He could take a hint!
Geronimo leaped to his feet and did his utmost to reach the peak of the crater before another ant appeared.
He failed.
Two ants emerged simultaneously, one from the tunnel and the other from the new hole in the opposite wall. They converged at the bottom of the pit and made toward the struggling human near the top.
Geronimo’s fingers were only a foot away from the edge of the crater, grasping for the rim, extending his arms until his shoulders hurt. His moccasins were slipping and sliding on the steep slope, unable to find adequate traction in the fine soil. In a desperate gambit for freedom, he lunged, hoping to grab hold of the top of the pit and haul himself over the top.
He missed.
For a paralyzing instant, he was suspended in midair, his body momentarily defying gravity. Then he plummeted like a stone, striking the ground and hurtling downward before he could arrest his momentum.
Straight toward the ants.
He tried to check his descent with his hands and feet, digging them into the earth, stinging his hands. A cloud of dust rose above him as he clutched at the pit wall, vainly endeavoring to stop before it was too late.
The ants had stopped and were waiting near the bottom of the crater.
Geronimo attempted to brake by ramming his tomahawk into the earth, using the handle to gouge a furrow in the dirt. His speed began to taper off.
Would he make it?
Twenty yards remained between the ants’ mandibles and his hurtling form.
How would he stave off two ants, even if he did stop in time?
Fifteen yards.
His best bet would be to get under them and slash at their Achilles’ heel, their tender bellies.
Ten yards.
His fall was abruptly concluded as he collided with a boulder protruding above the surface of the soil. Totally unexpected, the violent impact jarred his entire body and almost knocked the breath from him.
He struck the boulder with his chest, and an excruciating pain lanced through his left side. His senses swam; he wasn’t able to focus, to concentrate on the danger in front of him.
One of the ants shuffled toward him.
Geronimo could vaguely detect the approaching giant. He shook his head, wanting his balance to return.
The ant was almost on him when it did.
Geronimo glanced up, saw the jaws coming at him, and rolled to his right, out of harm’s way.
The ant closed in, unhurried, seemingly overconfident in its ability.
Geronimo rolled again, dodging a second swing of those huge jaws.
The other ant started to circle below him.
They were going to box him in!
Geronimo hesitated, debating his next move. He’d never reach the rim of the crater, and more ants would be pouring from the tunnel any second.
The odds of escaping were practically nonexistent. He grinned.
If his dying time had arrived, if it was time for the journey to the mansions on the other side, he would show the Great Spirit how nobly and bravely a true son could go out.
The ants were now in position, one on either side of their prey.
Geronimo stood, hefting his tomahawk.
Slowly, deliberately, the insects closed in.
Geronimo looked from one to the other. It didn’t matter which one he went up against, now. He raised his eyes to the blue sky and vented his war whoop.
Then he attacked, making for the first antagonist, determined to fight with his dying breath. He swept the tomahawk at the ant’s face, but the insect parried the blow with its mandibles. The hair on the nape of his neck rose. He could feel the other ant bearing down on him from the rear.
Geronimo crouched and swung at one of the ant’s front legs. The tomahawk sliced in deep, and the ant uttered a strange cry and stepped back several steps.
Geronimo whirled to confront the second ant, but as he did something hard smashed his head. He felt himself losing consciousness, and the next instant something pressed both of his arms together and he was lifted into the air.
I tried my best, he thought, as the darkness closed in. The pity of it, the irony of his passing, was that no one would ever know. The Family, and especially Hickok, would always wonder if he were still alive. They might think he deserted them.
What person in their right mind would desert those who loved them?
And poor Hickok! Who would be around to babysit him from now on?
Who would burp him…
The night engulfed him.
Chapter Eighteen
Ferret pivoted, facing the newcomer.
He stood at the edge of the clearing, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. His hair and moustache were blond. He wore buckskins and moccasins, and draped around his waist was a cartridge belt and two holsters containing pearl-handled revolvers, one on either hip. His blue eyes were focused on the fallen Warrior, a frown creasing his lips.
Ferret recognized him from the dossier on the Family maintained by the Doktor. “The gunfighter!” he hissed.
The gunman glanced up. “Did you say something, furball?”
“I know who you are,” Ferret stated.
“Then I reckon you know what I’m going to do,” the blond man said.
“What you will try to do,” Ferret amended. He’d read about this particular Warrior, about his renowned reputation with those revolvers.
The gun-fighter was supposed to be lightning with those guns, but Ferret doubted any man could be fast enough to counter their speed, their genetically conditioned swiftness.
“Who are you?” Ox demanded.
The Warrior glared at Ox. “You shouldn’t have done that to my pard,” he said harshly, nodding at Blade. “And I’m also kind of fond of that critter too.” He indicated Gremlin.
“Then you can join them in my stomach!” Ox arrogantly snapped, annoyed this puny man was interfering with his meal.
The gunman’s features changed, shifting and hardening.
Ox looked at Ferret.
Ferret nodded his head to the left, and Ox immediately began edging in that direction. His body tense, prepared for a leap. Ferret moved to the right.
The gunfighter chuckled. “You boys ain’t none too subtle, are you?”
“Ox is going to rip your head off!” Ox promised.
The Warrior shook his head. “You’ve got it backwards, you walking pile of horse manure.”
“Drop your guns!” Ferret ordered, still inching toward the gunman.
The man laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding, runt.”
Ferret bristled at the slur. Hickok was only four feet away, within range of his powerful leg muscles.
“Any last requests?” the gunfighter asked.
Ox bellowed and sprang at the Warrior.
Over the years, Ferret had observed many men draw their guns. Some of these men were considered quick on the draw, but none of them had prepared him for the speed of this gunman. The man’s hands were a blur, his revolvers up and pointed in less than the blink of an eye.
One of the revolvers fired, the left one, and the bullet slammed into Ox’s left shoulder.
Ox twisted with the impact, and then whirled, laughing at the gunman.
“You’ll have to do better than that!”
“How’s this?” the Warrior queried, his right revolver booming.
A small hole suddenly appeared in the center of Ox’s forehead; and the grass behind him was sprayed with drops of blood and brains. Ox’s eyes crossed as he futilely endeavored to see the source of the pain in his forehead. His mouth opened and closed several times, and his hands clenched and unclenched as he managed to take another step.
Ferret, about to spring, found himself covered by the revolvers.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the Warrior advised.