“Hurry,” Blade stated.
Hickok tried once more, and narrowly missed losing a finger to the dog’s wicked teeth. “So you want to play rough?” he said, and leaned over, inspecting the area between the dog’s rear legs.
“What in the world are you doing?” Blade inquired.
“I just wanted to see if this critter is a guy or a girl,” Hickok explained.
“It’s a male.”
“What difference does its sex make?” Geronimo asked.
“Plenty,” the gunman replied, and slugged the dog in the jewels.
The dog uttered a peculiar gurgling noise, whined, and sagged in Blade’s hands.
Hickok grinned and secured the lace about the dog’s mouth. “There.”
Blade felt the dog quivering in agony. “I don’t recall being taught that ploy in our Warrior classes.”
“I picked it up from Lynx,” Hickok divulged.
Blade smiled. Lynx was one of three mutant Warriors, all of whom were outcasts the Family had adopted. “It figures,” he said.
“Lynx has a motto I kind of like,” Hickok elaborated. “He says it comes in handy in any kind of fight.”
“What’s the motto?” Geronimo queried.
“When in doubt, go for the gonads.”
“I thought you always go for the head.”
Hickok shrugged. “A fellow should always have a backup strategy,” he mentioned.
Blade headed toward the farmhouse. “One of you bring my boots and the Commando.”
“You take the boots,” Geronimo said to the gunman.
“I’ll carry the long guns,” Hickok offered, and moved to the Colt AR-15.
“I’ll carry them,” Geronimo proposed.
Fifteen feet off, Blade halted and glanced over his right shoulder, a docile dog in each huge hand. “I don’t care which one brings the guns and which one brings the boots. Just do it.”
“Goody,” Hickok said, and scooped up the weapons. He smirked at Geronimo and hurried after the giant.
Geronimo retrieved the combat boots and caught up with them. “I owe you one, Nathan.”
“What’d I do?” Hickok asked with all the innocence of a newborn baby.
“I owe you,” Geronimo reiterated.
The Warriors crossed the field to the edge of a wide lawn dotted with trees and shrubs. They stopped behind a short, squat pine tree. Geronimo promptly deposited the boots on the grass.
“Hickok, I want you to check out the barn,” Blade commanded. “Look for some rope.”
Hickok nodded, handed the SAR and Commando to Geronimo, and ran toward the barn.
“Do you want me to cut the wires?” Geronimo queried.
“Not yet,” Blade said. “Someone might try to call these people in the morning, and we wouldn’t want the caller to become suspicious and alert the authorities.”
They waited for the gunman, listening to the breeze rustling the limbs.
In the quiet hours preceding the dawn, the farm was tranquil, the picture of serenity.
Geronimo stared at Blade.
“Something wrong?” the giant whispered.
“Why didn’t you kill the dogs?”
“I told you. I don’t want to antagonize the people living here.”
“Are you sure that’s the only reason?”
“Why else?”
“Oh, like maybe you didn’t want to upset me.”
Blade looked at the farmhouse. “Ridiculous.”
“The easy way would have been to slit their throats with your Bowies,” Geronimo noted.
“They weren’t a threat.”
“They could have barked and given us away. Are you trying to avoid spilling blood for my benefit?”
“Would I do that?”
“Yes,” Geronimo answered. “You’re one of my best friends. You might try to go easy on the killing this trip, hoping I’ll forget all about the idea of resigning.”
“I’m not that devious.”
“Yes, you are. Hickok isn’t. He’ll stay on my case until I agree to remain a Warrior. But you’ll use your head. You’ll try psychology on me.”
“You overestimate my ability.”
“And you weren’t selected to be the head of the Warriors because of your stinky feet.”
“What do you guys have against my feet?”
“Don’t change the subject. I want to know your honest feelings. Would my quitting be a mistake, like Nathan claims?”
Blade looked at Geronimo. “The decision must be yours.”
“But how do you feel?”
“Do you really want to step down?”
Geronimo averted his eyes.
“Do you?” Blade pressed him.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. But you’ll resign for the sake of your family.”
“My family’s happiness must come first.”
“I agree.”
“What would you do?”
“Do you want an honest answer?”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Geronimo said.
Blade frowned, allowing his arms to droop. The small dog was whining, but the large one hadn’t so much as whimpered since Hickok’s lesson in behavior modification. “I haven’t told anyone else this. I’ve been thinking about resigning too.”
Geronimo was shocked. “What?” he blurted.
“As you know, I’m also the head of the Freedom Force based in Los Angeles. The strain on my family has been severe, what with my constant commuting between the Home and California. Even when I’m at the Home, I’m always being sent on missions to deal with the latest threat to our Family’s safety. I’d rather spend the time with Jenny and Gabe.”
“And you’re seriously thinking about quitting?”
“I am.”
“What will Plato think?”
“I love Plato like a father, but he isn’t married to Jenny. The decision is mine,” Blade stated.
Geronimo abruptly glanced to the east. “Hickok is coming, but he’s not alone.”
“He’s not?” Blade said, starting to turn, and as he did a chorus of bestial howls rent the night.
Chapter Seven
More damn dogs!
Blade could see the gunman racing in their direction, his legs flying, while on Hickok’s trail came a baying pack of mongrel hounds, five all told. The two in his hands were just members of a pack! Now the people in the farmhouse were bound to wake up! Infuriated, he rammed the heads of the large and small dogs together, stunning them, and cast them to the grass. He whipped out his Bowies and faced the onrushing pack. “No guns,” he instructed Geronimo, who promptly lowered the SAR and the Commando and drew his tomahawk.
A wide grin was plastered on Hickok’s countenance as he drew near.
“Company’s comin’,” he announced, then slowed and gripped the Colt AR-15 by the barrel.
The five farm dogs never slowed.
Hickok took down the first dog, a huge beast, with a terrific swing of the AR-15, the stock crashing into the dog’s cranium and checking its leap at his legs.
A pair of brutish canines swerved at Blade.
The giant Warrior was ready, his legs braced, a Bowie in each hand. He did the unexpected, moving to meet them, his arms sweeping up and in as they launched themselves simultaneously. The Bowies arced in low, taking each dog in the chest, imbedding to their hilts. The dog on his left slumped over, but the one on the right voiced a plaintive howl before collapsing, its blood spilling over his hand. He glanced at Geronimo.
A dog was dead on the grass at Geronimo’s feet, its head split open, and as Blade watched, a second dog was met in midair by the light axe used so extensively by Geronimo’s Blackfeet ancestors. The dog’s cranium was rent from forehead to nose, and the animal fell soundlessly.
“I bumped into these critters near the barn,” Hickok explained.
Blade swung his arms outwards, dislodging the dogs from his Bowies, and turned toward the house. Sure enough, a light had come on in a second-floor window. “I want these people alive if possible,” he advised, and nodded at the house.