Puff guns? Hickok realized the man was referring to the Gild members’ favorite weapons, the Darters.
“Chester was all for being friendly,” Pax was saying. “He said we shouldn’t kill you before we found out what you wanted.”
“What happened?”
“You know damn well what happened!” Pax snapped, his face livid.
“You shot Chester and three of our brothers and drove us to the island!
You would have caught all of us, but you didn’t know we had canoes on the north shore.”
Hickok contemplated Pax’s disclosures. No wonder these people hated his guts! They believed he was part of the Gild, and the Gild had tried to wipe them out.
“We’ve been watching you on and off ever since,” Pax went on. “No one knows the Kingdom like we do. We can spy on you anytime. You ain’t such great shakes!”
“And I saw what you did to those three outsiders,” Tab mentioned. “I followed one of your scouting parties.”
“You never should have left the Kingdom,” Pax said reproachfully.
“I wanted to see what they were up to,” Tab explained. “They didn’t go very far. I think they were just looking around to see what was out there.”
He paused, frowning at Hickok. “I never did see no sense in why those three people were killed.”
“Don’t look at me,” Hickok said. “I’m not one of the Gild.”
“What’s the Gild?” Pax inquired.
“They’re the varmints who gunned down your kin,” Hickok said.
“And you ain’t one of them?” Pax asked skeptically.
“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you,” Hickok stressed.
“You expect us to believe you?” Pax retorted resentfully.
“I’m tellin’ the truth,” Hickok averred.
“Lies won’t save you,” Pax declared. “We’re going to pay you back for what you did to Chester and the others.”
“You’d kill an innocent man?” Hickok asked.
“Doesn’t matter to us whether you’re innocent or not,” Pax said.
“Why not?”
Pax grinned, exposing his discolored teeth. “Because we’re hungry.”
Chapter Twelve
“You shouldn’t leave the grounds, sir,” the lieutenant warned. “It could be dangerous out there.”
Boone gazed at the brick wall, his brown hair waving in a gust of wind, his brown eyes studying the red streak before him. “If Hickok went over, then I’m going over.”
The lieutenant in charge of the cleanup detail shook his head. “I can’t stop you, but I don’t think you’re doing the right thing.”
Boone stared at the corpse lying at the base of the wall. A pair of soldiers were wrapping their deceased comrade in a body bag.
“We don’t really know if the Warrior went over the wall,” the lieutenant noted.
“There’s nowhere else he could have gone,” Boone countered. “I know he’s not in the hotel, and I’ve searched the garden from one end to the other. Hickok isn’t on the grounds. He was after the hit man. If the trail of dead soldiers ends here, then the assassin went over the wall at this spot and Hickok followed him.”
“If you’re determined to see this through,” the lieutenant offered, “I can go with you.”
“Thanks, but no,” Boone said. “I can make a lot faster time by myself.
But you can do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Find Blade, the other Warrior,” Boone directed.
“The one with all the muscles?” the lieutenant queried.
“That’s him. Tell him where I’ve gone, and ask him to relay the news to Kilrane. He’ll understand.”
“Will do,” the lieutenant promised. He moved next to the wall and cupped his hands at his waist. “Can I give you a boost?”
“Thanks.” Boone placed his right moccasin in the officer’s hands and nodded.
The lieutenant heaved.
Boone sailed upward, easily gripping the top of the wall and sliding over to the far side. He landed upright, his hands on his 44 Magnums. He had to find Hickok, if only to redeem himself in his own eyes. If he hadn’t rushed headlong into the garden in pursuit of the Warrior and the assassin, if he’d only paid more attention to their tracks and less to keeping Hickok in sight, he wouldn’t have lost them. His stupidity bothered him, and he knew he wouldn’t live it down if the Warrior was killed.
The Cavalryman crouched and examined bootprints and moccasin tracks, both leading off to the northeast. Elated his hunch had been right, Boone rose and jogged across the field. He found an animal trail in the forest beyond and ran along the path until he reached an obstruction, a chain-link fence covered with plant growth.
Now which way? he wondered.
Boone spotted a hole in the vegetation and squatted to peer through it.
A flock of sparrows perched in a tree on the far side of the chain-link fence suddenly broke into flight, chirping wildly.
Boone stood, listening. A lifetime on the Dakota plains had taught him to recognize and react to the subtle signals nature provided. Something had spooked the sparrows, but what? He detected the pounding of feet coming from the other side of the fence, and he quickly moved to the right and ducked around a thick bush.
A moment later a head poked through the hole in the fence. A thin man in a soldier’s uniform crawled into view with an unusual rifle slung over his left shoulder.
Boone was on him while the man was still on his hands and knees, pressing the barrel of his right Hombre against the startled crawler’s left ear.
The man stiffened and gasped.
“Howdy,” Boone greeted him. “Who are you?”
“Leftwich,” the man blurted. “Private Leftwich. I was sent out to look for the guy who tried to kill the leaders earlier.”
“I don’t think so,” Boone said.
“Why don’t you believe me?” Leftwich asked in annoyance.
“For starters your rifle isn’t Free State Army issue,” Boone mentioned.
“I’ve never seen a gun like it. What is it?”
Leftwich clamped his thin lips together.
“Suit yourself,” Boone said, his right foot lashing forward.
Leftwich was struck in the ribs. He grunted and tumbled onto his right side, wheezing, clutching at his chest.
Boone leaned over the sickly-looking man. “One more time. What kind of rifle is that?”
“A Darter!” Leftwich replied breathlessly.
Boone reached out and tapped the oblong cylinder under the Darter’s barrel. “This is what was used on the soldiers in the garden, and somebody tried to kill me with one of these. What’s it shoot?”
“Explosive darts,” Leftwich revealed, grimacing in pain.
“You don’t say,” Boone commented. “How?”
Leftwich was rubbing his left side. “Compressed air. The Darters are accurate up to one hundred yards. Semiautomatic or full auto.”
“Do they explode on contact?” Boone inquired.
“They detonate on penetration of the target,” Leftwich detailed.
Boone straightened. “Slip your Darter to the ground.”
Leftwich slowly removed the sling and gingerly deposited the Darter on the grass.
Boone squatted, his right Hombre trained on the assassin, and lifted the Darter in his left hand. “I’ll hang onto this for you. Stand up.”
Leftwich complied, his eyes pinpoints of hatred.
“Where’s Hickok?” Boone asked.
“I don’t know any Hickok,” Leftwich answered.
“Suit yourself,” Boone said. He backed up several strides.
“I don’t know any Hickok!” Leftwich reiterated.
“Does your mom know she raised a chronic liar?” Boone commented.