It had to be then.
Geronimo waited impatiently, fingering the trigger on the Marlin. He recognized his own nervousness and willed his mind and body to relax.
Oh Great Spirit, he prayed, guide your son and servant in this enterprise! Preserve your children that we may honor and worship you all the days of our lives in this world and in the mansions on high! We are children of peace thrust into times of conflict, and we would live your will in this as in all other matters!
The storm slackened, the wind decreasing, the air slowly beginning to clear.
Geronimo could see Kilrane and Cynthia off to his left, about five yards separating them from him.
Now!
Geronimo surged the black forward, the reins and his Marlin clasped in his right hand. He deliberately rode the black into the Palomino, staggering Kilrane’s mount, even as his left arm encircled Cynthia and yanked her off the Palomino. In another instant, he was clear of the Palomino and racing eastward.
“Geronimo, stop!” Kilrane shouted behind him.
Geronimo ignored the command, knowing the rest of the patrol would be unaware of the escape in progress, eager to take advantage of the element of surprise.
“Stop!” Kilrane yelled again.
Cynthia was clutching Geronimo with all her strength. “You’re losing him!” she cried.
The dust storm, while continuing to diminish, was still stirring the dirt and posing a navigational problem, preventing Geronimo from seeing more than ten yards in front of the black.
“Geronimo!” Kilrane called a final time, sounding distant.
It was working!
Geronimo risked a glance over his right shoulder, elated to discover none of the Legion patrol was in sight. If the black could pour on the speed for another mile, their getaway would be assured.
Cynthia’s grip on him suddenly tightened, her nails digging into his shoulder. “Look out!” she screamed in frantic warning.
Geronimo, alarmed, twisted forward, his senses thrown off kilter when the black abruptly catapulted downward, seeming to float for several seconds before smashing into an earthen wall. The brutal impact wrenched Cynthia from Geronimos grasp and tumbled him from the horse. He felt his body tossed head over heels before he landed with a painful, jarring collision on the ground.
“Geronimo!” Cynthia shrieked somewhere nearby.
Geronimo struggled to rise, trying to assess their situation and locate Cynthia in the gloom. What had happened? Where were they?
There was a patch of light above his head, a wide circle about thirty yards in diameter.
Circle?
Thirty yards!
Geronimo, shocked by the realization, deduced where they were even as a shuffling noise sounded to his rear. He tried to turn, to confront whatever was lurking in back of him, but he was too slow.
A hard object struck the Warrior’s head with a resounding crack.
Geronimo toppled to the ground, striving to maintain consciousness.
Red dirt filled his slack mouth as he landed with a dull thud. His thoughts swirled, tenuous and distressing.
From the proverbial frying pan into the fire!
So sorry, Cynthia!
Being captives of the Legion was a breeze compared to their present predicament. In all the confusion and excitement of their mad dash for freedom, he’d managed to commit the folly of all follies! Blunders, in matters of life and death, were inexcusable and invariably fatal. Simple mistakes could cost you your life. Things like failing to keep your guns loaded. Or hurrying a shot at an opponent. Or turning your back on an avowed enemy.
Or plunging into a large hole in the Dead Zone.
Geronimo strained to rise, aware of a clammy, trickling sensation near his left ear. Blood. He managed to reach his hands and knees before a suffocating wave of vertigo overwhelmed him and he collapsed in a heap.
“Geronimo!” Cynthia screamed.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t hear her.
Chapter Nine
The inexperienced guard really should have shot first and cursed later.
A burst from the Wilkinson tore through his forehead, blowing the rear of his cranium completely away.
Yama’s shots precipitated immediate mayhem on the hillock. He leaped to his feet and fired again, this time catching the second guard in the midsection and doubling him over, his abdomen ruptured and leaking blood like a sieve.
One of the troopers, reacting in reflex, snapped a shot from his M-16 at the silver-haired intruder.
Yama dove for cover behind the log.
A soldier on the far side of the clearing was unslinging his M-16 when an arrow penetrated his head from behind, the three-bladed hunting point emerging from between his eyes. The trooper jerked spasmodically as he fell.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was already in motion, the scabbard lying behind the boulder, his katana upraised as he ran from hiding and made for the soldiers near the radio. One of the Watchers was grabbing for his automatic pistol as Rikki, thankful none of the troopers wore helmets, swept the razor-edged blade downward, burying the katana in the man’s forehead and splitting it open with the same ease a sharp knife might cut a melon.
The remaining soldiers were galvanizing into action, several of them firing at the log Yama was behind. Others were shooting wildly at the trees to the north of the clearing, trying to nail the bowman.
The second radio man had his pistol out and aimed.
Rikki sidestepped as the gun boomed, his left side wracked with a burning sensation, knowing he’d been creased, but ignoring the pain as he savagely wrenched the katana sideways, the gleaming, bloody blade slicing through the second man’s wrist and severing his hand from his arm.
The soldier wailed and held the crimson-covered stump aloft, gaping at it in abject horror.
Rikki finished him with a tsuki thrust, the point of the katana lancing into the soldier’s throat.
The last trooper near the radio was Lieutenant Putnam. Initially shocked by the carnage, he recovered as the swordsman faced him.
Instead of drawing his automatic, or retrieving his M-16 on the grass near the radio, he leaped at the swordsman, his arms held wide.
Rikki allowed Putnam to tackle him, releasing the katana as they tumbled to the ground. Putnam landed on top, pinning him.
Putnam, outweighing the swordsman by at least forty pounds and towering over him by a good two feet, was confident he could subdue this little man and take him prisoner.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi grinned as he brutally jammed his forehead into Putnam’s nose. He could feel the nasal cartilage break as fresh warm blood gushed over his face.
Putnam squealed in agony and released the swordsman, attempting to roll to his feet.
Rikki struck again, a hiji blow to Putnam’s jaw from the side.
Lieutenant Putnam weaved as he rose to his knees, his mouth and jaw coated with his own blood.
Rikki followed the elbow strike with the coup d’etat: a tega-tana-naka-uchi, a cross-body chop of the hand to the Lieutenant’s temple, downing Putnam instantly.
The battle elsewhere was still raging.
Rikki, still on his back, glanced up. He saw another trooper on the ground with an arrow imbedded in his chest. Seven downed and four to go. One was to his left, raking the trees with automatic fire while crouched behind a small boulder. Three more were to his right, advancing on the log, holding their fire and waiting for Yama to appear.
Yama did.
A blue form suddenly hurtled from the underbrush twenty feet from the log, the Wilkinson chattering. One of the Watchers was ripped from his crotch to his throat. The other two hit the dirt, firing as they did. The dust around Yama’s feet swirled upward as he leaped into a shallow depression.