Orson glared at the gunman. “You don’t scare me, Hickok! Oh, sure, I’ve heard all about you. How you’re supposed to be the fastest man alive with those Colts. But you don’t scare me! Personally, I think you’re a lot of hot air!”
Before Hickok could respond, or Blade could intervene, a quiet, high-pitched voice interrupted them. “What about me, chuckles? Do you think I’m a lot of hot air too?”
Orson glanced at the speaker, and the faintest flicker of fear was visible in his face. “No, Lynx. I never included you in the same catagory as Hickok.”
Lynx chuckled, delighted at the unnerving effect he had on the towering Orson. Where Orson stood well over six feet in height, Lynx was only about four feet tall. While Orson weighed over 220 pounds, Lynx weighed in the vicinity of 60. Lynx wore a leather loin cloth. The rest of his wiry body was coated with thick, grayish-brown fur. His ears were pointed, his eyes vivid green orbs. Smiling, he raised his right hand and stroked his pointed chin, displaying the bloody nails on the tips of his thin fingers. “That’s real decent of you, bub,” Lynx said. “So I know you’ll believe me when I tell you to stop griping every time Blade tells you what to do, or I’m going to gut you and eat your entrails for a snack.”
Orson swallowed hard.
Blade stepped up to Orson and placed the barrel of the Commando against Orson’s abdomen. He tapped the handle of his left Bowie. “And if Lynx doesn’t gut you, I will. When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed.
Do you understand?”
Orson’s brown eyes narrowed in resentment, but he nodded.
“I don’t get you, Orson,” Rudabaugh interjected, his hands on the pistols resting in the holsters attached to the black belt around his slim waist. “You volunteered for this mission, just like the rest of us. You agreed, before we left, that Blade would be our leader. Yet you’ve been bucking him at every turn, and usually over the most chicken-shit things imaginable. What gives?”
“Maybe I don’t want to be here,” Orson replied bitterly.
“Then why’d you volunteer?” Blade asked him.
“I didn’t,” Orson revealed.
“What?” Blade demanded in surprise. “Everyone here, each of us involved in this plan, was to be a volunteer.”
“Not me,” Orson said, frowning. “Wolfe told me to come or else. There’s no way I could say no to Wolfe. You know that.”
“I know,” Blade admitted, his brow furrowed. What was going on here?
Why hadn’t Orson told the truth earlier? What was Wolfe up to? “Go look for those keys now and we’ll talk about this later.” Blade watched as Orson walked off.
“What the blazes is this, pard?” Hickok inquired.
“I wish I knew,” Blade admitted. He glanced at Lynx and Rudabaugh.
“Thanks for backing me up. I appreciate it.”
“No problem, big guy,” Lynx said.
“We’ve got to stick together,” Rudabaugh commented. “If we don’t, the Doktor will make mincemeat out of us.”
“Not if I get to the Doktor first,” Lynx vowed.
Blade stared at the genetic deviate, impressed by the sheer hatred in Lynx’s tone. “Lynx,” he commanded, “you and Rudabaugh gather up the weapons from the dead soldiers. We’ll add them to our arsenal.”
Lynx and Rudabaugh left as Geronimo approached.
“All of them are dead,” Geronimo confirmed.
“Good.” Blade glanced over his shoulder at a curve in the road 500 yards distant. “Hickok, I want you to run back and get Bertha and the SEAL.”
“On my way.” Hickok jogged off.
“What’s the matter?” Geronimo asked Blade. “You look troubled.”
“I’ll tell you about it later,” Blade promised.
“Uhhhh, excuse me,” someone said to their left.
Blade turned.
One of the Indians, a lean man with shoulder-length black hair and angular features, was slowly rising. Like all of the captives, he wore dingy gray pants and a matching shirt. “Who are you?” he inquired. “Where did you come from?”
“What’s your name?” Blade requested.
“I am called Red Cloud.”
“Are you a Flathead Indian?” Blade asked.
Red Cloud’s mouth fell open. “How did you know?”
Blade ignored the question. “How far are we from Catlow?” he inquired.
Red Cloud pointed to the south along U.S. Highway 85. “Catlow is about ten miles from here,” he replied.
Blade smiled in satisfaction. “Perfect. We’re right where we want to be.”
“Everything is going according to schedule,” Geronimo commented.
Red Cloud looked at Geronimo. “What is your name?”
“Geronimo.”
Red Cloud studied Geronimo from head to toe. “And what tribe are you from?”
“The Family,” Geronimo divulged.
Many of the other Flatheads, about a third of them women, were cautiously standing, wary of their liberators.
“What is the Family?” Red Cloud asked, perplexed. “Where are you from?”
“All you need to know about the Family,” Blade answered, “is that we have the same enemies you do, namely the military forces of the Civilized Zone and their leaders, the Doktor and Samuel the Second.”
Red Cloud stared at one of the dead soldiers. “I noticed you are not especially fond of them.
“If you feel about them the same way we do,” Blade said, “then maybe you will join us in our cause.”
“What is your cause?” Red Cloud asked.
“We have declared war on the Civilized Zone,” Blade disclosed.
Red Cloud’s astonishment showed. “Do you know how powerful they are? They defeated my people!”
“We know,” Blade stated. “We were in Kalispell, Montana, a couple of months ago.” He slung the Commando over his right shoulder.
Red Cloud’s features saddened. “That is where they vanquished us.” He sighed. “We were holding our own against the regular troops. They had us surrounded, but we had plenty of food and ample water. We believed we could hold out indefinitely. Some of us were even able to sneak through the enemy lines.
Our chief had his wife and daughter escorted to safety.” Red Cloud stopped.
“And then what happened?” Geronimo prompted him.
Red Cloud seemed to withdraw within himself as he spoke, his facial lines hardening. “Then they unleased the Doktor’s demons on us.” He twisted and glanced at Lynx, engaged in gathering up the firearms of the slain soldiers. “Creatures much like that one, only different.
“Don’t worry about him,” Blade said. “He’s on our side.”
“We fought them off once,” Red Cloud continued his narration. “That was when they used the clouds.”
“The clouds?” Blade repeated.
“Yes. Giant green clouds. These clouds would drift over our lines, and the people swallowed by the clouds would never be seen again. The clouds ate them.”
Blade took a step toward the Flathead. “You’re certain about this? They actually caused the clouds to drift over your positions?”
Red Cloud nodded. “I am positive.”
“What happened after that?” Geronimo asked.
“They sent in the demons again, backed by the regular troops. Our numbers were too depleted, and there were too many gaps in our defensive formations. They overran us.” He paused and shuddered. “It was horrible! They killed men, women, and children without mercy. The demons were the worst! It was like they went crazy for our blood! There was no way we could stop them! If the demons hadn’t been called off, they would have annihilated us. As it was, they took all of our youngest children, all of our babies, to the Cheyenne Citadel. The rest of us were scattered in groups and sent throughout the Civilized Zone as slave labor. They told us we weren’t even good enough to be sent through one of their Reabsorption Centers.”