Geronimo’s face clouded. “My parents passed on to the higher mansions when I was quite young.” He quickly changed the subject. “How many horsemen were in this Legion patrol?”
“That many,” Cynthia said, pointing behind them. “Plus four.”
Geronimo turned, unprepared for the sight of dozens of horsemen on the crest of the hill.
“Only thirty-two,” Cynthia elaborated as she goaded the paint into a gallop. “Now twenty-eight.”
“Oh. Is that all?” Geronimo urged the black stallion forward, keeping pace with Cynthia.
The riders on the hill voiced a collective shout—a loud, sustained “Yaa-hoooo!”— and descended on the fleeing duo.
And to think, Geronimo reflected, all I wanted was some quiet time to myself. Peace and solitude.
So much for that bright idea!
Chapter Two
There were three of them lined up in a row, their hands hovering near their revolvers, their concentration centered on three rusted tin cans lying on the ground twenty yards away, awaiting the command to fire.
The first was a youth of sixteen, dressed in a black shirt and black pants, his bushy brows knit as he squinted in the bright October sun. His brown eyes never left the can directly in front of him. A slight breeze stirred his brown hair. In a holster on his right hip was a Llama Comanche .357 Magnum.
The other two were women, both young and lovely, both blonde, both with green eyes—but there the similarities ended. One of the women, the one standing in the center, was taller and leaner, with a narrow waist and unusually small feet. Her cheekbones were more prominent, her forehead higher, and her lips thinner. She wore a brown blouse patched in half a dozen spots, and baggy green pants a size too big. In her holster was a Smith and Wesson .357 Combat Magnum.
The third member of the trio enjoyed a fuller figure and slightly longer hair. Her even white teeth were clenched, her rounded chin jutting outward, as she maintained her focused determination. Her slender fingers were inches from a Ruger Super Blackhawk 44 Magnum. She was attired in blue pants constructed from an old blanket and a yellow shirt so discolored from use and age it appeared almost white.
“Are you three ready?” asked the tall man in buckskins standing nearby, his left arm upraised, a matched set of pearl-handled Colt Pythons suspended around his trim waist. He sported a full blond mustache, a perfect complement to his golden hair.
“Any time, Hickok,” the youth in black declared.
“Don’t get cocky, Shane,” advised the man. He noted their obvious intensity and suppressed an impulse to laugh. “On the count of three. One…”
The trio became immobile, their nerves high-strung, their muscles rigid.
“Two…”
Somewhere in the distance a bird was chirping.
“Three!” Hickok barked.
Shane cleared leather first, his shot striking the tin can and sending it skidding to one side. He twisted and fired twice more, each slug scoring a direct hit.
The women drew simultaneously, with the taller of the pair firing a fraction of a second sooner. The sound of the gunfire thundered in the clearing.
Both missed.
“Damn!” the taller woman exclaimed, venting her frustration.
“Not bad,” Hickok commented as he walked up to them, his blue eyes twinkling.
“Bull!” the taller woman snapped. “We missed!”
“Give yourselves a break,” Hickok told them. “It’s the very first time you’ve tried the fast draw. It requires practice. Lots and lots of practice.
You don’t always hit what you aim at.”
“You do,” said the other woman. “I’ve never heard of you missing a shot.”
“Listen, Jenny…” Hickok began.
“How do you do it, lover?” asked the tall blonde.
“He has natural talent, Sherry,” explained Shane. “He’s the best gunfighter in the history of the Family, maybe the best who ever lived.”
Hickok, embarrassed by the praise from his number-one fan and star pupil, idly poked the toe of his left moccasin in the dirt. “Don’t measure your ability by mine,” he said quietly. “Everybody has some talent, something they can perform extremely well. It’s just a question of finding it.”
“So what did we do wrong?” Jenny inquired.
“You ladies were a mite too tense,” Hickok stated. “Relax. Practice every day until drawing and firing becomes as natural as breathing or loving.”
Sherry winked at Jenny and leaned in closer to Hickok. “If you’re leaving it up to me, I’d much rather practice our loving.”
The Family’s preeminent gunman actually blushed.
Sherry and Jenny laughed.
“Hey!” Shane broke in, annoyed the conversation was straying from the original subject. “What about me?”
“What about you?” Hickok reiterated.
“I didn’t miss,” the youth boasted. “All three of my shots were right on target.”
“That’s right, pard,” Hickok concurred. He stepped over to Shane, nodding his head, his hands behind his back. “You did hit the can, didn’t you?”
“Sure did,” Shane beamed.
“Yep,” Hickok said, nodding one more time. His right hand swept upward and smacked Shane on the forehead.
Shane recoiled in surprise, not really hurt. “What did you do that for?”
he demanded.
“It took you three shots to kill one little ol’ tin can!” Hickok rejoined.
“That’s two shots too many.”
“But all three hit…” Shane started to protest.
“I don’t care if you had fired six shots into it,” Hickok said, cutting him off. “Then you would have wasted five shots. Why do you think I’m always advocating going for the head? For the same reason I believe it should be one shot per customer. If you hit someone anywhere else but in the head, then you risk being taken down yourself because your first shot wasn’t immediately fatal. By the same token, if you’re facing five enemies and you put three slugs into one of them, you’ve wasted two shots and given your opponents time to waste you.”
Shane was staring thoughtfully at the tin can.
“Remember our fire fight with the Moles?” Hickok reminded him.
“Of course,” Shane admitted sheepishly.
“There we were,” Hickok said, shaking his head and frowning, “surrounded by Moles,” outnumbered better than two to one, and when the shooting commenced you fired three shots into one of them. Just like you did with the can.”
“But I wanted to be sure,” Shane objected.
“Can’t fault you there,” Hickok conceded. He sighed and gazed up at the blue morning sky. “Shane, you want to become a Warrior. You asked me to sponsor you, and I reluctantly agreed. You’re young, and I don’t hold that against you because I was young once too, but you’re also inexperienced and that could be fatal. You must appreciate what being a Warrior really means.”
“I do know what it means,” Shane commented.
“Do you?” Hickok scrutinized his prodigy. “I think you see being a Warrior, serving as a protector of the Family and a defender of the Home, as an exciting adventure, providing a welcome break in the montony of daily living. You better wake up to something else real fast.” Hickok reached out and squeezed Shane’s left shoulder with his right hand.
“When you’re a Warrior, you’re a killer. Plain and simple. When you get right down to it, it’s you or the other guy. Or beast. Or thing. Whatever, kill or be killed is the name of the game. You’d better become the best killer you can possibly be, or you won’t last long in our line of work. You’ve got to realize this, for your own sake.”
Shane carefully considered Hickok’s sage advice.