All of them moved off except Bertha.
“Something the matter?” Blade questioned her.
“Do you really think it’s gonna work?” she bluntly asked.
Blade shrugged. “It might.”
“We could all be killed, you know,” Bertha mentioned.
Blade didn’t answer.
“Why didn’t we use the SEAL today?” Bertha queried.
“We’re saving it for the Doktor,” Blade divulged.
“Figured as much.” She gazed around the square. “I must be as wacko as you boys are to go through with this! But there’s something I wanted you to know.”
“What’s that?”
Bertha fondly glanced at Hickok and Geronimo, then at Blade. “I couldn’t die in better company.”
“We’re all going to live through this,” Blade disputed her. “You’ll see.”
Bertha laughed cynically. “I ain’t much for fairy tales, so don’t try and jive me, sucker! Besides, I got me a… a feelin’ about this.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“I don’t know how to put it into words,” she said.
“Your intuition could be wrong,” Blade remarked. “I think we have a fair chance of coming out of this in one piece.”
Bertha started to leave, chuckling. “You just keep thinkin’, Blade! That’s what you’re good at!”
Blade walked toward the SEAL, troubled. Bertha’s intuition had better be wrong, because he didn’t relish the thought of dying in Catlow, a town he’d never heard of until a couple of weeks before when Yama had returned from his spying mission to Cheyenne with Lynx. After several long talks with Lynx, Plato had formulated his plan. He had picked Catlow because it was one of the northernmost towns in the Civilized Zone, had a relatively small garrison, and was close to South Dakota, the Cavalry’s stamping grounds. Speed was imperative, with Plato insisting they achieve their objectives before the heavy snows began. Well, the first step had been taken.
The next move was up to the Doktor.
Chapter Seven
Joshua reined in his horse and stared at the road only five feet in front of him. U.S. Highway 85. He had made it! He glanced in both directions; there was a hill to the north and a plain to the south. He turned the horse to the north and slowly followed the road. If his calculations were correct, he should be five to ten miles south of Catlow.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
His long brown hair blew in the wind as his brown eyes surveyed the surrounding terrain, a panorama of sparse vegetation and essentially flat fields punctuated by a periodic low hill, like the one in front of him. His lean frame was garbed in a green shirt and faded brown pants. Moccasins covered his feet. Hanging on a chain draped around his neck was a large gold cross.
Joshua patted the saddlebags. If he consumed his rations in moderation, the jerky and other food should last a week or longer. He had brought two canteens, more than enough for his purposes if he drank sparingly. Unless Blade and the rest ran into unexpected trouble, a week should be more than sufficient. He could only pray the Doktor arrived on schedule.
The Doktor.
Joshua couldn’t really pinpoint when the idea had first occurred to him, but he did know it was shortly after hearing Plato disclose the plans for eliminating the Doktor and conquering the Cheyenne Citadel. Several of the Warriors had been enjoying their supper near a roaring fire, and Joshua had joined them.
Hickok had been one of the Warriors.
As expected, the gunman had been in a jovial mood and eager to commence the campaign against the Doktor. Joshua had chided him for being so anxious to take more lives, to add to his growing reputation as one of the deadliest men alive. Hickok had indignantly retorted that his reputation had nothing to do with it. The gunfighter had sworn that the only way to deal with someone like the Doktor was to kill him. Joshua had then disagreed, claiming the power of love could be as effective as a bullet.
The Warriors had burst out laughing.
Joshua smarted at the recollection. It wasn’t the ridicule, primarily. It was the ongoing dispute between Hickok and himself over which way was better: the gun or spiritual love. Ever since his trip with Alpha Triad to Thief River Falls, Joshua had been arguing with Hickok over the gunman’s predilection for shooting first and asking questions later. As one of the Family’s more spiritual members and its youngest Empath, Joshua fervently believed that all men and women should be treated as brothers and sisters. If you extended your hand in friendship to others, he reasoned, they would reciprocate in kind.
It was one of the fundamental laws of spiritual relationships. Love others as you would have them love you. Better yet, love others as you believe the Supreme would love them.
Joshua frowned at the memory of his experiences on several of the runs made by Alpha Triad. All of the killing, all of the slaughter, had rocked him to the core of his soul. After a while, he had become desensitized to the violence, and had even begun accepting Hickok’s philosophy as valid.
But it couldn’t be!
If the gunfighter were correct, it rendered all of Joshua’s heartfelt truths invalid.
Joshua refused to accept such an idea.
So, in a stroke of inspiration, he had hidden aboard one of the convoy trucks leaving the Home, then mixed in with the Moles, and later the Cavalry, as they had trekked across the country on their rendezvous with destiny. He doubted the Cavalry would miss the horse he’d stolen; they owned thousands. Which meant no one, absolutely no one, knew his whereabouts or his intention.
Jushua smiled, satisfied at the impending completion of his task. He was going to wait at the base of the hill ahead and, when the Doktor appeared enroute to Catlow, intercept the Doktor’s forces and prevail upon the Doktor to accept a treaty of peace.
He could do it!
He had done it once before, in the Twin Cities. He had been responsible for achieving a truce between the warring parties there. If he could do it in the Twin Cities, he could do it now—between the Family and the Doktor.
He would show everyone!
But especially Hickok! He liked the gunman. He truly did. But Hickok had to be shown the truth. Love was the greatest power in the universe of universes, not a pair of Colt Pythons.
Joshua began humming “Day By Day,” one of his personal favorites from the extensive music section in the Family library. The Spirit was smiling on his enterprise. Not once during his entire time in the saddle had he been molested by a mutate or an animal. It was all coming together, just as he knew it would.
Chapter Eight
It seemed as if a sea of faces were staring up at him.
“Is that all of them?” Blade demanded.
“All we could find,” Geronimo replied.
Blade, perched on the top of the SEAL, glanced down at the 340 or so people thronging the town square. The SEAL was parked in front of the command post.
Bertha, Rudabaugh, and Orson had spent several hours lugging the bodies of the slain soldiers to a house two blocks from the square. A dozen of Catlow’s residents had assisted in conveying the injured to a house on the northern outskirts. Hickok and Geronimo had gone from house to house, rounding up the inhabitants. Owning a firearm was illegal for civilians in the Civilized Zone, and since the military had long since confiscated all privately owned weapons, resistance had been nonexistent.
And now, after having climbed the metal ladder attached to the rear of the transport to permit access to the solar collectors on the roof, Blade was prepared to address the assembled citizens. Hickok, Geronimo, Bertha, Lynx, Rudabaugh, and Orson stood near the SEAL, their respective weapons at the ready. Lynx was there too, but he disdained guns and relied exclusively on his pointed claws.