The full moon rose in the east, casting its pale radiance over the land.
The cool night breeze revitalized the gunman. He breathed deeply and roused himself from his morbid introspection, shutting his mind to the memory of Priscilla and Milly being consumed by the vile mutations. He stared at the line of Bear People in front of him, then glanced back at the ten creatures bringing up the rear section. The sight of their brutish forms sparked a rare emotion.
Hatred.
Unadulterated, unmitigated hatred.
Ordinarily Hickok regarded enemies dispassionately. Fighting foes came with the job, and he seldom indulged in the luxury of exercising his personal feelings toward them. If Russians were the threat, he eliminated them coolly and efficiently, without becoming personally involved.
Scavengers, drug lords, gangsters, androids, they were all .the same to him. Line them up and he’d shoot them down. The number of adversaries didn’t matter. Their lives were forfeit once they endangered the Family and the Home. And he’d killed countless enemies in the line of duty without feeling any animosity towards them whatsoever.
But not this time.
This was different.
Resentment dominated his being. He gazed at a trio of creatures who were bearing the bodies of the three dead mutations, and a tingle of pleasure ran down his spine at the thought of slaying every last one. If ever there had been opponents who truly deserved to die, the Breed definitely qualified.
Which brought him to the big question.
How to do it?
Hopelessly outnumbered and unarmed, Hickok knew he didn’t stand a prayer unless he could get his hands on some guns. He guessed that his Colts had been left back on the hill where the fight took, place, and he hoped Blade or Achilles had found the Pythons.
If they were still alive.
Blade’s absence worried him. By all rights, knowing his giant friend as well as he did, Blade should have overtaken the Breed column already.
Warriors were a loyal lot. They never deserted a fellow Warrior in a time of crisis.
Never.
Ever.
If Blade hadn’t been killed, Hickok reflected, then the head Warrior would leave no stone unturned in his search for his friends. Granted, the Breed were trekking westward at a rapid rate, but Blade was no slouch in the speed department either, and the big guy could hike rings around most folks.
So where the blazes was he?
Hickok thought of Achilles, imagining how the greenhorn would react when he heard about Priscilla, Years ago, before Hickok had married Sherry, he had been in love with a woman named Joan, an excellent Warrior in her own right, and he recalled vividly the sorrow that had overwhelmed him when she was killed by the vicious Trolls in Fox, Minnesota. Achilles would probably feel the same way about the Mormon woman, and Hickok felt sorry for him.
He grinned.
Imagine that!
Feeling sorry for that pompous cow chip!
“What can you possibly find amusing at a time like this?”
The gruff question caused Hickok to look up in surprise.
Longat stood a few yards away. He fell in beside the gunman, studying Hickok’s features. “I asked you a question.”
“Get stuffed!”
“Childish hostility is uncalled for.”
“You’re right,” Hickok stated. “You deserve better than hostile words.
You deserve to have your brains blown out.”
The bear-man sighed. “Humans are so predictable. I foolishly believed we might have an intelligent discussion, but I should have known better.”
“What do you want to palaver about?”
“Pala-what?”
“Why do you want to shoot the breeze with me?” Hickok asked suspiciously.
“There are a few questions I need to ask.”
“I figured as much.”
“You did?”
“Yep. I was expectin’ you to torture the information out of us.”
Longat smiled. “How perceptive. Such treatment can still be arranged should you fail to cooperate.”
“I don’t understand.”
The gunfighter smirked. “Get stuffed.”
“You refuse to tell me what I want to know?”
“Bingo. You must have all the smarts in your family. You sure don’t have the looks.”
The mutation glowered for a moment, then unexpectedly chuckled.
“Very well. We’ll play this by your infantile rules. Since you won’t meet me halfway, I’ll call a halt and have the two Indians tied down and chopped into bits and pieces.”
Hickok glanced down at the tomahawk in the creature’s hairy right hand, thinking of the grisly death of Milly Odum. “You would too.”
“Damn straight,” Longat said. “As we have conclusively demonstrated, we of the Breed don’t possess the inconsistent emotional weaknesses so prevalent in you humans.”
“Yeah. I noticed. You’re all rotten to the core.”
“Be nice. What you refer to as rottenness is merely evidence of our superior will to survive. You regard us as callous brutes, when in reality we are simply treating you as you treat the lower animals. We categorically recognize human inferiority and relate to your kind accordingly.”
“One of these days a human will cram those words right down your throat.”
“Who? You?” Longat responded, and laughed. “You’re totally in our power. Your life is in our hands.” He paused. “And if you’re thinking that your giant friend and the one in the red cloak will save you, think again.
They’ve been taken care of.”
Hickok’s pulse quickened. “They have?”
“Yes. I arranged a special reception for your friends in that rocky pass we went through last night. They’re undoubtedly dead by now.”
“Has your reception committee returned yet?”
“Not yet. Why?”
The gunfighter smiled. “Don’t count your chickens until they’re hatched, turkey.”
Longat’s eyes narrowed. “You have a lot of confidence in those two, I take it.”
“In the big guy I do. He’ll make mincemeat out of your precious Breed.”
“The giant is formidable,” Longat conceded. “He’s already killed two of my people.”
“I didn’t blow away those three?” Hickok asked in surprise.
“You flatter yourself. No, you were responsible for slaying just one, which in itself is a remarkable feat. Our superior bodies can withstand more punishment than your frail human physiques.”
“Are you sure you’re not related to Achilles?”
“Who?”
“This guy I know. You and he have a lot in common. You’re both so high on yourselves that your tootsies never touch the ground.”
“I have nothing in common with a lowly human.”
“Don’t bet on it, bucko.”
The mutation gazed at the row of figures moving through the night. “By all rights I should have eliminated every one of you last night. We lost three good fighters and had four others injured. One of them is quite serious.”
“Poor baby,” Hickok said.
“Mock us while you can.”
“I will.”
Longat looked at the Warrior. “I intended to have the Flathead consumed next, but I might change my mind and take you.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
“Enough idle conversation. Where are you from, Hickok?
From other humans we’ve captured, I know about the general organization of the Federation. Your presence in this region indicates you hail from one of the factions, probably the Civilized Zone. Am I correct?”
The gunman didn’t respond.
Longat hefted the tomahawk. “Don’t push me or the Indians will suffer.”
Hickok knew there was no other choice. He had to give in to the mutation’s demands. But—and at the thought he almost snickered—there was no reason he had to tell the truth. “Yeah. You’re right. My pards and me are from the Civilized Zone.”