Houston Run

Chapter Two

Blade circled to the west, his black leather vest and green fatigue pants blending into the inky vegetation. His Bowies snuggled in their sheaths, one on each broad hip. The night air was cool, and there was a faint breeze from the west. His massive muscles rippled as he skirted a tree and reached a low rise. He crouched, grinning. The longer he took, the more irritated Hickok would become, and he needed an edge if he was to beat the gunman the third time around. The exercise was simple, yet markedly effective. One of the Warriors, in this case Hickok, acted as if he was on guard duty, standing or strolling in the open, alert for any attack. Blade’s task was to sneak up on the gunfighter undetected. If he succeeded, he won. If Hickok heard him or spotted him, the gunman would win.

Seemingly childish, the maneuver served to sharpen their senses. It was one of many exercises designed to keep all of the Warriors at peak effeciency. In addition to comprehensive weaponry training and advanced instruction in the martial arts, every Warrior was required to cultivate skill in the use of stealth and night combat.

The sky was a panorama of celestial lights.

Blade idly glanced up, marveling at the heavenly vista, at the magnitude of creation. He was thankful the night was moonless. It was hard enough to catch the gunman unawares as it was. A large dark cloud was floating far overhead, blotting out a cluster of stars.

Someone began whistling.

Blade flattened. He could hear someone clumping through the woods toward him. Three guesses who it was. But why, he asked himself, was Hickok making so much noise? It sounded as if the gunman was deliberately stepping on every twig and brushing against every bush in his path! What was Hickok up to now? Was the gunfighter so eager to get back to his cabin, he was intentionally making it easy for Blade to win? Or was there an ulterior motive? Blade chuckled. You could never tell with Hickok. And Blade wouldn’t have it any other way. Hickok’s unpredictability was a valuable asset, contributing to his sterling record as a Warrior, and had saved his life and benefited the Family in many a critical situation.

Hickok was slowly ambling to the northwest, whistling “Home on the Range.”

Blade crawled behind a log, then cautiously raised his eyes above the top.

Hickok was 20 yards away, his buckskin-clad form a light patch against the dark background of the forest.

Blade’s eyes narrowed. The gunman would pass ten yards from his position, and was coming around the far side of the low rise. Blade’s fingers probed the ground around him, and his left hand closed on a jagged piece of stone. He swept his hand up and back, and hurled the stone in a wide arc, over the low rise, over the advancing gunman and into the trees beyond.

There was a muffled crackling and thumping as the stone crashed through the leaves and bounced from limb to limb.

Hickok stopped and spun, facing the forest, his back to the rise.

Blade was up and running, his powerful legs churning, sprinting up the rise and reaching the top in four mighty strides. He launched himself into the air, his muscular arms outstretched, certain of victory. But even as his moccasined feet left the ground, he saw Hickok starting to turn, saw the gunman’s right hand flashing toward his right Python. Hickok wore a matched pair of pearl-handled Colts strapped around his waist, and his prowess with the irons was legendary.

Hickok almost won.

The right Python was just clearing leather when Blade tackled his friend, his arms encircling the gunman and pinning Hickok’s forearms, the force of his leap bearing them to the dank earth. He landed on top, astraddle the gunman.

Surprisingly, Hickok was taking his defeat calmly. He was on his left side, neither protesting nor squirming.

“Looks like I won this round,” Blade commented, smirking.

“I don’t know about that, pard,” Hickok responded. “I think this is a draw.”

“How do you figure?” Blade asked.

“Let me put it to you this way,” Hickok said. “How do you feel about partin’ with your family jewels?”

Blade glanced down.

Somehow, even as he fell, even with his arms pinned, Hickok had twisted his right hand, had angled the Python barrel around and in, the .357 Magnum pointing directly at Blade’s gonads.

“I wouldn’t sneeze if I were you,” Hickok joked. “My hardware has a hair trigger.”

Blade stood, smiling. “Not bad. But I still beat you to the punch. You fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book.”

Hickok rose, holstering his right Colt. “Let me guess. You tossed a rock into the trees?”

“You got it,” Blade said.

Hickok shrugged. “Well, you win some, you lose some. That’s life.”

“I never would have won,” Blade stated, “if you hadn’t cheated.”

Hickok stared at his giant companion. “Let me get this straight. You won, and I cheated?”

“Don’t play innocent with me,” Blade said. “You were making enough noise to wake the dead. You wanted me to win. You wanted to get this over with so you can get home.”

Hickok grinned sheepishly. “I figured if I made enough noise, you’d get overconfident, get careless, and do something stupid.”

“I don’t buy it,” Blade told him.

“You don’t?” Hickok responded. “Why not?”

“How long have I known you?” Blade queried.

Hickok frowned. “It’s bad enough bein’ second-guessed by my missus all the time! Don’t you start too!”

Blade smiled. “Being outfoxed by your better half is normal in any marriage.”

“Don’t I know it!” Hickok exclaimed. “They’re tricky, them female types! Before you tie the knot, they act so sweet and innocent. But after you’re hitched, watch out! If you ask me, women make better drillmasters than men!”

Blade nodded. “Tell you what. Let’s head on back. We can finish this tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” Hickok responded in surprise. “Why are we comin’ out here tomorrow night?”

“To make up for your lack of cooperation tonight,” Blade informed him, grinning.

“You mean just ’cause I fudged a mite on one of the drills, we’re goin’ to do it all over again tomorrow night?” Hickok asked.

“You catch on real quick.” Blade turned, walking to the northwest.

Hickok fell in alongside the head Warrior, grumbling.

“What did you say?” Blade asked.

The gunfighter glanced at Blade. “You are gettin’ worse than my wife! You’re turnin’ into a real hardass.”

“You think so?” Blade questioned.

“I know so!” Hickok stated. “And I ain’t the only one who’s noticed either. Geronimo, Rikki, and a few of the others have commented about it.”

Now it was Blade’s turn to display surprise. “You’re serious?”

“You bet I am,” Hickok said, looping his thumbs in his gunbelt. “You’ve changed, pard. I don’t rightly know how best to describe it. You’re more hard-nosed than before. Don’t get me wrong. You were never exactly Little Bo Peep. But you changed after that business in Colorado. At least, you started to change. Everybody saw it. And it was confirmed on the last run you took, the one with Sundance and Bertha to Philadelphia.”

“The trip to Philadelphia wasn’t any different than any of the missions we’ve been on together,” Blade said.

“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.

They stopped and whirled in concert, charging, not missing a beat. Tall forms dressed all in silver.

Blade braced himself, amazed the one he’d stabbed was still erect. They plowed into him in unison, one from the left, the other from the right, lifting him from the ground and slamming him onto his back, the brutal impact causing the air to whoosh from his lungs. He gasped and swung his left fist, clipping one of the silver men on the chin, expecting his foe to be knocked aside.

Instead, the silver man shook his head once, then stared at Blade and grinned.

Blade’s mind was screaming a silent warning. Something was wrong here. Terribly, terribly wrong. He sensed it, his intuition blaring, and he surged against his adversaries. They were on their knees, one on each side, attempting to clamp their hands on his arms, to restrain him.

Concentrating as they were on his arms, they failed to pin his legs. Blade took instant advantage of their neglect, sweeping his legs up, touching his knees to his chin and then lashing his legs out and down, catching the two silver men off guard, his legs clubbing them in the chest and sending them sprawling. He scrambled to his feet.

“Get him!” AS-1 ordered, still standing near the rise.

The two silver men came up in a rush, arms outstretched.

Blade twisted to the right, avoiding the nearest antagonist, and executed a wicked slicing arc with his right Bowie. The keen blade bit into the left wrist of the closest silver man, into the wrist and through the wrist…

The silver man’s left hand dropped to the ground.

One out of the way! Grinning, Blade began to turn toward the second figure.

That was when the first assailant straightened and raised his severed forearm to his face, calmly examining the injured limb.

Blade, stunned, froze. He could see liquid pulsing from the ruined arm, but there wasn’t enough of it, not the copious quantity there should be, and the silver man was reacting too placidly, was actually gazing at Blade with an air of serene resignation. Blade abruptly realized the silver man with the severed hand was the same one he’d stabbed in the chest. But that was impossible! No man could take such punishment, could receive two potentially fatal wounds, and be so unruffled by the injuries! What were these silver men?

“You were told not to resist,” said a voice behind the Warrior.

Blade pivoted, knowing he’d blundered by forgetting the one near the rise, the one with his other Bowie. He attempted to bring his own knife into play, but something smashed into his right temple, staggering him, sending waves of agony rippling over his consciousness. He tottered, and almost fell. With a supreme effort, he was able to stay on his feet. But not for long. Another blow descended on his temple, and he felt his knees buckle as he collapsed, sprawling onto his hands and shins. The world was spinning. He struck out wildly with his Bowie, but missed.

A hard object collided with his temple for yet a third time, and the Family’s head Warrior toppled forward into the dirt.

“He is ours,” AS-1 stated.