“Figures,” the Indian muttered.
“What’s that crack supposed to mean?” the gunman demanded, sliding from the rim.
“It means you couldn’t spot them if they were sitting on the tip of your nose, Hickok.”
“Is that so?” Hickok retorted.
“White men need binoculars to see anything more than ten yards away,” claimed the Indian.
“And I suppose Injuns don’t?”
“Every Indian is endowed with the exceptional vision of an eagle. We can spot a fly at five hundred yards, a bear a mile off. Why do you think your race always used members of my race as scouts and guides back in the ancient times of the Old West?” the man in green responded.
“Because the whites needed somebody who knew which leaves were safe to use,” Hickok cracked.
“Excuse me for interrupting,” the giant said, “but there is the little matter of getting safely through enemy territory to the base.” His voice became stern. “The next one who opens his big mouth will pull extra wall duty for a month. Is that clear, Hickok?”
“Yeah, pard,” the gunman replied, then grumbled. “What a grump!”
“Is that clear, Geronimo?” the giant addressed the Indian.
“Clear as a bell, Blade.”
“Good. Now let’s reach the base without being detected,” Blade proposed. He rose to his knees, scanned the west slope of the hill, and nodded. “The coast is clear. Let’s go.” He stood and jogged over the crest, winding between the trees and skirting any boulders in his path.
Hickok and Geronimo dutifully followed.
Blade came to the edge of a clearing and halted, taking his bearings by the position of the morning sun, calculating he had 150 yards to go. He was about to step into the clearing when he observed a small form scurry into concealment behind a pine tree less than 20 yards to the south. A grin creased his lips.
“There’s one on our trail,” Geronimo suddenly whispered.
Blade glanced over his right shoulder. “Did you see him?”
“No, but I know he’s there.”
The loud snap of a dry twig sounded to their rear, confirming Geronimo’s assertion.
“Okay,” Blade said quietly. “They know where we’re at. Stealth is no longer important. Let’s make a dash for the base.”
“It’ll be a piece of cake,” Hickok said. “Those turkeys can’t catch us.”
“I’m ready,” Geronimo said.
“Then let’s do it,” Blade said, and took off, racing westward, vaulting all obstacles, heedless of the noise he created. A recently tilled field appeared 30 yards ahead, and he bore to the left, intending to go around it rather than disturb the rows of meticulously planted seeds. He was almost to the southwest corner when he realized he’d done exactly as the opposition had expected.
Between the corner of the field and the forest rose an enormous bur oak, 70 feet in height with a stout trunk four feet in diameter. A path ran along the edge of the tilled field, passing within two feet of the tree.
Blade angled onto the well-used path. He came abreast of the bur oak and glimpsed a diminutive shape leaping at him from the cover of the tree trunk. He tried to twist aside, to evade the hand clawing at his vest. Thin fingers snatched at the leather and a squeal of triumph attended the contact.
“I got him!” a childish voice cried.
Hickok and Geronimo fared no better.
The gunman, laughing heartily at Blade’s capture, tried to turn and escape. Instead, he inadvertently collided with Geronimo, and before either could hope to flee another pygmy-sized opponent came around the other side of the tree trunk and slapped both of them on their butts.
“We did it!” the elated winner shouted. “We won!”
Hickok placed his hands on his hips and glared at Geronimo. “Smart move, you cow chip! This is the third time we’ve lost.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to reverse direction?” Geronimo countered. “Do you think I can read your feeble mind?”
“You couldn’t read a first-grade primer without help.”
Blade smiled down at the two boys congratulating one another for a job well done. A third boy burst from the brush and joined their group.
“Did we win again?” the third boy asked.
“They didn’t stand a chance!” stated the boy who had tagged the giant.
He stood four feet in height and possessed a remarkable physical build for his size and age. His eyes were blue, his hair black. A short-sleeved brown shirt and faded blue pants covered his powerful frame. He looked up at Blade. “Did you let us win, Dad?”
“No, Gabe,” Blade answered. “You won honestly.”
“I got my dad and Geronimo!” boasted the second child, who in every respect was a carbon copy of his father; the same blond hair, the same lean figure, even the same style of clothing in the buckskins and moccasins he wore.
“Don’t get a swelled head over it,” Hickok admonished the youngster.
“You wouldn’t have caught me, Ringo, if Geronimo wasn’t such a klutz.”
“My daddy isn’t a klutz!” said the third boy, whose Indian lineage was readily apparent. Like his father, he had on a green shirt and pants.
“Thanks for sticking up for me, Cochise,” Geronimo said, placing his right hand on his son’s left shoulder.
“Wait until Mommy hears we won again!” Ringo said.
“There’s no need to tell her,” Hickok said testily.
“Why not?” Ringo asked.
“Yeah, why not?” Blade added, baiting the gunfighter.
“Well, you know how women are,” Hickok responded.
Blade grinned and crossed his arms on his chest. “No. Tell us.”
“Yeah, tell us,” Geronimo said.
“What are women like, Daddy?” Ringo asked innocently.
“Women are contrary critters,” Hickok said seriously. “They have a hard time understandin’ things that are important to a man, like huntin’ and fishin’ and guns and such.”
“But Mommy likes to hunt and fish, and she has her own M.A.C. 10 and two revolvers,” Ringo pointed but.
“Yeah, but she’s a Warrior like me,” Hickok said, defending his line of reasoning. “She’s not like most women, which is one of the reasons we got hitched.”
“I still want to tell Mommy we beat you three times,” Ringo persisted with the single-minded determination of a young boy who was only eight months shy of his fifth birthday.
“Your mom and your sister have been busy cleanin’ our cabin all morning,” Hickok said. “If we tell Sherry that we’ve been playin’ War Tag, she’ll accuse me of goofing off while she’s workin’.”
“You have been goofing off,” Geronimo said dryly.
“Who asked you?” Hickok retorted.
Blade chuckled and ambled to the west. “All of us should be getting back. Lunch will be in half an hour.” He looked down as his son came up on his left.
“Why does Uncle Hickok always say things that get him in trouble with Aunt Sherry?” Gabriel asked earnestly.
“I can answer that,” Geronimo interjected. “Hickok suffers from the dreaded foot-in-mouth disease.”
“Do you, Daddy?” Ringo asked his father.
“Don’t listen to Geronimo,” Hickok advised. “He thinks he’s a regular comedian.”
“What’s a comedian?” Ringo asked.
“Someone who says and does funny things all the time,” Hickok explained.
“Like you?” Ringo responded.
Blade and Geronimo cackled.
The three men and their sons strolled toward a row of cabins visible 60 yards ahead. Birds chirped in nearby trees. Squirrels scampered on a maple tree they passed. Two white butterflies flitted above the tilled field.