Geronimo’s attention was arrested by an enormous hole off to the right, measuring at least thirty feet in diameter.
There was movement in the center of the hole.
Geronimo tried to focus on the gaping cavity, finding the task difficult with the big black running all out. There seemed to be two stick-like affairs waving wildly in the middle of the aperture. They displayed a pale reddish color, the same as the big object seen on the mound.
What in the world was it?
Geronimo noticed Kilrane watching the sticks. “Do you see them?”
Geronimo called.
Kilrane nodded.
“Any idea what they are?”
Kilrane shook his head.
Cynthia was also staring at the hole, her face markedly pale, her slim hands clinging to Kilrane’s broad shoulders.
I wish he’d placed her up behind me, Geronimo mused, feeling slightly jealous. He found himself experiencing a strong attraction toward Cynthia and resented this forced intrusion on their budding relationship.
A series of low hills rose ahead of the racing patrol. Kilrane led them up one side and down the other, the horses flying, the dust clouds rising behind their passage.
Another hole formed directly in front of them.
Kilrane turned the Palomino to the left, opting to circumvent the crater. The majority of the patrol cued on his lead.
Except for two.
This duo was at the rear of the column. The choking, blinding dust raised by the others obscured their vision, preventing them from realizing the main body of the patrol had veered to the left until it was too late.
Geronimo heard screams and shouts and looked over his right shoulder in time to observe the two riders plunge over the lip of the crater and vanish from view.
Kilrane missed seeing the duo drop into the hole, but he did hear the piercing shrieks of agony and terror that immediately followed. He brought the sweaty Palomino to an abrupt stop. “What was that?” he demanded, surveying the area.
Geronimo pointed at the shadowy cavity. “Two of your men just fell in.”
“What?” Kilrane goaded the Palomino toward the hole, the strapping stallion seemingly reluctant to comply. The horse tossed its head, its ears laid flat, and balked, forcing Kilrane to forcefully exhort his mount to achieve obedience.
Geronimo, despite an overpowering premonition of impending danger, stayed with Kilrane. Hamlin, visibly scared, stayed a few feet behind them.
The remainder of the patrol hung back, some of them experiencing difficulty controlling their plunging steeds.
“Where the hell are they?” Kilrane asked, poised at the edge of the opening.
Geronimo examined the crater, more mystified than ever. This hole, like the first, was approximately thirty feet in diameter at the top. The cavity tapered toward the center and ended with a dark hole, about ten feet in circumference, at the bottom of the pit. The sides of the crater were smooth, evincing a neatly excavated appearance.
There was no sign of the two Legionnaires.
“I don’t get it,” Hamlin said. “What’d they do? Fall in…” He paused, petrified.
A pair of red-hued rods rose from the black depths of the pit and began swaying back and forth.
“I don’t like this,” Kilrane hissed between clenched teeth. “I have a gut feeling we’d better make tracks, and pronto!”
“Hold it!” Geronimo barked, keeping his eyes peeled on those red rods.
Kilrane, about to turn the Palomino, quizzically gazed at Geronimo.
“My weapons,” Geronimo stated.
“Your what?” Hamlin snapped. “Who do you think you are? In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re our prisoner, fool!”
Kilrane glanced at the ominous hole. The red rods had disappeared.
“Give him his arms,” he ordered.
“Do what?” Hamlin objected, peeved. “Since when do we allow prisoners to have their weapons?”
“Since I just said so,” Kilrane countered, his tone low and threatening.
“I don’t have time to argue, my friend. Give them to him now!”
Hamlin, anger creasing his features, tossed the Marlin to Geronimo and handed him the Arminius and the tomahawk.
“Thank you,” Geronimo said, feeling a surge of confidence. If they were attacked now, at least he’d have a chance to defend himself and protect Cynthia. He looked into Kilrane’s blue eyes. “I owe you one.”
“I hope I live long enough to collect,” Kilrane muttered. He pressed his legs against the Palomino’s sides and rapidly brought the horse to a gallop.
The men in Kilrane’s patrol closed in around him, packing together in a dense mass, their flagging morale bolstered by their proximity to their leader.
Geronimo was watching Cynthia. Her ordeal was catching up with her.
She was slumped against
Kilrane, fatigued to the point of exhaustion.
Another mile along and they encountered a third crater.
Kilrane gave this one a wide berth, swinging his patrol to the left again, always bearing to the southwest.
“You know,” Hamlin announced after they passed the third hole, “this ain’t so bad. Not too much longer and we’ll be rid of this damn place!”
Geronimo, staring ahead, realized the small man had spoken too soon.
“Look!” someone shouted. “Up ahead!”
The entire patrol slowed, then halted, stunned by the sight in front of them.
Not now! Geronimo wanted to scream. Not now!
A quarter of a mile away, completely blocking their escape route, filling the sky and obscuring the ground with its raging intensity, was a titanic dust storm. It was turning the very air red with the tons of dust particles borne into the atmosphere.
Kilrane shouted, bearing to the west, hoping they could outrace the storm.
He was wrong.
The Legion patrol managed to cover a thousand yards before the dust storm surged into them. The air promptly became almost unbreatheable, the hot wind searing their skin, the swirling dust stinging horse and rider alike. They were caught in the open, exposed and vulnerable, the nearest cover a good mile off.
Geronimo could barely see Kilrane and Cynthia only yards in front of him. He held his left arm over his mouth and nose to prevent the dust from entering. His eyelids were burning from the dust, and his body felt like hundreds of tiny critters were trying to prick him to death.
“Stay together!” Kilrane shouted. “We can’t afford to stop! Get a fix on my voice!”
Easier said than done. Geronimo could discern several moving shapes nearby, but he had no idea where the rest of the patrol was. Maybe, he told himself, maybe the storm would end soon.
Instead, its violence increased.
Geronimo focused his entire attention on Kilrane and the Palomino, unwilling to lose sight of Cynthia, even for a moment. The whistle of the wind attained a shrill pitch.
How much longer could this storm continue?
The onslaught persisted, seemingly interminable, a natural temper tantrum of incalculable magnitude.
Once, Geronimo felt the big black falter and recover, and he marveled at the animal’s endurance. The horse must be suffering greatly, but it never quit, it never surrendered to the elements.
Could he do any less?
Geronimo formulated a plan. Timing would be critical, but if successful he would be rid of the Legion patrol and Cynthia would be free of their clutches.
It all depended on the dust storm.
Eventually the storm would abate, and if he waited for the right moment, for the interval between the initial slackening of the storm and the time it stopped, he would have a few precious minutes when the visibility would improve enough to maneuver and the Legionnaires would be off-guard, not expecting any trouble.