“Yes, I do,” the Doktor growled, clenching his fists. “And I vow to repay them for every insult, starting with him.” He pointed at the unconscious Empath.
Thor extended his sledgehammer. “Do I finish him?”
“No,” the Doktor responded. “Fetch some wood.”
“Wood?”
“Yes. Two lengthy planks will do. Strip a pair of floor planks from one of the trucks if necessary.”
“Yes, Doktor.” Thor departed.
“Why wood?” Clarissa questioned the Doktor.
He indicated the sagebrush-covered fields adjacent to the highway.
“Because there is nary a tree in sight, dear girl. Two planks will suffice adequately.”
Clarissa licked her lips. “Will there be much blood?”
The Doktor nodded. “Yes, but we can’t linger while you quench your thirst.”
“On to Catlow?”
The Doktor’s expression hardened. “On to Catlow!”
Chapter Twelve
“It sure is quiet around here with everybody else gone,” Bertha commented, cradling her M-16 in her arms.
“I like the quiet,” Rudabaugh said. “I never was much for city life.”
The sun was hovering above the western horizon and the air was becoming a bit chill.
“Why do you think the Doc ain’t hit us yet?” Bertha asked, keeping her eyes trained on the surrounding countryside. They were at the extreme southern edge of Catlow, alongside U.S. Highway 85. Rudabaugh had dug a hole in the ground and was carefully planting a bundle of dynamite in the hole.
“Maybe he couldn’t decide what to wear,” Rudabaugh said.
Bertha chuckled. “That’s a good one.” She watched him place dirt on top of the dynamite while holding the fuse to one side. “Say, where’d you learn to use this stuff?”
“The dynamite? The Cavalry has a lot of it. Some of the ranchers hoarded it after the war. I learned how to use it from my paw, and he learned from his. Some of it is real unstable.” He completed hiding the bundle and aligned the fuse to one side.
“How do you mean?” Bertha asked.
“When it gets real old, sometimes it’ll go up if you just drop it or bump the crate it’s in,” Rudabaugh explained.
“Lordy! You mean to tell me we rode out here with two crates of that stuff and it could of went kablewy if somebody sneezed?”
“I checked it before we left,” Rudabaugh said. “I know what I’m doing.”
“And I know what I’m doing,” Bertha stated. “I ain’t sleepin’ in the SEAL tonight!”
“There isn’t any in the SEAL,” Rudabaugh informed her. “This is the last of it.”
“We got it all set up?”
“Yep. All I have to do is unwind this line back to the detonating point,” Rudabaugh responded.
“How’s this stuff work?” Bertha inquired.
“You really want to know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?” Bertha retorted.
Rudabaugh grinned. “Okay. From what I learned, dynamite was used a lot before the war. They used it for things like construction projects and in quarries—”
“What are quarries?” Bertha queried.
“A quarry is a big hole in the ground,” Rudabaugh informed her.
“You’re puttin’ me on.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Why would anyone want a big hole in the ground?”
“They were blasting for stones they could use in their buildings,” Rudabaugh elaborated. “Dynamite is wrapped in waxed-paper cylinders we call cartridges. These cartridges come in all different sizes, depending on the size of the job. The older dynamite was made up of something called nitroglycerin, mixed in with inert materials. Before the war, they used a lot of ammonium nitrate instead of nitro. Normally, the charge is pretty safe, because you need a blasting cap, or detonating cap, to set it off. We use the cap and one of two types of fuses, safety fuses or detonating fuses. A safety fuse has black powder in it. It burns real slow and gives the dynamiter time to get away before it blows. A detonating fuse, on the other hand, has explosive in the core. I like to use a special kind of cap sometimes, called an electric blasting cap. I hook it up to that box you saw earlier, the one with the plunger. All I have to do is press the plunger, and it sends an electric current through the line to the charge. Boom!”
“Wow! You sure do know a lot about this dynamite,” Bertha complimented him.
Rudabaugh stood and began unraveling his line. “It’s one of the reasons Kilrane wanted me to volunteer.”
“You got yourself a main squeeze?” Bertha asked.
“A what?”
“A fox, fool.”
“I owned a dog once,” Rudabaugh said, “but I’ve never owned a fox.”
“Are you serious?”
“I never owned a fox,” Rudabaugh assured her.
Bertha shook her head. “You people from the sticks sure do talk weird!”
“And you don’t?” Rudabaugh rejoined.
They were nearing a brick wall as Rudabaugh continued to unstring his line.
“The Doc is gonna be in for a big surprise when he gets here,” Bertha stated.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” Rudabaugh inquired.
“What?”
“Why’d you volunteer for this mission?”
Bertha shrugged. “I didn’t have nothin’ better to do.”
“What’s the real reason?” Rudabaugh pressed her.
“I like to travel,” she defensively replied.
“Would your reason have anything to do with Hickok?” Rudabaugh queried.
“Ain’t you heard? Hickok’s married.”
“I know that,” Rudabaugh stated. “But I couldn’t help but notice the way you look at him sometimes.”
“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Bertha said.
“I know what I saw,” Rudabaugh disputed her. They reached the wall and he climbed over it to the other side. A wooden box with a handle on top was resting on the ground.
Bertha, eager to change the subject, pointed at the line. “Won’t they see that and figure out what we’re up to?”
“I’ll cover it with grass and leaves, just like I did the others,” Rudabaugh told her.
“How many of those charges do you have set up?” Bertha asked.
“Enough.” Rudabaugh knelt and began attaching the line to the box.
“How come you didn’t answer my question?”
“What question was that?”
Rudabaugh smirked. “You do like him, don’t you?”
“You shouldn’t butt your big nose in where it don’t belong,” Bertha advised him.
“I’m just curious, is all,” Rudabaugh explained.
“Well, you know what curiosity did to the cat,” Bertha reminded him.
“I like Hickok,” Rudabaugh commented. “I’d heard about his reputation before I met him. They tell stories about him, you know. About the gunfights he had in Fox, Thief River Falls, and the Twin Cities. They say he’s greased lightning with those Colts of his.”
“If you knew he’s so fast,” Bertha said, “why’d you challenge him to a shootin’ match?”
“I wanted to see for myself. I’m no gunfighter, mind you, but I’m right handy with my pistols. I wanted to set up some targets and see how good Hickok really is.” Rudabaugh stood, brushing some dirt from his clothes.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” Bertha remarked.
“I don’t follow you.”
“I’ve seen Hickok target shoot,” Bertha detailed, “and it ain’t the same as the real thing. When White Meat’s in action, there ain’t nobody like him!” she said proudly. “I saw him in Thief River Falls and the Twin Cities. He was beautiful!”
“You see?” Rudabaugh said, grinning. “The look on your face right now is the one I’m talking about.”
“I used to like you,” Bertha snapped, “before you became such a know-it-all! If you…” she began, and abruptly stopped speaking, gazing over Rudabaugh’s left shoulder.