“That’s where you’re wrong, pard,” Hickok said, disagreeing. “It was a heap different. Sundance told us all about it. About how Bertha up and vanished, and instead of lookin’ for her, you went on with the mission.”
Blade shrugged. “What’s so unusual about that? We had an assignment, and the mission came first.”
Hickok stared up at his friend. “It did then, that’s for sure. You were all business. And that’s my point. In the old days, before your tussle with Sammy in Denver, you always considered the mission as secondary. We came first! The Warriors with you were your first priority. Do you remember Thief River Falls? The Twin Cities? When any of us were in trouble, you dropped everything else and came to our aid. If we were hurt, you’d postpone the mission. Do you remember those times?”
Blade pondered the gunman’s assertions, realizing Hickok was right. “I remember,” he said slowly. “How could I forget them?”
“So what happened? Why the big change?” Hickok asked.
“I’m not sure if I can answer that,” Blade replied. “I don’t know if I know the answer.”
“I ain’t complainin’, mind you,” Hickok mentioned. “You’ve got a big load to carry, bein’ top Warrior and all. You’ve got to be tough as nails.”
Blade gazed at the trail they were following, his brow creased. “I think maybe it started during our Denver campaign, just like you said. That’s when it dawned on me.”
“What did?” Hickok inquired.
“The magnitude of our responsibility,” Blade elaborated. “I’d always appreciated how important our job is, how necessary the Warriors are to the Family’s survival. I recognized the fact intellectually. But I don’t think I felt it, really experienced what I already knew, until the Home was attacked and almost destroyed. When Geronimo came to Denver and told us you were under assault, I was shocked. Horrified. Afraid you would be wiped out before we could reach you.” He looked at the gunman. “You have no idea what it felt like. I finally understood—fully understood—how critical our conduct is to the Family’s welfare and safety. If we slip up, the consequences can be disastrous! We must treat every mission as the most important thing in our lives. The Family’s security depends on our performance, on our judgment. We can’t let them down.”
“So that explains the big change,” Hickok said. “I’ll have to tell the others. Everybody had a different idea as to what was goin’ on.”
“What did they think?” Blade asked.
“Geronimo said it was married life gettin’ to you,” Hickok revealed, and laughed. “Rikki felt it might be the strain takin’ its toll.”
“And how about you? What did you think?” Blade queried.
“Me?” Hickok grinned. “I just reckoned you had a corncob stuck up your butt.”
“I knew I could count on you for an insightful analysis,” Blade quipped.
“Hey! What are friends for?” Hickok retorted.
Blade, smiling, went to rest his hands on his Bowie hilts. He abruptly stopped in mid-stride. “Damn!”
Hickok halted. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?” Hickok inquired.
“My left Bowie,” Blade said, tapping the empty sheath on his left hip.
The right Bowie was secure in its scabbard.
“Where could it have gone?” Hickok asked, glancing over his left shoulder at the trail behind them.
Blade reflected for a moment. “I’ll bet it fell out when I tackled you.”
Hickok started to turn. “Then let’s go look for it. I know you can’t go beddy-bye without ’em tucked under your pillow.”
“Thanks,” Blade said, “but you head on back. I’ll find the Bowie myself.”
“I don’t mind helpin’ you,” Hickok persisted.
“I know,” Blade stated. “I appreciate the thought. But I don’t want to hold you up. Head on home and tuck in Ringo.”
“I don’t know,” Hickok said doubtfully.
Blade began retracing their path. “What? I can’t find a knife by myself?
I need you to hold my hand?”
“I don’t mind helpin’,” Hickok reiterated.
Blade waved the gunman off. “Go give Sherry a big kiss for me. It won’t take more than a few minutes for me to find my knife. Go!”
“All right,” Hickok remarked. “If that’s what you want. But I’m tellin’ you right here and now, pard, that if I give my missus a big kiss, it won’t be for you!” He grinned, then wheeled, waving. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night,” Blade said. He hurried along their back trail, eager to find the Bowie and head on home. The thought of Jenny and little Gabe waiting for him, with a pot of venison stew boiling on their cast-iron stove, heightened his anticipation.
The leaves in the nearby trees were rustling with the breeze.
Blade mused on his good fortune as he jogged. He thanked the Spirit he’d been born in the Home, and had been reared under the beneficial influence of the Family. When he thought of the conditions existing outside the Home, of the savage barbarism rampant since World War III and the collapse of civilization, he felt intensely grateful for his lot in life.
His frequent missions beyond the walled security of the Home only served to strengthen his conviction and increase his sense of thanksgiving. Only someone who knew what it was like to go without home and family, the two fundamental institutions of human society, he reasoned, could properly comprehend their importance. He’d seen the outside world, with all of its violence, with devious degenerates ready to murder without provocation, ready to slash someone’s throat for the mere “thrill” of killing, and he hadn’t liked what he’d seen. His philosophical musings came to an end as he rounded a large boulder and saw the low rise.
And something else.
Or someone else.
A towering figure stood at the base of the rise, a figure at least seven feet tall and solidly built, attired in a peculiar silver garment and silvery boots. The figure extended its right arm. “Do you seek this?” it asked in precise, clipped English.
Despite the gloom, Blade could distinguish the silver figure’s rugged, yet oddly pale, features. A square jaw was capped by prominent cheekbones. Its eyes were an indeterminate color. Curly blond hair crowned its head.
“Do you seek this, Blade?” the figure repeated. It held its right arm aloft.
The silver garbed form was holding the missing Bowie.
“Who are you?” Blade demanded, taking a step forward, his right hand on his right Bowie. “How did you get in here? How do you know my name?”
“My name is AS-1,” the figure stated imperiously. “And I was instructed to relay a message.”
“Message?” Blade repeated, puzzled. “What are you babbling about?”
AS-1 lowered his right arm. “I am incapable of babbling,” he said. “As for the message, it is simply this: Clarissa sends her regards.”
“Who?”
“Clarissa,” AS-1 said.
“I don’t know any Clarissa,” Blade declared.
“But she knows you,” AS-1 disclosed. “And Primator sent us to retrieve you. Please do not resist.”
Blade drew his right Bowie. “You’re got it backwards, mister. You’re coming with me. Make it easy on yourself and don’t do anything stupid.”
“My I.Q. is one hundred forty,” AS-1 remarked. “It is impossible for me to commit a stupid act.” He glanced to the left. “Take him.”
Blade saw them coming out of the corner of his right eye. A pair of huge forms hurtling from the darkness, springing at him. He spun, dodging to the left, sidestepping their onslaught, his right arm a blur as he whipped the Bowie up and in, imbedding the knife to the hilt in the chest of one of his attackers. He wrenched the knife free as they plunged past him.