“A what?”
“A gander. That means to take a look.”
“Mom’s right,” Ringo said, starting to turn the reel. Like his father, he wore buckskins. Like his father, he had blond hair and striking blue eyes.
Unlike his father, he did not wear a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers around his waist.
“What’s your mom right about?” the gunman asked.
“She was talking to Uncle Geronimo the other night.”
“Uh-oh.”
“And I heard what they said,” Ringo disclosed, carefully drawing the line into the reel.
The gunman leaned toward his son. “What did they say?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why the blazes not?”
“Because it’s a secret,” Ringo said, and grinned.
Leaning back on his elbows, the gunman regarded the boy critically.
“Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do.”
Ringo stopped reeling and stared at his dad. “A what?”
“A how-do-you-do. It’s something that happens that you don’t want to happen.”
The boy grinned. “Yep. Uncle Geronimo has the right idea.”
“What did that mangy Injun say?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”
“Are you tellin’ me that your mom and Uncle Geronimo are both in on the same secret?”
Ringo smiled. “Yep.”
“It really gets my goat when those two gang up on me.’*
“I wish I could tell you what they said, but I promised Mom I wouldn’t.”
“That’s okay, son,” the gunman said. “If you gave your word, then I expect you to keep it. Always remember that a man is only as good as his word. I pride myself on the fact that I’ve never broken mine.”
“Never?”
“Never. So if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay. If you’d rather let your Uncle Geronimo make my life miserable again, that’s okay. And if you’d rather hurt my feelings than break your word, I understand.”
Ringo lowered his fishing pole and stared at his father for several seconds. “Do you want me to tell you their secret?”
“What do you think?”
“You’ve always told me to keep my promises.”
“So?”
“So I think you’re trying to trick me to see if I’ll break my word,” Ringo declared.
“You think I’m testin’ you?”
“Yep.”
The man in buckskins grinned. “You know what, sprout?”
“What?”
“You’re right.”
A new voice unexpectedly intruded into their conversation, coming from behind the gunman. “You had me worried for a minute there, Hickok. I thought you were trying to lay a guilt trip on your own son.”
In a fluid motion the blond man stood and pivoted, his hands on his hips, an exaggerated scowl twisting his handsome countenance. He glared at the newcomer, a stocky Indian wearing a green shirt and pants constructed from the remnants of a canvas tent. The Indian’s hair was black, his eyes brown. “What the dickens is this about my missus and you havin’ some sort of secret, Geronimo?”
“Ringo spoke the truth,” Geronimo admitted, walking toward them.
“He always does. Takes after Sherry, I guess.” He smirked impishly.
“I’ll have you know I tell the truth all the time,” Hickok said defensively.
“Oh, you tell the truth, all right. You just expand it in the process.”
“Oh, yeah? Like when?”
“Like recently when you were bitten by that spider in Cincinnati,” Geronimo mentioned, halting next to the gunman on the bank of the sluggishly flowing moat.
“What about it?” Hickok demanded.
“Well, I heard that you told some of the kids the spider weighed eighty pounds.”
“He told me ninety pounds,” Ringo chimed in.
“Was that all?” Geronimo responded, and chuckled. “The thing keeps growing by leaps and bounds.” He beamed at Hickok. “As I recall, you originally told Blade and me that the spider was the size of your hand and didn’t weigh more than five ounces.”
Hickok shrugged. “I wanted the young’uns to enjoy the story. It wouldn’t have been as exciting if they knew how puny the blamed spider really was.”
“But a ninety-pound spider?” Geronimo said. “I’m surprised the mutation didn’t squash you to a pulp when it jumped on you.” He suddenly adopted a serious expression and snapped his fingers. “But I almost forgot! The thing landed on your head! No wonder you survived.”
“You know, pard,” Hickok commented sarcastically, “you’d be a really funny guy if you ever develop a sense of humor.
“Say, Dad?” Ringo interrupted.
“What is it?” the gunman responded, still glaring at Geronimo.
“Why are those two snakes trying to steal my line?”
Hickok swung toward the moat, his hands drifting to his Colts at the sight of a pair of slim black heads near his son’s fishing line. Both heads were within an inch of one another, and the head closest to the line was actually biting at the filament. “What the devil?” he blurted out.
Geronimo, his brow furrowed, walked to the edge of the bank and squatted, peering at the reptiles.
“Should I reel in the line?” Ringo asked.
“Go ahead,” Hickok directed.
The boy began turning the crank quickly, and almost immediately the sinker and the hook rose out of the water, the two snake heads rising with the line, revealing a surprising spectacle. “Golly!” he blurted out.
“What did you use for bait?” Geronimo quipped.
Hickok stepped to the water for a better” view. “One of your old socks,” he rejoined.
There turned out to be three snake heads, each with a neck approximately five inches long, and all attached to the same body. The first head continued to bite at the fishing line while the second head hung almost limp. Lower down, the third head had clamped its mouth on the belly of the fish Ringo had caught and was holding fast despite the fact it could never hope to swallow its prey.
“It’s a mutant,” Ringo said.
“It sure is,” Geronimo confirmed. “I’ve seen two-headed animals before, but this is the first one I’ve seen with three heads.”
“It’s neat. I want to catch it and take it home to show my mom.
“Forget it,” Hickok stated.
“Ahhh, gee. Why?”
“Because your ma isn’t partial to creepy-crawlies, and we’re not going to have this critter traipsin’ all over our cabin.”
“Huh?”
“Your father said no,” Geronimo translated.
“He’s no fun,” Ringo muttered.
“Tell me about it,” Geronimo mumbled in response.
“Swing the line near the bank and Uncle Geronimo will take the snake off,” Hickok instructed his son.
Geronimo glanced at the gunman. “Why me?”
“You’re the one who thinks he’s the great expert on nature. I You’re the one who’s always tellin’ me he knows more about wild critters than I could ever hope to learn.”
“True. But why me?”
“You’re an Indian.”
Geronimo’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that have to do with anything?”
“Everybody knows mat Indians have a way with animals.”
“True again,” Geronimo said, and grinned. “I am your best friend.”
Listening to the adults, frowning because he couldn’t take the snake home, Ringo sighed and gazed to the south at the compound, his eyes brightening when he spied the giant walking toward them. “Hey, here comes Uncle Blade!”
Hickok twisted and regarded the seven-foot-tall titan for a moment.
“We’ve got to get rid of that snake fast.”
“How come, Dad?” Ringo queried.
“Don’t you remember? I’ve told you about how Blade’s dad was killed by a mutant ten years ago. Ever since, he’s been right irritable around the varmints.”