The Cheyenne Citadel is a fortress. We believe the people living in the Citadel, and those south of it, in what was once called Colorado, are the descendants of the ones the Government evacuated at the outset of World War Three. Once, years ago, before I was born, one of these people, a fugitive, came to live with my tribe. He told us about his life…”
“Your tribe didn’t kill him?” Blade interjected.
“No. Why should we?” Rainbow responded, puzzled.
“He was white, wasn’t he?”
“You’ve misunderstood,” Rainbow stated. “We don’t hate individual whites. I don’t hate you. We can’t blame you for what happened centuries ago. It’s the bastards who were running your Government—the crooked politicians, as they were called—and the bigots and the greedy fleecers. It’s their memory we despise. So long as one Flathead remains to tell the story to our children, my people will remember. And, remembering, we will never become slaves again!”
“What did this man tell your people?” Blade wanted to know. He looked at Geronimo, wondering why his friend wasn’t contributing to their conversation.
Geronimo was gazing out the windshield, apparently uninterested.
“He said the city of Denver, Colorado, is now the capital of the United States Government. He told my parents the Government was oppressive, and he left because he couldn’t tolerate being completely controlled and told what to do and when to do it. About a month after this man came to live with my tribe, he was found dead one morning, still in his sleeping blankets.”
“What did he die from?”
“No one knew. They couldn’t find a mark on him. Anyway, we haven’t had anything to do with the Citadel or the people living there. We kept to ourselves. They kept to themselves. At least, that’s the way it was until several years ago. Then they began sending patrols into our country, and these patrols fired at us whenever they saw us. Our warriors usually chased them off. Nothing else happened until this army marched from the Citadel and attacked us, forcing us into Kalispell and surrounding us. We know they intend to wipe us out, but we have no idea why. They’re better armed than we are, and it’s only a matter of time before my people run out of food in Kalispell.”
“So why are you going back?” Blade asked.
“I must,” Rainbow said. “We should never have left.”
“So why did you?”
Rainbow stretched and yawned. “I’m getting tired. Do you mind if I take a nap? We can talk some more later.”
“Fine by me,” Blade said, watching her close her eyes and lean her head on the seat. Why was she avoiding his question? Did she know more than she was telling? Who was she, really? After all, three soldiers had followed Star and her over a thousand miles, intent on killing them. Why?
The terrain was hilly and covered with brush, the highway winding across the landscape like a giant black snake.
Blade glanced at Geronimo.
“You okay?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You’re not saying much.”
Geronimo sighed and faced Blade. “I thought I was the last Indian.”
“I know.”
“It’s been quite a surprise to learn differently,” Geronimo stated.
“I can imagine,” Blade commiserated with him.
“Can you?” Geronimo asked doubtfully. “I’ve read every book in our library on Indians. I know our history as well as she does.” He pointed at Rainbow. “I’m proud to be an Indian. That’s one of the reasons I selected the name Geronimo at my own Naming. Geronimo inspired me in my youth. He refused to abandon the Indian ways, and fought against being dominated and domesticated. Geronimo is a symbol of me, a reminder I must never lose sight of my Indian heritage. Now, I learn an entire tribe feels the way I do. Now, I’m not so sure…”
“About what?”
“About where I belong.”
“What do you mean?”
Geronimo stared at Rainbow and Star. “I’m not so sure I should stay with the Family.”
Blade struggled to prevent his shock from showing. “What?”
“Maybe I should be living with the Flathead Indians,” Geronimo stated.
“You can’t be serious!”
“I am,” Geronimo declared. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.
The Flatheads and I share a common heritage. I’ve always felt slightly different from the rest pf the Family…”
“Because you’re the only Indian in the Family?” Blade asked.
“That’s part of it,” Geronimo admitted. “I’ve talked with Rainbow about it, and she says her people would welcome me into their tribe. She wants me to come live with them.”
“She does, does she?” Blade remarked, his tone tinged with anger.
“Yes.” Geronimo turned and watched a hawk high overhead. “In fact, she was the one who first suggested the idea.”
“Really.” Out of the corner of his eyes, reflected in the rear-view mirror, Blade caught sight of Rainbow’s face.
She was still leaning her head on the seat, still lying with her eyes closed, still taking her nap.
But she was grinning in smug satisfaction.
Chapter Five
Hickok’s reflexes were panther quick. The barrel of the Henry swept around and the long gun boomed, the slug catching his assailant in the chest and flipping him backward, arresting his momentum, causing him to fall to the ground at Hickok’s feet. Another figure sprang from the leafy tree, and Hickok smoothly danced to one side. The gunman rammed the barrel of the Henry into the stomach of his attacker while the man was still in midair.
The second assailant grunted and tumbled to the grass at the side of the trail. He was armed with a knife, and he clutched it in his right fist as he went to rise and renew his assault.
The barrel of the Henry was jammed into his left cheek. “Make one move, pard, and you’ll have a lot of trouble eating your food from now on. Drop that knife!”
The man froze in a sitting up position. He dropped the knife.
Hickok stepped in front of his prisoner. “Any more of you hereabouts?”
The man vigorously shook his head.
“I hope so, for your sake,” Hickok informed him. “If I hear so much as a twig snap, I’ll blow your brains out.”
The man was gaping in horror at the barrel of the Henry, now positioned at the tip of his bulbous nose.
Hickok studied the captive. He was in his thirties and had brown hair and brown eyes. His narrow face was clean shaven, but dirty. In fact, his entire body was covered with a fine layer of dust. He wore shabby clothes, crudely patched together at the seams, black pants, and a grimy gray shirt missing all the buttons.
“This one is dead,” Sherry announced. She was kneeling next to the first attacker, holding his limp left wrist in her right hand. “I can’t find a pulse.”
“You want to wind up like your friend here?” Hickok asked, tapping the Henry barrel against the man’s nose.
The captive gulped. “Sure don’t, mister!”
“Good. Roll over and lie on your stomach, your hands above your head, and cross your legs. Do it!”
The prisoner immediately obeyed.
“Good.” Hickok scanned the area, but the woods were quiet and peaceful. He relaxed slightly, knowing the man on the ground could not possibly reach him before receiving a bullet in the brain. “I’m going to ask you some questions,” he stated. “You will answer right away, without taking time to think. If you hesitate, I’ll shoot you in the head. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“If you move your arms or legs, I’ll shoot you in the head. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“If I get the impression you’re lying, guess what happens?”