“Hello, Geronimo,” Blade said. “How are you?”
Geronimo glanced over his left shoulder, then stepped outside, easing the door shut behind him. “I’m okay. But I wish I could say the same about my famijy.”
Blade’s gray eyes narrowed. “Cynthia and Cochise? What’s wrong with them?”
Geronimo frowned. “I guess you haven’t heard. They’re both sick. Very sick. I wanted to be there when you landed, but I was tied up.”
“Is it serious?” Blade inquired.
“The Healers have prescribed an appropriate herbal remedy,” Geronimo said. “But you know how it is with the sores.”
The sores! Blade had seen the disease on a dozen occasions during his lifetime. Like the common cold and the flu, the sores struck without warning, debilitating the victim, rendering the unfortunate incapable of performing the most menial of tasks. A high fever was a typical symptom, as were the peculiar reddish, blistering sores which dotted the sufferer’s body. Rarely fatal, the sores were nonetheless not to be taken lightly. The Healers maintained the disease was another legacy of World War Three, linked to the lingering radiation prevalent in the ecological chain. Certain radioactive substances were known to stay radioactive for centuries, and minute particles had been dispersed over the landscape by the prevailing winds after the nuclear exchange. The Healers believed the sores were connected to the environmental poisoning, but the actual source of contagion had yet to be discovered. One fact was encouraging; the sores were not communicable.
“They’ve been sick for three days,” Geronimo was saying. “The worst is over, but they won’t be back on their feet for another two or three days.”
He sighed, his fatigue self-evident. “I’ve been waiting on them hand and foot. They can’t even go to the bathroom without help. I’ll be glad when they’ve recovered.”
“You’d better get back inside,” Blade advised.
Geronimo turned toward the door, then paused, staring at Blade. “Say.
Did you stop for a special reason? Do you need something?”
“No,” Blade replied. “I just wanted to see what you were up to. I’m leaving for Seattle tomorrow morning.”
“You are? What’s in Seattle?”
“Trouble,” Blade said.
“Do you want me to go?” Geronimo queried.
“You stay with your family,” Blade advised. “I won’t need you on this run. Give my regards to Cynthia and Cochise.”
“Will do.” Geronimo opened the door, smiled at Blade, then entered.
The cabin door swung closed.
Blade gazed at the wooden door, deep in thought, before wheeling and striding away.
Two down.
One to go.
He found them seated on the bank of the moat.
The Founder had provided an additional defense for the Home using the Family’s water supply. A large stream entered the compound at the northwest corner, flowing through an aqueduct. Carpenter had supervised the construction of a trench along the inner base of the brick walls, then diverted the stream to serve as an interior moat. The two channels converged at the southeast corner and exited the Home via another aqueduct.
Blade spotted the gunfighter on the north bank of the moat next to a Norway Maple.
“—you get a little older, I’ll teach you how to fish,” Hickok was addressing his companion.
“What’s that, Daddy?” the three-year-old at his side asked.
“That’s where you stick a worm on a hook and toss it in the water,” Hickok explained.
“Why, Daddy?”
“So you can catch a fish, Ringo,” Hickok elaborated.
Ringo, a pint-sized replica of his father dressed in a brown shirt and buckskin pants, stared at the moat for a moment. “Why, Daddy?”
“So you can eat it,” Hickok said.
Ringo glanced at his father, aghast. “I don’t want to eat a worm!”
Hickok laughed. “Not the worm, buckaroo. The fish. You use a worm to catch a fish, then you eat the fish.”
Ringo didn’t seem to like that idea much better. “But fish are nice. We don’t eat fish.”
“You eat fish all the time,” Hickok declared.
Ringo pointed at the blue water. “Not them fish.”
Hickok studied his son. “Where do you think the fish you eat come from? They come from the moat. You like fish. You eat it all the time.”
Ringo’s mouth dropped. “Not those fish, Daddy!”
Hickok nodded. “Afraid so, little guy.” He scrutinized the moat and spied a small school of fish. “See those? We eat fish just like those.”
“But that’s not nice!” Ringo declared.
“We have to live,” Hickok said.
Ringo glanced at his father. “Fish live too, Daddy.”
“It’s nothin’ to get upset about,” Hickok said. “Lots of folks eat fish.”
“Not me,” Ringo stated.
“Oh?” Hickok faced his offspring. “I take it you’re not going to eat fish anymore?”
“Nope,” Ringo maintained.
“Suit yourself,” Hickok said, shrugging. “But you’ll have to cook your own skunk.”
Ringo’s forehead creased in confusion. “Skunk?”
“That critter we saw about three weeks ago,” Hickok mentioned. “The black and white one. Remember? It stunk like the dickens!”
“I won’t eat skunk!” Ringo vowed.
“You don’t have much choice,” Hickok said. “You need protein in your diet.”
“What’s protein?” Ringo asked.
“You know how your ma is always pushin’ you to eat your greens?”
Hickok noted.
“Yes.”
“She wants you to eat your veggies because your body needs them to grow,” Hickok detailed. “The same holds true with protein. Your body needs protein, and fish is a prime source of protein. But if you won’t eat fish, we’ll make due with protein from something else.”
Ringo’s eyes widened. “Skunk protein?”
“Skunks have protein too,” Hickok said. “And you have to get your protein somewhere.”
Ringo’s thin lips curled downward. “I don’t want skunk protein.”
“Maybe you’d best stick with the fish,” Hickok suggested.
Ringo looked at the moat. “I don’t know…”
“You can always have skunk meat,” Hickok commented, suppressing an impulse to laugh.
“I like fish better,” Ringo said.
“Fine. Then we’ll feed you fish instead of skunk,” Hickok stated.
Ringo beamed. “Thank you, Daddy.”
Blade grinned as he cleared his throat and approached them from their left.
Hickok shifted, smiling. “Howdy, pard.”
“Hi,” Blade said. He stopped and crouched in front of Ringo. “You sure are growing! How have you been, Ringo?”
“Just fine,” Ringo responded.
“Have Gabe and you been playing together?” Blade queried.
“Yep,” Ringo answered. “Gabe is my friend.”
“Gabe and you are friends, just like your daddy and I are friends,” Blade mentioned. “And you must always be loyal to your friends.”
“I will, Uncle Blade,” Ringo promised, then added, “What’s loyal?”
“Loyal means to always be true to someone,” Blade elaborated. “To be there when they need you. To give them the benefit of the doubt. To stand by them through thick and thin. Do you understand?”
“Some,” Ringo said.
“Which reminds me,” Blade said, gazing at the gunman. “I want you by my side in Seattle. Be ready to leave at dawn.”
“I already told the missus I’d be taggin’ along,” Hickok remarked.
“Rikki and Yama are going with us,” Blade divulged.
“Four of us? This shindig should be fun,” Hickok said.