninety of them in all, camped on the plain to the southwest of the Dead Zone. Most of them were sound asleep at this late hour. A dozen were on guard duty, patrolling the perimeter. Others tended the many fires intended to discourage any aggressive animals, or worse, in the area. A few were gazing up at the star-filled sky in silent contemplation.
And two of the ninety were standing by themselves in the middle of the encampment, engaged in antagonistic conversation.
“I still say we should have headed back for Red-field,” one of them was saying. “We’re wasting our time staying here.”
“You’re not thinking of countermanding my order, are you?” asked the second man in a flat, vaguely menacing way.
“You know better, Rory,” replied the first man.
“Do I, Boone?” Rory rejoined. “Do I really?”
Boone sighed and stared at the heavens, his mind uneasy, his hands resting on the 44 Magnum Hombre single-action revolvers in matching holsters on both hips. He was a tall man, over six feet, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, attired in the typical frontier garb of the post-war plains: buck-skins. His shoulder-length brown hair was stirred by the night wind.
Rory was staring at Boone’s hands and the Magnums. He was shorter than Boone, a squat, muscular, powerhouse of a man with a blond crew cut and green eyes. His brown pants and shirt, tailor made by his wife, Adrian, could scarcely conceal his impressive bulk. He too wore twin guns, but in his case they were Star BM automatic pistols. “You two were good friends once, weren’t you?” he asked Boone.
Boone’s brown eyes narrowed as he faced Rory.
“I know it for a fact,” Rory continued. “Admit it.”
“What if we were?” Boone countered testily.
“No need to get all bent out of shape,” Rory said quickly. “I only mention it to show I can understand how you feel. I’d feel the same way if it was one of my friends.”
Boone turned his back on Rory and resumed gazing at the sky. “Yeah. Kilrane and I were real close before the split. So what?”
Rory’s hands drifted toward his automatics. For several seconds he wavered, debating whether to shoot Boone in the back and fabricate a pretext later. He no longer trusted his second in command, sensing Boone was unhappy with the status quo. Rory knew many of his men were tired of the rift and wanted the two sides to be together again. Well, that would never happen! Not as long as Rolf was alive! There was only room for one top dog, and Rory was determined the head man of the Cavalry would be him!
Boone still had his back to him.
Rory’s fingers clenched and unclenched mere inches from his pistols.
Boone posed a threat to his leadership. Of all the men in the Cavalry, Boone was the most universally respected. Rory was undoubtedly the most feared, but he recognized respect could conquer fear in the long run. If enough of his men wanted to unite the feuding factions, they might turn to Boone for guidance and direction.
Rory couldn’t allow that.
Should he do it now? No. Two reasons dissuaded him. Boone had many friends, and some of them might seek revenge if Boone were gunned down in the back. The second reason was even more persuasive; Boone was fast with those revolvers, real fast, with a reputation almost as widespread as Kilrane’s. At this range, Boone might be able to get off a few shots before Rory finished him.
Rory couldn’t take the chance.
“Are you sure it was him?” Boone suddenly inquired.
“No doubt about it,” Rory confirmed. “I saw him through my binoculars.”
“Do you think the dust storm got them?” Boone questioned, glancing toward the Dead Zone.
“Who knows?” Rory replied. “Just thank your lucky stars it missed us!
If all goes well, those things in the Dead Zone will take care of Kilrane and company.”
“So if you expect those monsters in the Dead Zone to do your dirty work for you,” Boone commented, facing Rory, “why are we sitting here? Why aren’t we heading for home?”
“Because I need to be sure!” Rory declared. “If any of the Legion patrol survive the Dead Zone, odds are they’ll come this way. We’ll canvass this section for a few more days, then head for Redfield if nothing develops.”
Rory paused, musing. “We were lucky one of our boys spotted them shortly after they entered our territory and reported the word to us. It isn’t very often we catch a Legion patrol in the act.”
“We were lucky,” Boone conceded halfheartedly.
“Can you imagine it?” Rory went on. “The look on Rolf’s face when he learns I’ve killed his pet executioner, Kilrane? My dear brother might have a heart attack!” Rory threw back his head and laughed.
Boone stared at the Cavalry leader, barely able to suppress his contempt. He mentally castigated himself for not going with Rolf and Kilrane a decade ago. Why hadn’t he? Because he’d never understood the cause of the breakup, and at the time it transpired he wasn’t aware of Rory’s true nature. But now he was. Now he recognized the man for the devious, spiteful, evil person he really was. What should he do about it?
Gun Rory down? Challenge him to a gunfight? Would the rest of the Cavalry understand? Not many knew Rory as he did.
What to do? What to do?
“Maybe my darling brother will attempt to avenge Kilrane.” Rory was gloating. “Maybe he’ll enter our territory to find me for Kilrane’s death.
Wouldn’t that be great! I’d have that bastard right where I want him!”
Boone thoughtfully bit his lower lip.
“And
after the Cavalry and the Legion are reunited, watch out!” Rory raved, his brow covered with sweat, his face flushed, and his eyes wide as he watched a nearby fire. “I have plans! Big plans! You’ll see!”
Yes, sir.
Something needed to be done about Rory, and the sooner, the better.
Boone walked away from Rory and melted into the night, contemplating the best answer to the question of the hour. Of the decade.
But what to do?
Chapter Eleven
“Geronimo? Can you hear me?”
Geronimo’s mind floated in limbo, suspended between consciousness and oblivion, awash in a sea of pain.
“Geronimo? You’ve got to hear me!”
Someone was shaking him and he wished they’d stop. His poor head was pounding like crazy, and his stomach was on the verge of disgorging its contents.
“His eyelids moved!” the someone said. “He’s alive!”
“Told you,” another party chimed in.
“Geronimo! Wake up!”
Geronimo opened his eyes, and for a moment he suffered the delusion they were still closed. Where was the sun? The moon? Any light, for that matter. The world was pitch black.
“Wake up!” a woman goaded him.
Geronimo managed to move his lips, the effort causing considerable torment, his mouth responding sluggishly and his lips apparently swollen.
“Where am I?”
“You’re awake!” the woman squealed in delight, hugging him.
Geronimo realized he was lying on a cool granular surface. His eyes were adjusting to the subdued lighting and he was able to distinguish Cynthia kneeling beside him, his head cradled in her lap. “What happened?” he croaked. His head was pounding and he focused his thoughts with supreme difficulty.
“You fell into one of the pits,” a man remarked pleasantly.
Geronimo turned his face to the right and spotted a dark form crouched six feet away. “Kilrane? Is that you?” he asked.
“None other,” Kilrane replied.
“I think it’s coming back to me,” Geronimo stated, sitting up. “The dust storm. All those holes. And I fell into one.” He swiveled and gripped Cynthia’s slim shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
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