Thief River Falls Run

by David Robbins

  “Discipline goes all to hell.”

  “I’m sorry, sergeant,” Pete quickly apologized. “I really am. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I understand, kid,” Harry said. “We haven’t been back in a year. Good thing we’re due for relief real soon.”

  Pete had a thought. “Say, why didn’t we wait for a chance to sneak in and get the transmitter? We could have called for help.”

  Hickok’s interest perked up. “What the blazes was this? They talked like they were some sort of military men! Impossible! But why’d the bearded one call the other sergeant? Why weren’t they wearing uniforms, instead of jeans and shirts? What was this about a transmitter?”

  “Too risky,” Harry was saying. “I doubt they found the transmitter in its hiding place, but we’d still be taking too big a chance trying to sneak inside and get it. If we were caught, not only would we have failed in our assignment, but they would have one of our transmitters. They might just figure out what’s going on.”

  “Naw,” Pete disagreed. “No way. None of these creeps is that smart.”

  “Don’t underestimate them, Pete,” Harry advised. “Don’t ever underestimate them.”

  They walked in silence for a spell.

  Hickok, despite his extreme fatigue and discomfort, was racking his brain for an out. There had to be a way to escape! He had valuable information to get back to Blade. There was more to these Watchers than anyone had guessed.

  The stream curved ahead, the bend littered with small stones and pebbles lodged there by periodic heavy rainfall. To their right, a ragged ravine cut into the trees. The ravine was packed with growth and cluttered with large boulders.

  Hickok scanned the mouth of the ravine. If he could reach it and plunge into the dense undergrowth, he just might be able to follow the ravine to safety. But how should he make the break? There was only one way. He might end up with a bullet in his head, but he had no other choice. The longer they marched, the weaker he would become. He had to act now, while he still had some strength remaining.

  Pete rounded the curve.

  Hickok deliberately slowed, moving his feet at a shuffle, weaving.

  “How many times I gotta tell you?” Harry demanded. “Move your ass!”

  He used the stock of the Henry and jabbed Hickok between the shoulder blades.

  Hickok pretended to trip and fall to his knees.

  “Damn you!” Harry angrily roared. “Don’t give out on us now! We’ve still got a ways to go.”

  Pete had slowed and was looking back over his left shoulder. “Can we stop now?” he hopefully asked.

  “No!” Harry approached Hickok on his right side. “What the hell is the matter with you? Did that conk on the head do some internal damage?”

  Hickok sagged, refusing to answer. He needed Harry to move around in front of him, to place his stocky body between Pete and the ravine, to reduce Pete’s line of fire with that Springfield.

  Harry thumped Hickok on the right shoulder. “Get up, you son of a bitch, or I’ll finish you right now.”

  Hickok groaned.

  Pete had stopped twenty yards away. “Can’t you see he’s exhausted?”

  “He’ll be dead if he doesn’t move!”

  Hickok bent over at the waist, his head almost touching the water. He gathered his energy, his leg muscles tightening. Come on, blast you! Move around in front!

  “Okay, sucker. I warned you.” Harry stepped in front of Hickok and raised the Henry.

  “Wait!” Pete yelled.

  “Why?”

  “Won’t the shot carry for miles?”

  Harry nodded, understanding. His anger had nearly gotten the better of him. If he fired the rifle, the friends of this buckskin-clad fool might hear and come running.

  “I’ll make it quiet,” Harry promised. He lowered the Henry and reached for a large hunting knife held in a sheath on his left hip. “I’ll slice him from ear to ear.” He grinned.

  It was now or never!

  Hickok surged upward, ramming his right shoulder into Harry, knocking the man aside, his arms and legs flapping as he tried to recover his balance.

  “Harry!” Pete exclaimed. He jerked the Springfield to his shoulder, prepared to fire, but Harry was between him and the prisoner.

  Hickok darted into the ravine, head first, the underbrush grabbing at his body, barbed limbs tearing at his exposed face. He disappeared, the thicket closing behind him.

  “Son of a bitch!” Harry fumed, enraged. He had regained his footing as Hickok vanished, and brought the Henry up, too late to fire.

  “What do we do?” Pete ran back and joined his companion. “Let him get away?”

  “Like hell!” Harry spat into the water. “We kill him, that’s what we do.

  Don’t worry about the noise either. We’ll be long gone by the time any help could arrive.”

  “What then?”

  “You take the left bank,” Harry said, pointing at the sloping southern ridge of the ravine, “and I’ll take the right. We’re bound to find him. When you do, shoot to kill.”

  “Maybe we can catch him in a cross fire.”

  “Just so we catch him! Move!”

  Pete scrambled up the left ridge, fighting the thick vegetation every step of the way.

  Harry did likewise on the northern slope.

  Pete reached the top and crouched, his eyes probing for any sign. The brush below was quiet, undisturbed by human passage. Locating their captive would be difficult. He could hide in dozens of places, wait for them to pass him by, then backtrack to the stream and make his escape.

  Harry stopped at the top of the other ridge, getting his bearings. He could see Pete searching for the target. Where the hell was he? Harry moved along the ridge, avoiding the trees and boulders blocking his way.

  He skirted the thickest brush, always keeping to the ravine side, seeking his quarry. Those buckskins shouldn’t be too hard to spot, even with the growth as bad as it was. All it would take would be just one revealing shaft of sunlight.

  Ahead, a bird twittered. The call was answered by another bird on Pete’s ridge.

  Harry stepped carefully, minimizing his noise. He noticed three large boulders down in the ravine, arranged in a naturally shaped triangle, with a small space between them. A space big enough for a man? It would make excellent cover and ideal protection from shots fired from the ridges.

  If I were hiding down there, Harry told himself, that’s where I would go to ground. He stopped next to a tree and crouched, biding his time. Sooner or later that bastard would show himself.

  There was no sign of Pete.

  Harry shifted his weight from his left to his right leg. The left was beginning to cramp. He was sick and tired of this field duty! He wanted to get home, back to civilization, where he belonged.

  There was a soft scuffing sound behind him.

  Harry casually turned his head, not expecting any trouble, knowing the prisoner couldn’t possibly have climbed the walls of the ravine in his condition. So he was completely startled to see a man in green, with brown eyes and short black hair, standing four feet away, holding a hatchet or something similar over his head.

  “Pete!” Harry screamed, pivoting, bringing the Henry to bear.

  Geronimo, one of his tomahawks upraised, leaped, hitting the Watcher square in the chest, bowling him over, both of them tumbling down the ravine.

  Pete, on the opposite ridge, heard Harry’s warning shout. He ran as quickly as he could, trying to spot Harry. Damn it! Why had he let Harry get out of sight? He spied a commotion on the slope of the northern ridge.

  Harry was fighting another man! Pete hurried, hunting for an open spot, needing a clear shot if he was to come to Harry’s assistance. He found a level spot below a boulder and stopped, raising the Springfield to his shoulder. Come on, Harry! Give me a shot!

  Harry had lost his rifle. He was grappling with a man in green, the two rolling in the brush. Harry clutched his hunting knife in
his left hand, and his attacker held something resembling a hatchet in his right. Both men strained, trying to gain the advantage. Come on, Harry! “Drop the gun!”

  The voice came from behind and above him. Pete instinctively ducked and swung the Springfield, cursing his stupidity for not realizing there might be another attacker.

  This new menace was perched on top of the boulder, a muscular man with a large knife in his right hand.

  Pete got off a hasty shot, knowing he had missed, watching in horror as the man made an overhand motion. He caught the gleam of the streaking blade, and a shock struck his chest as it entered.

  “No!” Pete managed a croak, his limbs sagging as he gaped at the knife handle protruding from his chest. “It can’t be,” he added, losing his grip on the Springfield. It fell to the ground, and a moment later he followed it.

  Blade jumped from the boulder, landing beside his fallen foe. “You really should have dropped the gun,” he said.

  The struggle on the other slope was intensifying.

  Harry freed his knife hand and lunged, missing. He was lying on the bottom, with the other man’s right knee pressed into his stomach.

  “Drop the knife,” Geronimo ordered. Blade had said they should try to take one of these men alive, if at all possible.

  “Go to hell!” Harry hissed, swinging the knife again, missing again.

  Geronimo wrenched his right arm free and slashed the tomahawk straight down, the blade biting into Harry’s forehead, driving deep.

  Harry’s eyes widened, he gasped for air, his limbs thrashing, and he tried to rise.

  Geronimo stood and watched the Watcher’s death throes. “You can go to hell,” he stated as Harry died. “When I go, I’m going to the higher worlds of the Great Spirit.”

  “You all right?” Blade called from the other ridge.

  “Fine. How about you?”

  “Okay. Where do you think Hickok is?”

  “Right here.” Hickok was standing between three boulders in the ravine below. He seemed to be having difficulty staying on his feet.

  Blade and Geronimo moved toward Hickok.

  “You hurt?” Blade asked the gunman. He noticed Hickok’s hands were tied behind his back, his buckskins were streaked with dirt and grime, and his face appeared to be badly battered. There was a prominent wound above his right eyebrow.

  “I’m plumb tuckered out, pard,” Hickok said feebly as his two friends approached. He began to sway. “As far as being hurt is concerned.” He grinned weakly. “I’d have to say… the… answer… is yes.”

  Hickok’s eyes closed and he fell, bouncing off one of the boulders before he hit the ground.

  “Nathan!” Blade shouted, racing toward the boulders. Please, he prayed to the Spirit, please let him be alive!

  Chapter Eleven

  “Josh, wake up!” Bertha smacked his left arm. “You’ve been sleepin’ long enough.”

  Joshua raised his head and opened his eyes. “I’m not sleeping,” he informed her.

  “Then what’ve you been doing all this time?”

  “Praying.”

  “Say what?”

  “Praying. Don’t you know what praying is?”

  Bertha shook her head.

  “What kind of religion do you practice in the Twin Cities?” Joshua inquired.

  “Religion? Oh, you mean the God stick.”

  “The God stick?”

  “Yeah.” Bertha nervously scanned the trees for the hundredth time since Blade and Geronimo had gone after Hickok. “The Horns do something called the God stick. Never did understand it myself, but then I was born a Porn and I would of died a Porn if I hadn’t met Zahner and been convinced to switch to the Nomads.”

  Joshua, bewildered, pressed her for additional information. “Can you tell me anything about the God stick?”

  “Not much. It’s one of the big differences between the Horns and the Porns. Has something to do with magic, I think.”

  “Magic?”

  “Yeah. Some mumbo-jumbo about askin’ this God for things you want.

  Sounds crazy, right?”

  Joshua was trying to understand. “The Porns don’t believe in God?”

  Bertha studied him to be sure the question was in earnest. “Are you nuts? Of course they don’t. How can you believe in somethin’ you can’t see or touch or taste? That’s what this God bozo is, some kind of invisible thing. Imagine that!” She laughed.

  “How do the Nomads feel about God?”

  “The Nomads is made up of former Porns and Horns for the most part. Some of ’em believe in the God nonsense, the ones who used to be Horns. The Porns don’t, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Bertha fidgeted in her seat. They had climbed into the front seats after Blade departed. She glanced at Joshua. “What are you thinkin’ about?” she asked him.

  “What you just told me,” he replied. “I find it incredible that people could exist and not accept the reality of a Supreme Creator.”

  “What?”

  “I believe in God.”

  “You do?” Bertha showed her surprise.

  “Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, I was talking to God before you hit me on the arm.”

  Bertha appeared startled. She quickly looked around the interior of the SEAL. “You was talkin’ to God?”

  “Yes.”

  “God’s in here with us, right this minute?” She bent and peered under her bucket seat.

  “Of course.”

  Bertha sat up, grinning. “You’re jive-talkin’ me, right?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You’re puttin’ me on, Josh? Aren’t you?”

  “No. I’m completely serious.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bertha said slowly. “I can’t see no God in this thing. Where is it?”

  “Right here.” Joshua reached up with his right hand and touched his forehead.

  “What?” Bertha nearly screeched. “You tryin’ to tell old Bertha that God is you?”

  “No,” Joshua patiently answered. “I’m simply saying that God is inside of me.”

  “Don’t it get kind of crowded in there?” Bertha cackled.

  “You don’t believe me?” Joshua asked.

  “Do I look like an idiot?”

  Joshua smiled. “I’ll try to explain.”

  “Please do. I’ve been tryin’ to understand this God business for a long time.”

  “God is spirit,” Joshua began, and was promptly interrupted.

  “What’s spirit?” Bertha demanded. She placed her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her hands.

  “Spirit is a level of reality existing on a plane other than the material.”

  Bertha made a face. “Can’t you use a language we both can talk in? I don’t understand this at all.”

  Joshua sighed. He touched his leg. “This body is called material. It’s part of what’s called physical reality…”

  “Cute body too,” Bertha interjected. “Not as pretty as White Meat, but cute. You got skinny legs, though.”

  “How am I supposed to tell you about God,” Joshua wanted to know, “if you won’t let me finish a sentence?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Okay.”

  “I won’t break in again.”

  “Okay. Now…”

  “I promise.”

  Joshua shook his head, grinning, and rolled his eyes skyward.

  “You feelin’ sick?” Bertha asked.

  “No. Now can we finish our talk about God?”

  “You ain’t said nothing yet,” Bertha pointed out.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

  Joshua mentally counted to ten.

  “Any time,” Bertha said eagerly.

  “As I was saying,” Joshua continued, “our bodies are called material.

  We live in a physical, material world. Everything we see and touch and smell is part of this material world.”

  �
��I got that,” Bertha said proudly.

  “There is also another level of reality we can’t see or touch or smell. It’s called the spiritual level, or spiritual world.”

  “And where’s it at?”

  “Right here. All around us. But we can’t see it.”

  “Then how do we know it’s there?”

  “By feeling it in our lives.”

  “I just don’t get it,” Bertha snapped, annoyed at her own lack of comprehension. “How can we feel it if we can’t even see it?”

  “We feel it here.” Joshua touched his forehead again. “When we talk to God, who is spirit, we feel it inside our heads. We can actually feel the presence of God, and the more we talk to God, the more we feel the presence of God.”

  “Sometimes,” Bertha said hesitantly, “when I’m all by my lonesome, thinkin’, I do feel something in my head. Could it be God?”

  “You need to be talking directly to God to feel God.”

  “How do I talk to God?”

  “The same way you talk to me.”

  “Come again?”

  “You talk to God exactly the same way you talk to me,” Joshua explained. “Just remember God is inside your head. The Spirit dwells in every man and woman, every child, on this entire planet. You can talk to the Spirit, but first you must open the door to your mind.”

  Bertha frowned. “I’m tryin’, Josh, but I can’t say as I understand much of this. Z tried tellin’ me about God a couple of times, but it was no good then too.”

  “Zahner believes in God?” Joshua asked her.

  “Of course. Z used to be a Horn before he started the Nomads.”

  “Of course.”

  Bertha stretched. “All this talkin’ is hurtin’ my head. I think I’ll take a walk and clear the cobwebs.”

  “Wouldn’t it be safer to remain in the SEAL?” Joshua anxiously inquired.

  “Safer maybe,” Bertha admitted. “But I need some fresh air. Your friends have been gone a long time.” She opened her door.

  Joshua reached into the back of the SEAL and picked up the Smith and Wesson Pump shotgun. “Here. If you insist on going outside, the least you can do it take adequate protection.”

  Bertha happily took the gun. “Ain’t this a beaut!” she exclaimed, admiring the firearm. “I wish I’d of had one of these back in the Twins! I wouldn’t have worried about nothing.”