The troop transport was 40 yards from the jeep and beginning to brake.
“Maybe the truck is carrying munitions,” Brandon guessed.
By the time it was 20 yards out, the truck had slowed to a crawl.
“I’ll bet the driver is as surprised to see us as we are to see him,” Telford commented.
Mitchell attempted to see the driver, but the truck’s windshield was caked with dirt and grime. He could distinguish nothing more than a blurred form behind the steering wheel.
The troop transport stopped ten yards from the three troopers.
Brandon took a step toward the truck.
Mitchell abruptly, inexplicably, was filled with premonition of impending danger. He’d felt it before, during the campaign against the Flatheads, and had learned to trust his instincts.
But what could be wrong now?
The driver’s door on the transport was flung open, and a lean, blond, buckskin-clad figure jumped to the asphalt. His blue eyes were dancing with mirth, and his blond mustache and lips were curling upward in a wide grin.
“You!” Mitchell cried in alarm.
“Howdy, gents,” the newcomer offered in a friendly manner, his tone belied by the proximity of his hands to the pearl-handled revolvers strapped around his narrow waist.
Mitchell glanced at his two companions. From the shocked expressions on their faces he knew they also recognized the man with the fancy handguns.
“I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you boys to drop your M-16’s,” the man in the buckskins stated.
Telford licked his dry lips. “And what if we don’t?” he demanded.
The newcomer chuckled. “That suits me right fine,” he said. “But it would be a heap healthier for you if you did drop ’em.”
Brandon gazed at Mitchell and Telford. “There’s three of us and only one of him.”
Mitchell hesitated. From what he’d heard, this man could take out all three of them without working up a sweat.
“I ain’t got all day,” the newcomer informed them.
Telford stupidly made the first move. He tried to bring his M-16 up, envisioning the great reward he would receive if he killed the man in the buckskins.
But he never lived to claim it.
The newcomer’s right hand flashed to his right holster, his motion a streak as the pearl-handled revolver cleared leather.
Mitchell saw Telford’s head snap backward as the revolver boomed, a portion of the upper rear of his cranium exploding outward in a geyser of blood, brains, and other bits and pieces. He was slammed to the asphalt by the impact.
Brandon attempted to bring his M-16 to bear, but compared to the gunman he was moving in slow motion. A bullet from the revolver caught him between the eyes and twisted his body to the left. His brown eyes locked on Mitchell and he blinked once, his face reflecting his shocked disbelief, before he groaned and crumpled to the highway.
Mitchell found himself alone, his M-16 held at his side, staring down the barrel of a pearl-handled revolver.
“What’s it gonna be?” the gunman questioned him.
“Do I have a chioce?” Mitchell asked, his tone strained.
The passenger door on the troop transport suddenly snapped open and a stocky man dressed all in green, with a green long-sleeved shirt and green fatigue pants, dropped to the ground and ran around the front of the truck. His appearance presented quite a contrast to the gunman’s. He was shorter in stature than the gunman by at least half a foot. His black hair was cropped short, barely covering his ears, whereas the guman’s blond locks descended to his shoulders. While both men might accurately be called handsome, the man in green had broader facial features and brown eyes. In his hands was an FNC Auto Rifle. Under his right arm in a shoulder holster was a revolver. And tucked under the front of his leather belt was a tomahawk.
“Drop it or die,” the gunman said to Mitchell.
The trooper debated his prospects. He could comply with the gunman’s command, or he could try to kill the gunman, an act equivalent to certain suicide.
Mitchell released the M-16 and it clattered as it struck the surface of the road.
The gunman grinned. “Smart move!”
The man in green glanced at the gunman. “I thought I told you to wake me up if we ran into trouble.”
The gunman shrugged. “There wasn’t any trouble.”
“Oh?” The man in green nodded in the direction of the two bodies.
“What do you call this?”
The gunman chuckled. “A piece of cake, pard,” he replied.
“One day,” the man in green predicted, “your arrogance will be the death of you.”
“Worrywart!” the gunman retorted, and laughed. He casually reloaded his right revolver from his cartridge belt, then twirled the handgun into its holster.
The man in green covered Mitchell with the FNC.
“So what do we have here?” the gunman inquired. He sauntered up to the soldier. “What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Mitchell,” the trooper hastily blurted out. “Arthur Mitchell.”
“And what are you doing here, so far from the Civilized Zone?” the gunman queried.
Mitchell swallowed hard, but refused to respond.
“We’ll get to that in a moment,” the gunman stated ominously, his hands resting on his pearl-handled revolvers. “I noticed you recognized me when you first saw me.”
Mitchell nodded. “You’re Hickok.”
“How’d you know who I am?” Hickok asked.
“We know about the Family,” Mitchell revealed. “And we know about the Warriors.”
The man in green stepped closer. “Then you must know who I am as well.”
Mitchell shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t quite place you.”
Hickok cackled.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” the man in green said to the gunman.
Mitchell was astonished by their cool composure. What were they going to do to him? Kill him? Were they playing some kind of game? Was that it? How could they make jokes at a time like this? Hickok had just slain two men, yet he was engaging in light-hearted banter as if nothing had happened. What kind of men were these Warriors?
Hickok indicated the man in green with his right hand. “This is my pard, Geronimo. Geronimo, meet Arthur Mitchell.”
“I heard him say his name,” Geronimo remarked.
“Why do you have such strange names?” Mitchell ventured to inquire, hoping if he kept the conversation going, if he kept them talking, they might delay doing whatever they were going to do to him.
“Strange?” Hickok repeated. “What’s so strange about our names?”
“I’ve never heard of anyone called Geronimo before,” Mitchell explained.
Geronimo straightened. “I selected my name in honor of a great Indian who lived long, long ago in prewar times.”
“You picked your own name?” Mitchell questioned in disbelief. “You Family types sure are weird!”
“I thought you said you knew about our Family,” Geronimo reminded the youthful soldier.
“I know you have your compound in northwestern Minnesota,” Mitchell divulged. “We were told you’re a pack of filthy degenerates, renegades intent on murdering everyone in the Civilized Zone. The officers also told us about the Warriors, about how you’ve slaughtered innocent woman and children and done all kinds of terrible things.”
Hickok gazed at Geronimo. “Is this bozo for real?”
Geronimo’s brow was furrowed in thought. “Evidently, the officers have told the lower ranks lies about us.”
“Why would they feed the troops a bunch of bull about the Family?” Hickok asked, puzzled.