He checked the Darter and found a safety located over the trigger. “Is this thing loaded?” he questioned while flicking the safety off.
Leftwich’s beady eyes widened. “Be careful with that!”
Boone aimed the Darter at the assassin’s head. “I think I’d like a demonstration.”
Leftwich glanced from the Darter to the Hombre. “I don’t know where Hickok is! Honest! He got away from us!”
“Us?”
“The Gild,” Leftwich disclosed.
“You’re going to take me to where you last saw Hickok,” Boone ordered.
“If I suspect you’re playing me for a fool, I’ll shoot you with your own gun.”
Leftwich scowled. “This just isn’t my day,” he muttered.
Boone holstered his right Magnum, gripping the Darter with both hands. “After you.” He indicated the hole in the fence with a sweep of the barrel. “Stay on your hands and knees when you get to the other side.
Don’t stand until I tell you to.”
Leftwich knelt next to the hole. “Who are you? Another Warrior?”
“No,” Boone replied.
“You look like one,” Leftwich said.
“Through the hole,” Boone stated. He crouched and watched Leftwich obey, then went through himself. “On your feet,” he commanded, rising.
“Now what?” Leftwich asked.
“I told you. Take me to where you last saw Hickok,” Boone directed.
Leftwich dejectedly started off.
Boone refrained from interrogating the phony soldier, concerned their voices might attract unwanted attention. The assassin could be questioned after Hickok was safe and sound. He followed Leftwich to a lake, then north along the shore. When they reached a large gray beast in a stand of trees, he halted. “What’s that?”
“An artificial elephant, you hick,” Leftwich responded.
“Wasn’t civilization grand?” Boone remarked. “Keep going.”
Leftwich headed toward tall structures to the northeast.
As he trod on the heals of the weasel of an assassin, Boone reflected on the chain of circumstances resulting in his presence in the Free State of California. Five years ago, before the Cavalry had made contact with the Family, prior to the Cavalry joining the Freedom Federation, his life had been much simpler. Boone had been raised on a ranch in central South Dakota, and he deeply missed those relatively carefree days spent as a young horseman on the plains. He enjoyed fond memories of his four brothers and three sisters, and he looked forward to seeing them again in June at the annual Boone reunion. They would swap tales about their experiences during the past year, and his brothers and sisters would undoubtedly pester him, as they had done the past five years, to hear about his exploits. They were undeniably proud of the degree of notoriety he had achieved as best friend and chief adviser to Kilrane, the Cavalry leader. Not to mention his fame as a pistoleer.
Boone disliked his fame and the consequences of having an exaggerated reputation. He sighed, thinking of the time four relatives of the previous Cavalry leader had attempted to bushwack Kilrane. Instead, the simpletons had caught Boone in their trap, and he had slain all four in a stand-up gunfight. That unfortunate incident had increased his celebrity tenfold, and Boone had resented every undeserved iota of attention. Killing someone was not his idea of a worthwhile accomplishment, not an act to be extolled to high heaven. He knew Hickok actually relished his renown, and he couldn’t comprehend how the Warrior could abide all those overstated stories and fawning idiots a man with a rep inevitably encountered.
Give him the bouncing rhythm of a sturdy stallion, the comfortable feel of a well-worn saddle, and a cool breeze on his face! He longed for the good old days, the days before the Cavalry joined the Federation, when there were less complications. As Kilrane’s right hand and personal bodyguard, Boone was entrusted with protecting his friend at all times, including the periodic extended trips to attend Federation Council meetings. Initially, when the Federation had first been formed, Boone had liked the traveling, the meeting of new people, and the making of new friends. But enough was enough! Five years of being at Kilrane’s beck and call, five years of living an unsettled existence, five years during which his own ranch had suffered from neglect and his relationships with the fairer sex had fizzled to zero had all taken their toll. He was eager for a prolonged rest, a chance to work on his spread and court one of the local ladies. And he promised himself he would bring the matter up with Kilrane at the first opportunity.
They were about a hundred yards from the buildings.
“That’s where I last saw Hickok,” Leftwich said, pointing at the second building from the right.
“In there?” Boone questioned skeptically.
“That’s right,” Leftwich maintained. “He attacked us, then took off. The last I saw him, he was going into the tunnels.”
“What are the tunnels?” Boone queried.
“There’s a whole network of them under those buildings,” Leftwich said.
“I don’t know who dug them. I only know they’re there.”
“He must be out of there by now,” Boone commented.
“Maybe not,” Leftwich said. “Those tunnels are a damn maze. It’s real easy to get lost down there.”
A maze? Boone thoughtfully gazed at the structures. He’d used the exact same word a short while ago to describe the gardens behind the hotel. Was it possible Leftwich was telling the truth, that Hickok was lost in an underground labyrinth?
“Do you want me to show you the spot where I last saw the Warrior?”
Leftwich asked.
“Not so fast,” Boone said. “I want to know how many Gild members are around here and where they are right this minute.”
“There’s two more here,” Leftwich lied. He waved his right hand to the east. “They’re off that way, over by the old plaza.”
There was movement on the top of the second building from the right.
Boone glanced up, hoping to find Hickok, but all he saw were a pair of pigeons flying from the roof.
“Do you want me to take you or not?” Leftwich inquired impatiently.
“Lead on,” Boone directed. “But there’d better be some sign Hickok was there. Tracks, anything.”
“I think you’ll be surprised at what you find,” Leftwich declared.
They slowly approached the second building.
Boone held the Darter in his left hand while his right rested on the corresponding Hombre. He didn’t trust Leftwich for a minute! He recognized the slim likelihood of Leftwich being honest, but he couldn’t afford to discount the murderer’s information on the off chance of finding Hickok.
Leftwich angled toward the open door in the middle of the west wall of the second building. “We go in there.”
“You go first,” Boone ordered. “And no funny stuff!”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Leftwich assured him, but as he turned toward the door he grinned maliciously.
Boone warily followed the assassin. If he was walking into a trap, he was going to be certain to use the Darter on Leftwich before they got him.
He briefly wished he’d undergone the extensive combat training Hickok, Blade, and the other Warriors had experienced. As was typical of the majority of Cavalrymen, he was a rugged individualist capable of surviving by relying on his wits and his strength, on his prowess at fisticuffs and his exceptional talent with his Hombres, but his actual combat experience had been limited to the war years ago between the Civilized Zone, then ruled by a dictator, and the other factions which later combined to form the Freedom Federation.
Leftwich reached the open door and glanced over his left shoulder.
“Stay close,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to lose you.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Boone said.