Horses snorted and whinnied as the raiders reined up directly in front of Glisson’s. Dust drifted in over and under the batwing doors.
Blade listened to someone laugh, and then a low, raspy voice spoke.
“What a dump. Anyone know the name of this place?”
“Looks like just another armpit to me, Quint,” a second man said.
“Doesn’t seem to be anyone home,” mentioned a third.
“I wonder why,” Quint said, sparking general mirth.
“Do we stop for a spell or keep going?” asked the second one.
“I figure we owe ourselves a little R and R,” Quint declared. “Let’s party till we drop and then burn this dump to the ground.”
Blade had overheard enough. He strode boldly through the batwing doors out onto the porch, and suppressed a grin at the astounded reaction of every face turned in his direction. The leading row of horses was abreast of the steps. Halting on the top step, Blade scanned the ragtag collection of motley ruffians comprising the nomadic band and pinpointed the apparent leader, a bearded rider over six and a half feet in height who wore black leather, including a leather patch over his left eye.
“What the hell!” a rider blurted out.
All eyes focused on the Warrior, and not one of them was friendly. He held the Commando at waist height, the barrel slanted downward, his finger on the trigger, and calmly returned their baleful stares.
The leader rode over to within a yard of the steps and scrutinized the giant. “Well, what have we here?”
Blade deliberately said nothing, his gaze sweeping the raiders, counting 32 all told.
“My name is Quint,” the leader said. “Who might you be?”
“I’m part of the official Second Chance welcoming committee,” Blade replied. “On behalf of the citizens of this settlement, I must ask you to ride on and forget about burning it to the ground.”
Quint cocked his head and stroked his beard. “Is that a fact? What if we don’t want to ride on?”
“Then every last one of you will die.”
Laughter broke out again, nervous laughter, and many of the men nervously hefted their weapons.
“You aim to wipe us out all by your lonesome?” Quint asked.
“No. I wouldn’t want to deprive my friends of the target practice,” Blade declared loudly.
Geronimo materialized on cue on the balcony of the building across the street. He leaned his FNC on the railing and called out, “It won’t be much of a challenge. These yo-yos didn’t leave themselves any room to maneuver.”
Twisting in the saddle, Quint stared at the Indian. “Just two of you? I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”
Strolling out a doorway farther down, Hickok smiled at the riders and stated, “I’ll take the ten nearest me.”
“Three of you?” Quint said, his right hand on his thigh inches from a holster containing an Aminex .45-caliber ACP.
“Three is all it will take,” Blade told him. “Do yourselves a favor and ride on out.”
“No one tells the Outlaws what to do,” Quint snapped, and several of his men fanned out, positioning their horses in a crescent shape around the steps.
“Maybe you’ve heard of us?” one of them said, and chuckled.
“No,” Blade responded.
“I admire a man with balls,” Quint said, still maintaining the fiction of politeness. “So here’s what I’ll do. After we drill you full of lead, I’ll see to it that you’re given a proper burial instead of leaving your carcass for the vultures and the rotten mutations. I can’t be any fairer than that.”
“Your generosity is overwhelming.”
“I’m serious. Tell me your name and I’ll even have the boys carve it into a grave marker.”
“The name is Blade.”
Quint’s sarcastic expression shifted, became immediately concerned.
“Who did you say?”
“My name is Blade,” the Warrior said, raising his voice for every rider to hear, to give them a taste of their own mocking medicine. “Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
Silence descended. The Outlaws exchanged surprised looks and fidgeted nervously.
“I’ve heard tell of a guy called Blade,” a grizzled rider mentioned. “They say he always carries two knives—” His voice broke off as he laid eyes on the Bowies.
The leader recovered his composure quickly. He leaned forward, his good eye narrowing. “I’ve heard of you too. You’re the one who licked Crusher Payne and destroyed the Union.”
“Payne wasn’t the type to listen to reason either,” Blade said.
The grizzled Outlaw coughed. “Ain’t you the same one who killed the Doktor?”
Blade nodded once. “He made a terrific pincushion.”
Whispers spread like wildfire among the band. Everyone in the Outlands was familiar with the tales told about the demise of the most feared man in postwar America, the vile madman who had created an assassin corps composed of genetically engineered hybrids. Merely referring to the infamous Doktor in the presence of children had been enough to provoke nightmares after the children fell asleep.
“What’s a man like you doing here?” Quint asked.
“That’s my business,” the Warrior said flatly.
Quint smacked his lips and folded his hands on his right thigh, letting the reins droop. “There’s no reason for you to be so hostile. What have I ever done to you?”
“Not a thing,” Blade admitted. “But how many innocent people have you killed during your career? Scores, I bet.”
A shrug indicated Quint’s dismissal of the subject. “What’s it to you?”
“Everything. It’s scum like you who are preventing the decent folks of this land from living in peace and attaining prosperity.”
At the word “scum” Quint bristled, scowling and stiffening. “No one talks to me like that and lives.”
Blade grinned, taunting Quint, and said in complete awareness of the inevitable consequences, “Hot air never scares anyone. You should leave before your big mouth gets you into a situation you’re not man enough to handle.”
Turning a livid red, the leader of the Outlaws roared his rage and clawed for his gun.
CHAPTER FOUR
Corporal Carson surveyed the confines of the small cave for the umpteenth time and frowned. His gaze drifted to the Shadow, squatting next to a fire near the narrow cave mouth. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”
“Until I’m satisfied,” the man in blue responded, shifting to stare at the slope outside.
An involuntary intake of breath came as Carson again laid eyes on the large ebony silhouette of a skull stitched onto the back of the mystery man’s one-piece garment. He couldn’t imagine why any sane person would want to adorn his clothing with such a bizarre symbol. “Is that outfit you’re wearing a uniform of some kind?” he made bold to inquire.
“I’ll ask the questions.”
“You’re the boss,” Carson said resentfully. The man never gave an inch.
Carson recalled the rapid pace they’d maintained after leaving the site of the attack, and how they’d gone southwest until they were deep in a dense forest. But then he’d lost all track of direction as the big man led him along the base of a series of low hills until they came to one with a cliff on its peak. At the bottom of the cliff had been the cave.
The Shadow turned and sat down, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap. Lying on his left was the carbine. “Tell me about your childhood.”
Carson blinked a few times, certain he’d heard incorrectly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Tell me about your childhood.”
“You want to know about my life as a kid?”
“Yes.”
“Mind telling me why?”