Geronimo opened his door and dropped to the road.
“I hope you don’t have to tinkle anytime soon,” Hickok said to Mitchell.
He winked and jumped to the ground, closing the door behind him after he landed.
Geronimo walked around the front of the troop transport. “So what’s your great plan?”
“I don’t have one,” Hickok admitted, wiping a dirt smudge from the stock of his Navy Arms Henry Carbine.
Geronimo hefted his FNC Auto Rifle. “No plan, huh?”
“Nope.” Hickok grinned. “I’ll do what I always do.”
“Which is?”
“We’ll play it by ear,” Hickok said. “Trust me.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Geronimo stated.
Hickok walked to the back of the truck, Geronimo on his heels. The gunman drew aside the canvas flap and peered inside. “How’s everybody doin’?” he inquired.
There were three occupants of the rear section. One was a short man in his forties. He wore buckskins and carried a large brown-leather pouch.
He was balding, had puffy cheeks and an oval chin. His name was Morton, and he was a Cavalryman. He was also skilled in the healing arts, and his services were sorely needed because of the condition of the other two occupants; one of them, a lovely black woman, was in critical condition, while the second, a man, was in serious condition.
“They’re still alive,” Morton said in a raspy voice.
Hickok climbed up onto the bed of the transport and walked to the woman. She was lying on a makeshift bed of blankets, her black hair cradled on a white pillow appropriated from the garrison in Catlow, Wyoming. Hickok knelt alongside her and tenderly touched her right cheek. “Bertha? It’s me, Hickok.”
“She can’t hear you,” Morton advised him.
Hickok frowned, his mind flashing back to the battle in Catlow. Bertha was a fighter from the Clan, and one of the dearest friends he had outside of the Family. She had fought valiantly against the Doktor in Catlow, and during the course of the conflict had taken three hits. The ones to her right thigh and the left side of her head weren’t life-threatening. Her third wound, though, was another story. Bertha had been shot in the left side of her chest.
“Why have we stopped?” Morton asked. “How soon before we reach this Home of yours?”
Hickok glanced at the Cavalryman. He was glad Kilrane, the Cavalry leader, had agreed to send Morton along. Bertha required skilled medical care, and Blade had ordered Hickok and Geronimo to transport her to the Home so the Family Healers could properly take care of her. “We stopped because we got some bad hombres up ahead,” he told Morton. “Don’t know how soon we’ll get to our Home.”
Someone groaned to Hickok’s right.
Hickok twisted.
Lying three feet from Bertha was a lean man with long brown hair and a lengthy beard. Like Bertha, he was swaddled in green Army blankets to keep his body temperature elevated. Unlike Bertha, his injuries weren’t due to gunshots. His name was Joshua, and he was recognized as the most spiritual member of the Family.
The Doktor had crucified him.
“How’s Josh doin’?” Hickok inquired.
“Joshua sustained severe wrist and ankle wounds,” Morton replied. “He has a high fever, but he’s in much better shape than Bertha is. We must get both of them to your Home as fast as we can.”
Hickok nodded in agreement and stood. “We’re workin’ on it. Geronimo and I gotta scout ahead. We left that soldier boy tied up in the cab. You might want to check on him now and then.”
“I will,” Morton said.
Hickok walked to the edge of the truck bed.
Evening was descending.
Geronimo had overheard Morton’s words. He studied Hickok’s face, striving to read his reaction. “Bertha will pull through,” he offered by way of encouragement.
“She’d better!” Hickok stated, his tone low and gravelly. He dropped to the ground. “Let’s go.”
The two Warriors crossed the highway and entered the woods beyond.
Geronimo was picturing their position in his mind. They were on U.S. Highway 59, south of Halma. Between them and Halma was the army convoy from the Civilized Zone. A mile north of Halma, the Family had cleared a direct path from Highway 59 to the Home, driving several troop transports back and forth to flatten any weeds or bushes while four men with axes walked ahead of the transports and chopped down all intervening trees. This had been accomplished immediately prior to the departure of the Freedom Federation’s invasion force.
How were they going to get past the Army convoy?
The sky progressively darkened as the two Warriors cautiously moved nearer to the enemy camp.
Hickok slowed as the vegetation ahead thinned out. The sounds of a large encampment filled the cool air: the subdued jumble of hundreds of voices participating in restrained conversations; the crackle of branches and logs burning in a dozen campfires; the clink of metal against metal as many of the troopers savored their evening meal, field rations consisting of baked beans and midget hot dogs; and dozens of other normal camp noises, the belching and burping and laughing which usually accompanied the congregation of so many people in one spot.
Geronimo stopped behind a tree trunk and glanced at the gunfighter.
Hickok was standing with his arms folded, studiously scrutinizing the camp.
“Should we risk getting any closer?” Geronimo asked in a whisper.
“We’ve got to get a heap closer than this,” Hickok replied.
“What does that pea-sized brain of yours have in mind?” Geronimo inquired.
Hickok glanced at Geronimo and grinned, his teeth, a white patch in the gloom of twilight, “Infiltratin’!” he said excitedly.
Geronimo walked over to his friend. “What?”
“You heard me,” Hickok declared. “We’ll do some infiltratin’!”
Geronimo stared at the camp for a bit, noting the brightness of the campfires, the number of the enemy, and the merits of Hickok’s idea.
There was only one logical reaction. “Are you nuts?” he demanded.
“It’ll be a piece of cake!” Hickok assured him.
“Sure it will,” Geronimo retorted.
“It will!” Hickok insisted. “We’ll tippy-toe in, mosey around for a spell, and see what we can learn about their plans.”
“I’d like to tippy-toe on your head,” Geronimo grumbled.
“If you don’t like the idea,” Hickok said stiffly, “just say so.”
“Do you want me to engrave it on your forehead?”
“So what’s the matter with my plan?” Hickok demanded.
“For starters,” Geronimo pointed out, “won’t we be just a little bit conspicuous walking around in these clothes?”
“I’ve already thought of that,” Hickok stated.
“You can think?”
Hickok started to move toward the camp. “If you don’t want to come, fine! I’ll go it by my lonesome.”
Geronimo prayed to the Great Spirit for guidance, and promptly caught up with the gunman. “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to be sorry about this?”
“SSSssshhh!” Hickok hissed.
Geronimo resisted an impulse to kick Hickok in the seat of his pants.
Somewhere to their left, in the dark depths of the forest, an owl hooted.
They reached the final row of trees before the camp. The outer perimeter of the encampment was only 15 yards from the woods. When it had come time to stop for the night, the convoy had simply braked to a halt in the middle of the road. The soldiers had pitched their tents around the trucks and other vehicles, serving as a buffer in case the convoy should be attacked. Guards had been posted at 20-yard intervals. A ring of alert soldiers completely encircled the encampment.