Dakota Run

Chapter Nineteen

He struggled against the darkness, his own mind balking at the prospect of returning to full consciousness. His head had sustained two severe blows, and the pain was intense, his temples throbbing. He attempted to recall his final memory before he blacked out, but it was indistinct and shrouded in a haze. Slowly, laboriously, his remembrance returned. There was a jumbled picture of a large hole in the ground, of a crater of some sort, of his tomahawk clenched in his right hand, and of… of… what?

Like a massive tidal wave pounding onto a beach, the final moments before he was rendered unconscious washed over his mind.

Ants!

The ants!

Geronimo came instantly awake, sitting up, perspiration coating his body, his eyes widespread.

The ants!

Where were the ants?

“He’s revived,” a man’s voice commented.

“About damn time!” griped another.

Geronimo gazed around him, still in a daze, uncertain of the reality of what he was observing.

Ten members of the Legion patrol were gathered nearby, their mounts within a hand’s reach for a quick getaway, should the need arise. Kilrane, Cynthia, and Hamlin were also there, Kilrane and Hamlin only feet away, watching him intently, and Cynthia by his side, her left hand on his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” she asked him.

“Have you ever heard of deja vu?” Geronimo replied.

“No,” Cynthia said, “can’t say as I have. What is it? Sounds like a fancy food.”

“Are you up to traveling?” Kilrane interjected.

“I think so,” Geronimo answered. “How long was I out?”

“Hours,” Hamlin informed him. “It’s a little past noon.”

Geronimo squinted up at the sun, confirming the hour.

“We have a spare horse for you,” Kilrane mentioned. “We’ve got to get out of here, and fast. We must put as much distance between us and the Dead Zone as we can before nightfall.”

“We’re still in the Dead Zone?” Geronimo queried, gingerly touching the side of his head with his right hand. There wasn’t any sign of blood. It only felt as if his head were split open.

“About a mile from the tunnel we were in,” Kilrane elaborated. “Behind a small hill, out of sight of the ants. Very few have emerged from the pit in the past few hours. Apparently you were right about them. They don’t like the daylight all that much.”

Geronimo spotted his tomahawk on the ground at his feet. He groped under his arm and found the Arminius in its shoulder holster.

“You were still holding that tomahawk when we pulled you from the ant crater,” Kilrane remarked. “You wouldn’t let go of it for anything.”

“How did I escape from that pit?” Geronimo questioned Kilrane.

“We drug you out,” Kilrane explained. “I lassoed you from the rim and we all pitched in to pull you to the top. Surprisingly, the ants didn’t pursue us. They were occupied with the bodies of the ones you killed, and they left us alone long enough to hightail it out of there.”

Geronimo, surveying his surroundings, saw the Palomino behind Kilrane. “Wait a minute! What’s going on?” He stared at the Legion captain. “I thought you said you fell into the pit, the same as we did. But your horse is still here.”

“I never said that I fell,” Kilrane responded. “I saw Cynthia and you go over the edge, reined in, looked down, and saw that ant attacking you. I just had time to yell directions to Hamlin, and then I jumped in to lend you a hand.”

“You jumped in? You deliberately leaped in after us?” Geronimo slowly stood, Cynthia rising with him, her concerned eyes never leaving his face.

“I would have done the same for any of my men,” Kilrane stated nonchalantly, “or for someone I’d come to consider a friend.”

Geronimo placed his right hand on Kilrane’s left shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Hamlin was saying, “he told us to wait as close as we could and watch for a signal. We were keeping binoculars trained on that big hole when Kilrane and the woman came out. Naturally, we rode down to help them, and you know the rest.”

“Is this all that’s left of your patrol?” Geronimo queried, sweeping his left hand in a circle.

Kilrane frowned and nodded. “Don’t know what happened to the rest. Maybe they became lost in the dust storm. Maybe the ants got them. No way of knowing. I do know I intend to save the rest of our mangy hides, so we’d better make tracks and vamoose.”

The other riders took that as their cue and promptly mounted.

Cynthia grabbed the reins of a brown stallion. “Here. We can use this one.”

Kilrane swept up onto his Palomino. “We must be out of the Dead Zone by evening,” he emphasized. “Are you up to some hard riding?”

“We’ll soon know,” Geronimo predicted as he climbed on the stallion.

He extended his right arm and Cynthia nimbly deposited herself behind him.

“Give a yell if you get dizzy,” Kilrane advised. He raised his right arm and motioned for the group to move out.

The patrol rode up the hill and stopped.

The immediate vicinity of the ant tunnel was devoid of life. For the moment, anyway.

“Let’s ride!” Kilrane barked.

They galloped down the hill and onto the plain beyond, bearing to the southwest, casting apprehensive glances over their shoulders, dreading the appearance of those stick-like appendages at the rim of the cavity.

Cynthia placed her lips next to Geronimo’s right ear. “It’s the hottest part of the day, long about now. If those ants really don’t like sunlight or heat we shouldn’t see any of them.”

“We hope,” Geronimo said. He found it difficult to concentrate properly, the motion of his steed causing extreme discomfort in his head.

He gritted his teeth and bore the torture, knowing it was unlikely he would survive another night in the Dead Zone. With the descent of darkness, the insects would emerge in force and scour the countryside for food. He didn’t intend to become the entree at an ant picnic!

The trip seemed interminable.

The sun beat down mercilessly, draining Geronimo’s weary body of what little moisture it had retained. The bouncing of the brown stallion sparked periodic twinges in his head, stabbing, lancing aches and intermittent spasms. Geronimo wondered, again, if he were suffering from a concussion.

The sun climbed higher in the sky.

Geronimo became aware of Cynthia’s arms clasped around his waist, of her breath on the back of his neck. He recalled her fiery embrace the night before, and realized he wanted to spend more intimate interludes with her. But how? He contemplated the possibilities and narrowed them down to two. First, he could remain with her, join her on the family farm, or establish a farm or ranch of his own. The prospect was singularly unappealing. He knew working with the soil was exalted labor, but the lifestyle wasn’t for him for the same reason he’d declined becoming a Tiller at the Home; watching corn grow, in terms of sheer excitement, had to rate a minus twenty on a scale of one to ten. He wasn’t about to resign his status as a Warrior, at least not yet. That left the second scenario. He could take Cynthia with him to the Home. But how would she feel about the idea? Would she be willing to leave her family, give up the existence she knew for a total unknown? Abandon her loved ones for a man she’d only met recently?

“What are you thinking about?” she said in his ear.

“You,” he admitted.

“What about me?”

“You sure you want to hear it?”

She laughed. “I don’t have anything else to do at the moment.”

Geronimo took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “Okay. But you may not like what you’re going to hear.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Cynthia suggested.

Here goes nothing! Geronimo mentally braced himself for rejection and detailed his proposal.