Yellowstone Run

CHAPTER ONE

“Daddy?”

“Hmmmmm?”

“I think I have a nibble.”

The lean man attired in buckskins opened his blue eyes and gazed idly at the bobber attached to his son’s fishing line, which dangled in the moat not two yards from their feet, “Are you sure?”

“Yep. I saw the bobber move,” the boy stated with a conviction belying his almost five years of age.

Sighing, the man sat up and stretched. He ran his right hand through his blond hair, then stroked his blond mustache. “Why don’t you reel in your line slowly,” he advised. “Let’s take a gander at what you’ve hooked.”

“A what?”

“A gander. That means to take a look.”

“Mom’s right,” Ringo said, starting to turn the reel. Like his father, he wore buckskins. Like his father, he had blond hair and striking blue eyes.

Unlike his father, he did not wear a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers around his waist.

“What’s your mom right about?” the gunman asked.

“She was talking to Uncle Geronimo the other night.”

“Uh-oh.”

“And I heard what they said,” Ringo disclosed, carefully drawing the line into the reel.

The gunman leaned toward his son. “What did they say?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why the blazes not?”

“Because it’s a secret,” Ringo said, and grinned.

Leaning back on his elbows, the gunman regarded the boy critically.

“Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do.”

Ringo stopped reeling and stared at his dad. “A what?”

“A how-do-you-do. It’s something that happens that you don’t want to happen.”

The boy grinned. “Yep. Uncle Geronimo has the right idea.”

“What did that mangy Injun say?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

“Are you tellin’ me that your mom and Uncle Geronimo are both in on the same secret?”

Ringo smiled. “Yep.”

“It really gets my goat when those two gang up on me.’*

“I wish I could tell you what they said, but I promised Mom I wouldn’t.”

“That’s okay, son,” the gunman said. “If you gave your word, then I expect you to keep it. Always remember that a man is only as good as his word. I pride myself on the fact that I’ve never broken mine.”

“Never?”

“Never. So if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay. If you’d rather let your Uncle Geronimo make my life miserable again, that’s okay. And if you’d rather hurt my feelings than break your word, I understand.”

Ringo lowered his fishing pole and stared at his father for several seconds. “Do you want me to tell you their secret?”

“What do you think?”

“You’ve always told me to keep my promises.”

“So?”

“So I think you’re trying to trick me to see if I’ll break my word,” Ringo declared.

“You think I’m testin’ you?”

“Yep.”

The man in buckskins grinned. “You know what, sprout?”

“What?”

“You’re right.”

A new voice unexpectedly intruded into their conversation, coming from behind the gunman. “You had me worried for a minute there, Hickok. I thought you were trying to lay a guilt trip on your own son.”

In a fluid motion the blond man stood and pivoted, his hands on his hips, an exaggerated scowl twisting his handsome countenance. He glared at the newcomer, a stocky Indian wearing a green shirt and pants constructed from the remnants of a canvas tent. The Indian’s hair was black, his eyes brown. “What the dickens is this about my missus and you havin’ some sort of secret, Geronimo?”

“Ringo spoke the truth,” Geronimo admitted, walking toward them.

“He always does. Takes after Sherry, I guess.” He smirked impishly.

“I’ll have you know I tell the truth all the time,” Hickok said defensively.

“Oh, you tell the truth, all right. You just expand it in the process.”

“Oh, yeah? Like when?”

“Like recently when you were bitten by that spider in Cincinnati,” Geronimo mentioned, halting next to the gunman on the bank of the sluggishly flowing moat.

“What about it?” Hickok demanded.

“Well, I heard that you told some of the kids the spider weighed eighty pounds.”

“He told me ninety pounds,” Ringo chimed in.

“Was that all?” Geronimo responded, and chuckled. “The thing keeps growing by leaps and bounds.” He beamed at Hickok. “As I recall, you originally told Blade and me that the spider was the size of your hand and didn’t weigh more than five ounces.”

Hickok shrugged. “I wanted the young’uns to enjoy the story. It wouldn’t have been as exciting if they knew how puny the blamed spider really was.”

“But a ninety-pound spider?” Geronimo said. “I’m surprised the mutation didn’t squash you to a pulp when it jumped on you.” He suddenly adopted a serious expression and snapped his fingers. “But I almost forgot! The thing landed on your head! No wonder you survived.”

“You know, pard,” Hickok commented sarcastically, “you’d be a really funny guy if you ever develop a sense of humor.

“Say, Dad?” Ringo interrupted.

“What is it?” the gunman responded, still glaring at Geronimo.

“Why are those two snakes trying to steal my line?”

Hickok swung toward the moat, his hands drifting to his Colts at the sight of a pair of slim black heads near his son’s fishing line. Both heads were within an inch of one another, and the head closest to the line was actually biting at the filament. “What the devil?” he blurted out.

Geronimo, his brow furrowed, walked to the edge of the bank and squatted, peering at the reptiles.

“Should I reel in the line?” Ringo asked.

“Go ahead,” Hickok directed.

The boy began turning the crank quickly, and almost immediately the sinker and the hook rose out of the water, the two snake heads rising with the line, revealing a surprising spectacle. “Golly!” he blurted out.

“What did you use for bait?” Geronimo quipped.

Hickok stepped to the water for a better” view. “One of your old socks,” he rejoined.

There turned out to be three snake heads, each with a neck approximately five inches long, and all attached to the same body. The first head continued to bite at the fishing line while the second head hung almost limp. Lower down, the third head had clamped its mouth on the belly of the fish Ringo had caught and was holding fast despite the fact it could never hope to swallow its prey.

“It’s a mutant,” Ringo said.

“It sure is,” Geronimo confirmed. “I’ve seen two-headed animals before, but this is the first one I’ve seen with three heads.”

“It’s neat. I want to catch it and take it home to show my mom.

“Forget it,” Hickok stated.

“Ahhh, gee. Why?”

“Because your ma isn’t partial to creepy-crawlies, and we’re not going to have this critter traipsin’ all over our cabin.”

“Huh?”

“Your father said no,” Geronimo translated.

“He’s no fun,” Ringo muttered.

“Tell me about it,” Geronimo mumbled in response.

“Swing the line near the bank and Uncle Geronimo will take the snake off,” Hickok instructed his son.

Geronimo glanced at the gunman. “Why me?”

“You’re the one who thinks he’s the great expert on nature. I You’re the one who’s always tellin’ me he knows more about wild critters than I could ever hope to learn.”

“True. But why me?”

“You’re an Indian.”

Geronimo’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Everybody knows mat Indians have a way with animals.”

“True again,” Geronimo said, and grinned. “I am your best friend.”

Listening to the adults, frowning because he couldn’t take the snake home, Ringo sighed and gazed to the south at the compound, his eyes brightening when he spied the giant walking toward them. “Hey, here comes Uncle Blade!”

Hickok twisted and regarded the seven-foot-tall titan for a moment.

“We’ve got to get rid of that snake fast.”

“How come, Dad?” Ringo queried.

“Don’t you remember? I’ve told you about how Blade’s dad was killed by a mutant ten years ago. Ever since, he’s been right irritable around the varmints.”

“I’ll take it off the line,” Geronimo offered.

“There’s a better way,” Hickok said.

“There is?”

“Yep.”

Geronimo saw the gunman’s jaw stiffen and knew what was coming. He stuck a finger in each ear.

“Cover your ears too, son,” Hickok directed.

“What about my fishing pole?”

“Give it to me,” Hickok said, and took the handle in his left hand. He looked back once at Blade, who was still 20 yards distant, then faced the moat and chuckled. “This is for Blade’s dad,” he declared, and drew his right Python, his arm a literal blur, his practiced hand sweeping the Colt up and out. The .357 Magnum boomed three times in swift succession, the shots almost cracking as one, and with each squeeze of the trigger a snake head erupted in a shower of skin, flesh, and eyeballs. In the space of a heartbeat all three heads were gone and the body was sliding back into the moat. “Piece of cake,” he stated, and twirled the Python into its holster.

“Wow! You must be the fastest man alive!” Ringo said proudly.

“Is there any doubt?” Hickok replied.

“Not bad for an amateur,” Geronimo remarked, lowering his arms and standing, his left hand brushing the tomahawk tucked under his brown leather belt.

“Amateur!” Hickok said, and snorted. “I’d like to see you give it a try.”

“I can’t. You shot all the heads.”

“Can I have my pole?” Ringo asked, staring at the fish still attached to the hook. Part of its stomach was missing.

“Sure. Here,” Hickok responded, and gave the pole back. He hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt, turned sideways, and beamed at the approaching giant.

“Do you think he has another mission for us?” Geronimo wondered.

“I hope so. I’m itchy for some action.”

“The itching is from your fleas.”

“Are you going to leave the Home again?” Ringo inquired while reeling in the line.

“I don’t know,” Hickok said. “Could be.”

“Mom, Chastity, and I don’t like it when you go away so much.”

“I know, son. But it can’t be helped. I’m a Warrior, and when the Family is threatened I have to protect everyone.”

“Maybe another Warrior could go with Uncle Blade,” Ringo suggested.

“How about Rikki or Yama or Ares or Sundance?”

“The decision is up to Blade,” Hickok said. “You know that.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about your dad leaving right this moment,” Geronimo mentioned.

“Why not?” Ringo inquired.

“Because Blade is smiling.”

The giant waved at them and nodded at the moat. “What are you doing, Nathan? Shooting the fish now?”

“Everybody is a comedian lately,” Hickok grumbled, and returned the wave. “Nope. Just gettin’ in a little target practice.”

Blade reached them and halted. Every inch of his enormous frame was packed with layer after layer of rippling, bulging muscle. His dark hair hung in a comma over his gray eyes. A black leather vest barely covered his massive chest, and he also wore green fatigue pants, combat boots, and a pair of Bowie knives strapped about his slim middle. He gazed at the fish suspended from the end of Ringo’s tine, noting the hole caused by one of Hickok’s slugs, and saw entrails hanging from the cavity. “Is this a new technique for gutting a fish?”

“I was target-practicing and accidentally hit the fish,” Hickok said.

The giant glanced at the gunman. “You’ve never accidentally hit anything in your life.”

Hickok shrugged. “It happens.”

“Are you taking my daddy away from the Home again?” Ringo asked.

“Nope,” Blade replied. “I just came over to shoot the breeze.”

“Good. Mommy said the next time you take him away without giving her warning, she’s going to kick your butt.”

Blade smiled. “She did, did she?”

“Yep,” Ringo replied, nodding.

“She’ll have to wait her turn,” Blade stated. “My wife has first dibs on kicking my butt.”

“Gee. Does Aunt Jenny pick on you like my mom picks on my dad?”

“Your mother doesn’t pick on me,” Hickok interjected. “We just have a squabble every now and then when she can’t see the wisdom of my ways.”

Ringo stared at his father in evident confusion. “Do you squibble because Mommy usually knows best?”

Geronimo cackled.

“The word is squabble,” Hickok said, correcting his offspring. “And your mom doesn’t always know best. I’m right some of the time.”

“When, Dad?”

The gunman stared off into the distance, pondering.

“When?” Ringo persisted.

“I’m thinkin’.”

Geronimo continued to cackle.

“What’s so funny?” Ringo inquired.

“Ignore him,” Hickok said. “He has a corncob stuck up his butt.”

Ringo’s mouth dropped open and he gawked at Geronimo’s posterior.

“He does! Doesn’t that hurt?”

The gunman sighed and shook his head sadly. “Forget I even brought the subject up.”

“How did he get it up there?”

“Drop the subject,” Hickok said, and glanced at the fishing pole. “Why don’t you go show the fish you’ve caught to your mom.”

“But shouldn’t we take Uncle Geronimo to the Healers?” Ringo asked earnestly.

“Geronimo is just fine.”

“With a corncob up his butt?”

“That’s a figure of speech,” Hickok explained.

“A what?”

“Never mind. Now go show the fish to your mom.”

Ringo frowned and walked to the southwest. “Boy, you never tell me a thing,” he mumbled.

“I heard that. I’ll fill you in on figures of speech later,” Hickok promised.

“That’s okay. I’ll ask mom how Uncle Geronimo got the corncob up there,” Ringo said.

“No, don’t bother your mother,” Hickok said hastily.

“Why not?”

“She’s busy doing housework, and you know how crabby she can get when she’s cleanin’.”

“Mom’s never crabby. But I’ll let her know you think she is,” Ringo proposed.

“No!”

“See you later,” Ringo said, and gave a cheery little wave. The fishing pole over his left shoulder, he strolled toward the row of cabins situated in the middle of the 30-acre compound.

“Uh-oh. I’m in deep doo-doo,” Hickok commented.

“You’re always in deep doo-doo,” Blade concurred.

“I don’t know why these things happen to me all the time,” Hickok said.

Geronimo, whose fit of mirth was beginning to subside, snorted and pointed at the gunfighter. “I do.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why am I always stickin’ my foot in my mouth?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

“Says you, you mangy cuss.”

The giant cleared his throat. “Are you two through?”

“What do you need, pard?” Hickok asked.

“I want to talk about Achilles.”

Geronimo abruptly sobered. “Him again?” The gunman rolled his eyes and sat down on the bank. “Boy, when it rains, it pours.”