“Three drunks?” Blade repeated.
“Yeah. They weren’t regulars. Just drifters. They arrived in Second Chance about an hour before sunset and took a room at Mabel’s boardinghouse. Later they came in my place and paid for a bottle of shine.
By the time your friend showed up they were pretty well soused.”
“What did our friend do?” Blade inquired.
“He ignored them at first. They were teasing him about his outfit, about the skull on his back. Me and several others tried to get them to leave him alone, but they told us to get screwed. Your buddy finished his water and turned to leave. That’s when it happened.”
Hickok made a hissing sound. “If you don’t get to the killin’ part right quick, there’s going to be another killin’.”
Glisson continued rapidly. “One of the drunks asked your friend if his girlfriend knew he walked around dressed like a sissy.”
“Uh-oh,” Geronimo said.
“Your buddy didn’t say a word, didn’t even move, but everyone else could tell there was something different about him. I don’t quite know how to describe it,” Glisson stated. “He seemed to change, to become harder or colder or I don’t know what. I never saw anything like it.”
“We know what you mean,” Blade told him.
“It was spooky. Anyway, he advised the drunks to mind their own business or prepare to embrace eternity,” Glisson said, and chuckled.
“Those were his exact words. ‘Prepare to embrace eternity.’ The drunks laughed, of course, and one of them shoved your friend, and they all spoke up and claimed they were going to teach him some manners and give him a bath in a horse trough. He brushed right past them and headed for the door.”
“And? And?” Hiekok prodded.
“And the dumb-ass drifters went for their guns. I was right behind them so I ducked down low. Half the time in a shootout innocent bystanders also get hit by wild shots. I knew from experience not to be in the line of fire when gunplay erupts.”
Hiekok came up the steps in two bounds and stood directly in front of the startled business owner, his eyes flashing. “How would you like to see some gunplay right here on your porch?”
“There’s not much left to tell,” Glisson assured him. “I heard three shots, that was all, and when I peeked over the bar the three drifters were dead on the floor and your friend was going out the door. That’s it.”
“You mean you didn’t actually see the killin’?” Hickok demanded.
“No, not exactly,” Glisson confessed. “But I heard the shots,” he emphasized.
The gunfighter looked as if he wanted to punch someone. Anyone.
“I saw what happened,” Old Jerry stated. “I was sittin’ at a corner table nursin’ a glass of prime shine and watched the whole blamed thing.” He paused. “Never saw anyone as fast as your friend. He had some kind of fancy carbine over his left arm, but he didn’t go for that.”
“A Wilkinson ‘Terry’ Carbine,” Blade said. “It’s one of his favorite weapons.”
“Whatever. He also had a couple of guns in shoulder holsters, a pistol and a revolver, if I recollect rightly. When the drifters grabbed for their irons, the big guy in blue went for his pistol. Not one of those jerks even cleared leather,” Old Jerry related. “They were downright pitiful.”
“You sure have a way with words, old-timer,” Hickok remarked.
Geronimo snickered. “You would think so.”
“And our friend never said a word after he shot the drifters?” Blade asked.
“No,” Glisson said. “He just left. And I can tell you it was at least fifteen minutes before anyone had the nerve to poke their head outside. By then he was long gone.”
Old Jerry stared at the giant Warrior. “Do you mind lettin’ us know the name of your friend?”
“Yama,” Blade revealed.
“Never knew anyone called that before,” the prospector noted.
“He named himself after the Hindu King of the Dead,” Blade explained.
“He named himself?”
“It’s a custom our Family has.”
“A king of the dead, you say?” Old Jerry said, and nodded. “Well, it sure as hell fits him. That friend of yours is living death.”
Hickok rested his hands on his Colts and sighed. “We know, old-timer.
Believe me, we know.”
CHAPTER SIX
Yama moved to the mouth of the cave and watched the Technic soldier descend the slope and enter the forest below. He waited a few minutes, giving the trooper enough time to cover a couple of hundred yards, then hastened out, certain the trees obscured the cave and the slope from Carson’s sight. In lithe bounds he ran to the bottom of the hill and plunged into the dense undergrowth.
So far, so good, the Warrior noted, unslinging the Wilkinson as he glided silently in pursuit of his quarry. The second phase of his plan was about to begin.
Had it really been six weeks ago when he’d arrived at the area? The time had flown by, perhaps because he’d spent every waking moment hunting down Technics. His personal war against the technocrats entailed hitting them fast and hard again and again and again.
Of course, he hadn’t launched his attrition campaign right away. It had taken him a week or so to scout the territory and locate a suitable refuge.
He never would have found the cave if not for his urge to climb that hill so he could survey the countryside and memorize prominent landmarks. The bear den was invisible from the air, with a spring not a quarter of a mile off and ample game in the woods, and its chance discovery had proven immensely beneficial. It was mildly regrettable that the bear had objected to sharing the shelter, but those bear steaks had been delicious and nutritious.
Yama heard the cracking of twigs ahead and slowed. He soon spotted the soldier awkwardly plowing through dense brush in a general northeasterly direction. The fool was making enough noise to attract every beast and mutant within a mile. Yama hoped none would show up in search of their supper, or his entire scheme would be blown and he’d have to capture another trooper.
He trailed the bumbling corporal at a discreet distance, his extensive Warrior training and experience enabling him to move as silently as a panther. The man looked back repeatedly, fear on his features, but never realized he was being followed.
The sun arced slowly across the blue vault of sky toward the western horizon. A cool breeze from the northwest occasionally rustled the leaves.
Birds sang and flew about in the treetops.
Yama wished the soldier would go faster. The timing was critical. If the fool wasn’t out of the forest by nightfall, it could ruin everything. He detected motion to his left, and pivoted to see a buck bounding away.
Carson, naturally, hadn’t noticed.
The minutes became an hour. An hour and a half. Finally the corporal burst from the forest onto a road. He cried out in relief, sank to his knees, and kissed the asphalt.
The Warrior concealed himself behind a tree and watched the soldier rise and jog off. Keeping low, he paced the Technic, staying a dozen yards to the rear, using every available cover. Perhaps his ploy would succeed after all. The key lay in finding suitable clothing. Few men were his size.
But he would be unable to penetrate to the heart of Technic City without a disguise of some kind.
Corporal Carson had traveled almost a mile when four figures appeared ahead. He halted, apparently undecided whether he should hail them or bolt, until he recognized the uniforms worn by the quartet. Up went his arms and he screeched at the top of his lungs. “Here! Over here!”
The squad immediately raced toward him.
Yama drew up at the base of a thicket, lay flat, and listened.