Blade faced her. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. I’m going.”
“No, you’re not,” Blade stated.
“Bet me, sucker!” Bertha defied him.
“Look,” Blade began, moving toward her. “I don’t want you to come.
Really!”
“I’m coming anyway.”
Blade reached her side and stared into her eyes. “Why? Why change your mind so suddenly?”
“You talked me into it,” Bertha replied.
“I did what?”
“You really are one clever son of a bitch, you know that?” She grinned at him.
“What?” Maybe, Blade speculated, he was the one who was dreaming!
“You knew I’d have to say yes,” Bertha was saying. “I owe it to Zahner, and I owe it to you guys, and I mostly owe it to myself. You knew that all along.”
“Sometimes,” Blade said, shaking his head and strolling away, “I’m so brilliant, it’s scary!”
Bertha, apprehensive over her decision, watched as the muscle-bound hunk headed toward the Blocks. What had he meant by that last crack?
He was ten yards from her when he began laughing uncontrollably.
Now what’s that all about? she wondered.
Chapter Five
In the southeast corner of the Home, far from the Blocks and the cabins and the other areas where the Family normally congregated, was a section devoted to an exclusive purpose: the Family firing range. The children were taught to stay away from this area unless accompanied by an adult.
Although it was utilized almost exclusively by the Warriors, the other members of the Family were required to take periodic firing lessons, to familiarize themselves with the proper use of firearms in case the Home was ever the target of a mass assault.
His hands hanging loosely at his sides, the buckskin-clad gunman concentrated on the six small sticks, each six inches in height, stuck in the dirt fifteen yards distant.
They were Trolls.
Six lousy Trolls, he told himself. Six of the rotten bastards responsible for killing his dear Joan. And they had to pay! Their lives were forfeit.
Joan must be avenged!
His hands flew to his Colts, and the Pythons cleared leather simultaneously. The firing range rocked with the blasts of the six shots, and each of the sticks split at the middle as the slugs tore them in half.
“Piece of cake.”
He twirled the Colts backwards into their respective holsters. His wounds were healed, and he was back in top form. If he stayed on his toes, and avoided being injured in the Twin Cities, he would implement his plan after they returned to the Home. Some of the Trolls had escaped during the course of the battle in Fox. Some of Joan’s murderers were out there somewhere, free as a lark, unrepentant and unpunished.
They wouldn’t be for long!
“That was some shooting,” someone said behind him. “What they say about you is true, Hickok.”
Hickok turned, annoyed by the intrusion on his thoughts, on his plotting for revenge.
The newcomer was dressed in black pants and a black shirt, both worn and faded and patched in a half-dozen places. His hair and eyes were brown, his face youthful and full with large cheeks and bushy brows. He wore a revolver around his waist.
“Don’t I know you, boy?” Hickok asked, striving to recall the lad’s name.
It was on the tip of his tongue.
The youth reddened. “I’d appreciate it, Hickok, if you don’t call me boy.” He said the last word distastefully.
Hickok admired his pluck. “How would you like to be called?”
“Call me Shane.”
The name was familiar. Hickok’s favorite section of the library was the one filled with westerns. He remembered reading a book about a gunfighter named Shane, an outstanding novel dealing with life in the Old West, Hickok’s favorite period in history.
“I wasn’t aware we had anyone in the Family called Shane,” he told the youth.
Shane hooked his thumbs in his belt, appearing slightly embarrassed.
“Well, it’s not really Shane yet,” he said in explanation. “But it will be!” he hastily added. “My Naming is next week, and I intend to pick Shane.”
“Aren’t you Blake?” Hickok asked him. “Poe’s son?”
Shane nodded, frowning. “Yeah. But I don’t like to be called Blake.”
“Fair enough, pard.” Hickok extended his right hand and they shook.
The boy’s grip was firm and steady. “What can I do for you?”
“I heard you were leaving again,” Shane stated.
“Soon,” Hickok acknowledged.
“Then I’ll make this short,” Shane said. “I want to be a Warrior, like you. My father objects, and he refuses to sponsor me before the Elders. I know they’re in the process of picking three new Warriors for another Triad, and I want to be one of them.”
“So where do I fit in?” Hickok wanted to know.
“I want you to sponsor me,” Shane answered.
“Forget it.” Hickok began reloading the spent cartridges in his Pythons.
“What? Why?” Shane demanded defensively.
“Not my affair,” Hickok succinctly replied.
“How do you figure?” Shane’s disappointment was carved into his features.
“You just said your own father doesn’t want you to become a Warrior,” Hickok responded. “I’m not about to become involved in a family squabble. It’s none of my affair.”
“Yes it is,” Shane asserted.
“Oh? How?”
“I’ve wanted to be a Warrior since I can remember. I’m not much good at building things, and farming bores me to tears. But I just know I’m cut out to be a Warrior, and I can prove it if I’m just given the chance,” Shane said eagerly.
“You still haven’t told me how I fit into all this,” Hickok pointed out.
“It’s simple.” Shane stared into Hickok’s eyes. “You’re my hero.”
Hickok, taken aback, laughed. “I’m what?”
“In school,” Shane began, “we were taught the value of having heroes, of looking up to someone who does something you want to do very well. Face it. You have a reputation as one of the best Warriors in our Family, as one of the better Warriors the Family has ever had.”
“I do not.” It was Hickok’s turn to feel a twinge of embarrassment.
“I’m not buttering you up,” Shane stated. “Oh, Blade and Rikki and Geronimo and the rest are good Warriors, but it’s you the Family talks about the most. Didn’t you know that?”
“Sure didn’t,” Hickok replied.
“Well,” Shane continued, “when I decided to become a Warrior, I naturally looked around to see which of the Warriors I would most like to emulate. Guess who I selected?” He smiled.
Hickok’s Colts were reloaded, his hands resting on the grips. “I’m flattered, Shane. I truly am. But I still won’t sponsor you for the new Triad.”
“Why? What’s wrong with me?” Shane’s tone was plaintive.
“How do I know you can handle being a Warrior?”
“Who sponsored you?” Shane suddenly changed the subject.
“Blade’s father,” Hickok answered, recollecting his Naming. “My father had already passed on.”
“And how did Blade’s father know you could handle being a Warrior?”
Shane threw Hickok’s own words back at him.
The gunman inadvertently grinned. “He trusted me.”
“Don’t you trust me?” Shane testily inquired.
Hickok started walking toward the western portion of the Home, Shane at his side. “I don’t know you. How can I trust you?”
Shane fell silent for a moment, thinking.
“Don’t take it personal, pard,” Hickok advised him.
“What if I could do something to earn your trust?” Shane eagerly asked.
“Like what?”
“You tell me.”
Hickok watched a hawk circle over a nearby field. “I can’t think of a way, offhand.”