The Mitchell’s Derringer was gone!
Instantly, he leaned over and felt his left ankle under his buckskin legging.
Oh, no!
The C.O.P. was missing, too!
“If you’re looking for your backups,” Shane said, “you can forget it. The guards found them when they dumped you in here.”
“Yeah,” Wally confirmed. “The one who dropped you on the floor bumped your wrist and discovered the derringer. They both went over you from head to toe and came across the other gun. I heard them say they were taking them back to Wolfe.”
“I’ll have to pay him a visit on my way out of here,” Hickok stated.
“You still think you can get us out?” Wally asked skeptically.
“Piece of cake.”
“Mind telling us how?” Shane queried.
“When do they feed us?” Hickok asked, requesting the information essential to his budding scheme.
“Twice a day,” Shane replied. “Two guards bring a bucket of slop and give us one spoon to eat it with. They wait around until we’re done, then they take the bucket and the spoon and leave.”
“Hmmmm.” Hickok stood and slowly paced the confines of their narrow cell. Fifteen feet long by five feet wide. Not much room to maneuver. “How do they do it?”
“Do what?” Shane didn’t understand.
“Exactly how do they feed us?”
“We just told you,” Shane responded.
“Be specific,” Hickok directed. “Give me details.”
“Well, usually one of them carries in the bucket and the spoon while his buddy and the guard outside the door keep us covered,” Shane detailed.
“What do they cover us with?”
“Guns.”
Hickok sighed, slightly exasperated. “What kind of guns? Handguns or rifles?”
“Oh. Rifles,” Shane answered.
Good. Good. Hickok nodded, satisfied with the arrangement. The five-foot width would work in their favor. It wouldn’t give the Moles much space to react. He spotted a rusty bucket in the far left corner of the cell.
“What’s that for?” he pointed.
“What do you think?” Wally replied. “It would be too messy if we did our business in the dirt.”
Hickok grinned, pleased at the prospects. “Okay.” He motioned for them to step nearer. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”
Chapter Twenty-One
The warm sun on his face roused him to wakefulness. His right cheek, the one pressed against the rocks most of the night, felt sore and bruised as he opened his eyes and rolled over. The lake air was tangy and invigorating, stirring his sluggish senses.
Blade rose to his feet, taking stock. His clothes were very damp and his body cold, but overall he was all right. It was still morning, only several hours after sunrise. A pair of ducks—a colorful Wood Duck with his glossy purple-and-green head and long, downswept crest, and his mate—floated not far from shore.
There was no sign of Gremlin.
That was good.
But the M-16 was at the bottom of Flathead Lake.
And that was bad.
Blade started trekking toward Highway 35. He cut through some two hundred yards of forest before he struck the road. His mind pondered the probabilities as he walked northward toward Kalispell. What if he came across a mutate while he was unarmed? What could he use to defend himself? Find a branch he could use as a club? A lot of good it would do him against one of the larger mutates, such as the former bear they had killed a while back, before the Troll incident. And what if he ran into more Citadel soldiers? He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. It was useless to brood over potential problems. If something happened, he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Until then, it didn’t do any good to worry.
It was just that he seemed so naked without his Bowies!
He began jogging, suppressing his fatigue and ignoring his aching muscles.
Had Geronimo waited for him? Or was he stranded in enemy territory, alone and unarmed? What would happen to his darling Jenny if he failed to return to the Home? Would she… would she find someone new?
What was that?
There was a subdued sound, a low pitched whine, coming from up ahead.
Blade stopped, unwilling to accept his excellent fortune.
It was utterly impossible!
But there was only one thing in the world he knew of that was capable of making the noise he heard.
Was it?
Blade’s emotions soared when he spied the SEAL approaching, coming around a series of curves. The transport would be visible for a moment, then disappear from view behind a cluster of conifers.
What in the world was Geronimo doing so far south of Kalispell?
Looking for him?
Blade stood in the center of Highway 35, patiently waiting, smiling broadly. Everything was coming together perfectly. They could drive to the hospital and search for the equipment Plato wanted, then head for the Home as fast as the SEAL could take them.
The transport negotiated the last curve and hit the straight-away.
Blade could well imagine Geronimo’s surprise at seeing him. The inexperienced Indian would probably slam on the brakes in his astonishment.
Something was wrong here.
Instead of bringing the SEAL to a stop, Geronimo was accelerating.
What was he doing, playing games?
Blade peered at the front windshield, wishing he could see inside the vehicle.
That damn tinted body!
The SEAL was speeding in his direction, and there was no indication Geronimo intended to stop.
A thought hit Blade.
What if Geronimo wasn’t behind the wheel?
With the thought came action. Blade sprinted to the right side of Highway 35 as the SEAL closed in and dove for cover in the underbrush as the transport screeched to a careening halt abreast of his position. He turned, facing the road, and hugged the earth, hidden by a tangle of bushes.
For a minute, nothing transpired. The SEAL stayed still, the engine quietly purring.
Blade considered moving further into the forest and circling to the rear of the transport.
The driver’s window rolled partially down.
“Blade! I know you can hear me!”
It was Rainbow’s voice!
“I know you can hear me!” she repeated. “If you don’t come out now, with your hands up, we’ll kill Geronimo!”
Kill Geronimo? What the hell was going on here?
“You have until I count to ten,” Rainbow announced.
Rainbow must be driving, which meant she was the one who had tried to run him down.
“One…”
Why would she try to kill him? He knew she hated whites. Was that the reason?
“…two…”
There had to be more to it than her loathing of the white race. How had she managed to wrest control of the SEAL from Geronimo?
“…three…”
Where could she be heading?
“…four…”
There were so many questions, and only one way to get the answers.
“…five…”
Blade stood, raised his hands above his head, and strolled to the edge of Highway 35.
The driver’s door was flung open and Rainbow dropped to the roadway, training the Dan Wesson .44 Magnum on its former owner. “Fancy running into you again,” she said, grinning triumphantly.
Blade remained silent.
“What’s the matter, Warrior?” Rainbow mocked him, accenting the last word contemptuously. “At a loss for words?”
The door on the other side of the SEAL opened and closed and two Flatheads walked around the front of the transport. The shorter of the pair, a vicious-looking specimen with a scar on his pointed chin, carried a shotgun. The other Indian, a ruggedly handsome Flathead, held a rifle.
“I say we waste him now,” Scarred Chin proposed.