“Why?” Bear quizzed. “I don’t understand.”
Hickok drew Bear away from the door. “Listen, friend.” He placed his left hand on Bear’s broad shoulders. “One of us needs to stay alive. There’s a chance we’d both be blown away if we barged into that room.”
“I ain’t lettin’ you go in there alone,” Bear affirmed.
“I’ve got to.”
“No way, Hickok.” Bear vigorously shook his head. “I ain’t runnin’ this time. I’m stickin’ by you!”
“Don’t do it for me. Do it for Bertha.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you tell me you and Bertha are friends?”
Bear nodded.
“Good. Then get back to where they found me. That’s where I saw her, and my other friends, in that area. If something happens to me, I can go out easier knowing you’ll be searching for them and helping them if you find them. Their names are Blade, Geronimo, and Joshua. You’ll know them easy enough. They’re as crazy as you say I am.”
“Was Bertha still alive last you saw her?” Bear asked, his tone tinged with unconcealed concern.
Hickok noticed, his brow creasing. What did this mean? Was Bear more than a friend to Bertha?
“Was she?” Bear gripped Hickok’s left arm. “I got to know!”
“She was well when I saw her last,” Hickok slowly acknowledged.
Bear breathed an audible sigh of relief.
“I get the impression you like her a lot,” Hickok casually offered.
“I guess I do,” Bear confessed. “More than I been willing to tell anyone, even her. I’ve decided to ask her to be mine.”
Hickok turned away, pretending to watch the door. “Well,” he said softly, “I reckon life is plumb full of little surprises.”
“What do you mean?”
Hickok faced Bear, a devil-may-care smile on his lips. “I mean, pard, it’s more important than ever that you stay alive and find Bertha.”
“And you?”
“I got a score to settle with Maggot.” Hickok took the Winchester from Bear. “You wait at the end of the hall. If I ain’t the one who comes out of this room after all the shooting is done, hightail your butt out of here and go find Bertha and my pards.”
“I don’t know…” Bear said reluctantly.
Hickok gazed into Bear’s eyes. “Go, Bear, now.” His voice was low and hard.
Bear started to shuffle away. “Is something wrong?”
“What could be wrong?” Hickok walked to the door, his back to Bear.
“Get the hell out of here. Now!”
Bear went, unwillingly, confused by Hickok’s abrupt change.
Hickok held the C.O.P. in his left hand and raised the Winchester.
Good! He could use his thumb and forefinger to grip the rifle barrel and still hold onto the palm gun with his other three fingers. The Winchester contained six shots in its tubular magazine, the C.O.P. four. As a backup, he had his Mitchell’s Derringer on his right wrist.
Time to even the score!
He stared at the door, seeing Bertha’s face. What was Bear to her?
She’d never even mentioned him. Why not? If Bear liked her so much, she had to be aware of his feelings. Maybe Bear was the real reason she had been so dead set against coming back to the Twin Cities? Maybe she felt guilt because she found herself liking both men, one of whom came from a completely different background and culture. What chance did they have?
Realistically speaking? They were as different as night and day. Literally.
How would the Family react if Bertha and he become involved? What would they say? Since when had he cared what anyone else thought? He shook his head, his blond hair swirling. Enough of this morbid reflection!
Hickok grinned, recalling a statement he’d made to Blade and Geronimo after they’d killed a mutated bear. “I’d rather die in a fight, with my guns in my hands.” Wasn’t that what he’d said?
Well, now was as good a time as any!
That was when the door opened.
Chapter Twenty-One
The second blow from the tail knocked Geronimo into the putrid pond, the water filling his mouth. He rose to the surface as the creature spun on him, coughing, shaking his head to clear his vision. He grabbed his tomahawks and braced his legs, waiting, his mind racing, trying to identify his attacker.
The beast was at least six feet long, half of it tail. It had four clawed feet, but its main arsenal was the mouth, filled with those razor teeth, some of which protruded from the sides of its jaw.
Geronimo thoroughly enjoyed nature books. He’d, read all of the Family books on wildlife, and as the reptile bore down on him, he called to mind two possibilities. An alligator or a crocodile. He didn’t know which this was, and the name didn’t matter. What counted was the method of dispatching the thing. If his memory served, alligators and crocodiles were tough to kill, tenacious and savage when aroused. And this one was definitely aroused!
The creature was within biting range, the mouth open and targeted on Geronimo.
Geronimo sidestepped, his movements sluggish and slow because of the water. He slashed with his right tomahawk, the edge biting into the side of the reptile’s mouth, drawing blood, but causing only a minor wound. He swung his left tomahawk, the blade connecting on top of the creature, above the eyes. The blow stunned the reptile, but the tough skin deflected the blade.
The reptile submerged.
Geronimo twisted and turned, the back of his neck tingling. He couldn’t see into the water! The thing could grab him by the leg, pull him under, and drown him! He glanced at the ladder, thirty yards distant, his one hope!
Something brushed against his right leg.
He swam, still grasping his prized tomahawks, his arms and sturdy legs churning the water.
Great Spirit, preserve him!
Geronimo narrowed the distance to the ladder. Maybe the reptile would let him go. Maybe it had attacked him because he had pushed against it.
Did alligators or crocodiles eat humans?
The reptilian monstrosity swept out of the water, the head breaking the surface, the jaws clamping onto Geronimo’s left leg below the knee.
No!
Geronimo bent and imbedded his left tomahawk in the creature’s left eye, the blade buried deep, blood flowing from the gash and spreading, turning the murky water a rust-colored hue.
The reptile went under again, releasing its grip on Geronimo’s leg and wrenching the tomahawk from his hand.
Without hesitation, disregarding his hurt leg, Geronimo resumed swimming, his eyes fastened on the ladder.
He was getting close!
Geronimo mentally ticked off the feet remaining, expecting the beast to latch onto him again at any moment. He plowed through the piles of litter in his path, the filth clinging to his clothes and face.
Something nipped at his right foot, but was unable to get a hold on the pumping extremity.
Left arm, right arm. Left arm, right arm. Keep the legs thrashing. Left arm, right arm. He kept his rhythm steady and measured, knowing to panic now was to die.
Another reptile, a smaller version of the first, appeared to his right, lying in the water with its eyes and snout exposed. This one vanished as he drew near.
How many of the things were there? Did they ever attack in groups?
The rungs of the ladder were ten yards from his hands. Eight. Six.
Almost there!
Geronimo reached the metal rungs and gripped the lowest one with his left hand, slipping as he pulled himself up. He grabbed the ladder again and heaved, at the same instant the reptile was on him again, the jaws closing on his right foot.
Great Spirit!
Geronimo brutally brought the right tomahawk down, cutting into the reptile’s other eye.
The thing refused to release his right foot.
He swung again, the tomahawk digging a furrow between the eyes. His left hand, still wet, began to loose its hold, and he slipped in the water up to his waist.