Would Beta Triad fare any better?
There was only one way to find out.
“Where’s the mirror?” Blade asked, extending his right hand.
“Here you go,” Spartacus answered, placing a circular mirror four inches in diameter in Blade’s palm.
Blade studied the sun, noting the blazing orb was suspended in the eastern sky. He would need to angle the mirror if Rikki were to observe the signal.
“I pray the Spirit will protect them,” Joshua stated.
“They’re Warriors,” Spartacus said proudly. “They can take care of themselves.”
“If only this constant warfare weren’t necessary,” Joshua went on. “If only we could live on this planet in spiritual harmony.”
“Dream on, brother!” Spartacus snorted.
“Are you having second thoughts?” Plato asked Blade, detecting his hesitation.
Blade glanced at Plato. “It’s not easy giving others orders and knowing it could cause their deaths.”
“Think of the greater good,” Plato advised. “Think about the benefits to the Family, about the valuable information we could acquire.”
Blade nodded. There was no avoiding it. He held the mirror at chest height and slanted it to catch the brilliant rays of the sun. Satisfied he had the inclination correct, he slowly passed his left hand over the face of the mirror. Once. A second time.
That did it.
The rest was up to Rikki, Teucer, and Yama.
He recalled a quote from Ecclesiastes: “For every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die.”
Had he just sealed Beta Triad’s death warrant?
Chapter Five
“I must admit,” the captain said in genuine respect, “I was really impressed by the way you handled yourself back there. I’ve never seen one person take on so many mutants at the same time and live to tell about it.”
They were heading in a southwesterly direction. Geronimo was on the big black. Cynthia was behind the captain on the Palomino. The remainder of the Legion patrol clustered around them. Two Legion riders were a quarter of a mile ahead, serving as point guards.
“We call them mutates,” Geronimo told the captain, “and as far as the bison and the prairie dogs are concerned, the Great Spirit saw fit to watch over me.”
The captain eyed his captive. “Who is this ‘we’ you’ve mentioned a couple of times?” His eyes were clear blue, his hair a light brown tinged with gray streaks.
“Oh, Garfield and Snoopy and myself,” Geronimo replied, grinning.
“Garfield and Snoopy? Are they skilled fighters like you?” the captain queried.
“Just ask any pan of lasagna and the Red Baron,” Geronimo said, enjoying the confused expression on the captain’s face. The good captain had no way of knowing about the huge Family library, about the five hundred thousand books stocked by Kurt Carpenter. Survival books.
Hunting and fishing books. Woodworking, herbal medicine, metal-smithing, gardening, and hundreds of other how-to books. History and geography books. Volumes on military tactics and the martial arts.
Reference books by the thousands. There was even a section on humorous books, one of Geronimo’s favorites, containing funny books popular before the war, before mankind committed the ultimate ironic joke on itself and erased centuries of progress and striving in a demented blaze of glory. The Family’s library was one of its major sources of entertainment, in addition to preserving the wisdom and knowledge of the ages. Every Family member read avidly, spending countless hours perusing the books for information or pleasure. The photographic books were especially prized, providing as they did an insight into prewar culture.
“I take it you’re not going to give us any information on who you are and where you came from?” the captain asked him.
“I might cooperate a bit more if I knew more about you,” Geronimo countered. “For starters, what’s your name?”
“I’m called Kilrane,” the captain revealed.
“And he has quite a reputation,” Cynthia interjected.
“He does?” Geronimo said in a mocking tone. “Strange. I’ve never heard the name before.”
“He’s Rolf’s right-hand man,” Cynthia continued.
“Do tell,” Geronimo commented, observing the captain’s amused smile.
“And he’s fast with his gun,” Cynthia detailed.
“Real fast. Some say he’s the fastest man alive.”
Geronimo stared at the ivory-handled Mitchell Single Action revolver on Kilrane’s right hip. “Is that right? Are you fast with that thing?”
Kilrane confidently locked eyes with Geronimo. “That’s what everyone says.”
“I have a friend by the name of Hickok,” Geronimo mentioned. “Since he’s the fastest man alive, that makes you the second fastest.”
“You think this friend of yours could beat me?” Kilrane asked, chuckling.
“There’s no doubt in my mind,” Geronimo informed him.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” Kilrane stated.
“Geronimo.”
“Pleased to meet you, Geronimo. Maybe some day you’ll introduce me to this Hickok,” Kilrane proposed.
“You mean I’ll live that long?” Geronimo rejoined.
“How long you live isn’t up to me,” Kilrane explained. “Rolf will make that decision.”
“And you’re taking us to Rolf now?” Geronimo inquired.
“You got it,” Kilrane confirmed. “He’s in Pierre right now. That’s where we’re headed.”
“How long will it take to get there?” Geronimo needed to know.
“Oh, about four or five days, depending on whether we push the horses or not,” Kilrane replied. “Why?”
“I’ve been gone too long as it is,” Geronimo said, frowning. “My Family is going to start worrying about me.”
“Good,” Kilrane said, smiling. “Maybe they’ll send someone looking for you. Maybe this Hickok.”
Geronimo fell silent, contemplating the mess he was in. Kilrane had made a valid point; Plato probably would send someone after him, most likely Hickok. Why hadn’t he stayed at the Home where he belonged? Why did he leave the others and go off by himself? Now he was endangering not only his life, but the life of whomever Plato would send. Then again, how would they know where to find him? One of the Empaths might be able to home in on him. Otherwise, there was no way they would be able to track him after being gone nearly two weeks.
“Hey! Why so grim?” Cynthia asked, misinterpreting his expression.
“They’re not going to kill you, at least not right away.”
Geronimo smiled reassuringly at her. How could he tell Cynthia about Montana? How could he possibly relate the devastation he’d felt after being betrayed by a Flathead Indian woman? He’d trusted that woman, and she’d rewarded his faith in her by trying to kill him. To make matters worse, she’d almost convinced him to abandon the Family and reside with the Flatheads. Were his loyalties that shallow? How could he have fallowed his dedication and love for the Family to be so easily influenced?
“Rolf might even let you live,” Kilrane was saying. “He’s not as vicious as that bastard Rory.”
Geronimo studied the captain, assessing him as a man of character, a natural leader, the type others would gladly follow. His men had displayed a remarkable willingness to obey his commands. Kilrane had had one of his men confiscate Geronimo’s weapons while he personally inspected Cynthia’s injured foot. His examination had tended to confirm Geronimo’s opinion; none of the deadly pus had entered Cynthia’s bloodstream.