David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

Harmon scowled. “You have a great imagination,” he said coldly.

“I’m right on the mark and you know it,” Blade asserted.

“All you’re doing is guessing,” Harmon snapped, “Where’s your proof?”

The question gave Blade pause. As the leader of the Force he could deal: with scavengers, wherever he found them, as he saw fit. Scavengers were the bane of the postwar era.

Human locusts who ravaged and plundered at will, destroying everyone and everything they met. Legally, he had the right to terminate any scavengers he found, and ordinarily he would have blasted Harmon from the saddle without compunction. But Plato’s words came to mind, troubling him, creating uncharacteristic doubt: “You must be careful not to overstep your bounds.” What if, by some fluke, he was wrong? What if Harmon and the band weren’t scavengers?

Harmon made a snorting noise. “I didn’t think so, mister. You don’t have no proof. Which means you can’t do a damn thing.”

Feeling supremely frustrated, simmering inside and ready to explode.

Blade slowly shook his head. “I guess not.”

“Then you’re not going to shoot me in the back while I’m returning to my friends?”

The Warrior’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t shoot my enemies in the back.”

Harmon sneered and started to wheel his horse.

“Wait a minute,” Blade said.

Twisting in the saddle and regarding the giant suspiciously, Harmon halted. “What is it?”

“Have you seen any mutants recently?”

“Mutants?” Harmon repeated quizzically. “We see mutants now and then. A few weeks ago we killed a two-headed black bear.”

“No, I don’t mean the usual kind of mutations. Have you come across anything really strange, seen any unusual tracks?”

“No. Why?”

“I have reason to believe there’s a group of particularly vicious mutants somewhere in Yellowstone.”

Harmon snickered. “If there are, and if we find them, you won’t have to worry about them anymore. So long, mister. We’ve got some buffaloes to butcher.” He swung around and, galloped toward his band.

Annoyed at himself, Blade turned on his heels and headed for his waiting friends. He’d certainly handled that poorly!

How stupid could he be? He never should have made an accusation he couldn’t prove. Now Harmon and those others would avoid the Warriors like the plague. Or would they? If Harmon’s bunch truly were murderous scavengers, perhaps they’d try to kill the Warriors just for the weapons.

Quality firearms and knives were scarce in most areas. Even the Civilized Zone and the Free State of California relied heavily on arms preserved since the war. In the Outlands, men’s lives were of less value than a good gun. So maybe Harmon would get careless and try to take the weapons. He hoped so. He wanted to wipe that smug look off the bastard’s ugly puss.

“What’s the deal?” Hickok asked as Blade approached. “Who was mat lowlife?”

“The gentleman’s name was Harmon,” Blade disclosed. He heard the drumming of hooves and turned to see the band riding over the low knoll.

“I suspect that all of them are scavengers.”

“They why didn’t you blow the guy away? We would’ve taken care of the rest.”

“I didn’t have any proof.”

“What sort of proof did you want? A signed confession?” Hickok responded.

“We can’t go around shooting lowlifes without justification,” Blade said.

“Since when?”

Achilles cleared his throat and addressed the gunfighter. “Why must you give everyone such a bad time? You’re a highly trained Warrior. Can’t you simply accept Blade’s word and leave it go at that?”

“Nope,” Hickok replied. “I’m the curious type. I like to know the reasons things are the way they are.” He paused. “And who asked you, anyway?”

Geronimo nodded at the knoll. “What’s our next move? Do we go after them?”

“No. We’ll continue with the original plan. We’ll stick to the river and travel north. Let’s hope we get lucky,” Blade said.

“If you can call runnin’ into a bunch of killer mutants luck,” Hickok joked.

After burying Iron Wolf they began their trek, staying close to the water. Geronimo took the point and Hickok brought up the rear. In less than a mile they came abreast of a wide plain off to their right. Lying here and there were buffalo carcasses, and Harmon and his band were busily skinning the beasts and removing the choicest meat.

“I’ve never tasted buffalo,” Achilles commented conversationally.

“Neither have I,” Blade said. “But I read somewhere that it’s delicious.”

He saw Harmon and a few of the others glance in his direction, and Harmon flipped him the finger.

“That fellow has deplorable manners,” Achilles noted.

“He’ll get his eventually,” Blade predicted.

The land along the river was essentially flat and the undergrowth tight.

They covered several mites without incident. Once they flushed seven mule deer from a thicket and twice they spied beaver.

“May I ask you a question?” Achilles inquired at one point.

“What is it?” Blade responded.

“How much flack are you receiving about your proposal to nominate me for Warrior status?”

“Who says I’m getting any flack?”

“I do have friends, you know. They tell me that practically everyone who counts is against the idea. Plato. Most of the Elders. Even all of the Warriors.”

“I wouldn’t say all of the Warriors are against the idea.”

“Who isn’t?”

Blade thought for a moment. “Lynx, for one.”

“Oh. Him,” Achilles said softly. “Yes, I know. He told me that he doesn’t care if I’m selected or not, just so long as he can go on a mission sometime this millennium.”

“Sounds like Lynx,” Blade observed.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“As I informed you before we left, there is considerable Opposition to the idea. I’m not about to lie to you. If you want to be a Warrior, you must first prove yourself to a lot of people;”

“To you?”

“You know better.”

Achilles stared at the giant. “I appreciate the fact you’re going to bat for me.”

“Everyone deserves a fair chance. You’ve been branded as arrogant and stuck-up by those who don’t know you very well. They don’t realize your so-called arrogance is really nothing more than a bad case of overconfidence.”

“How can a person have too much confidence?”

Blade gazed at a few dozen antelope munching contentedly on grass on the far side of the river. “Self-assurance is one thing. But having so much confidence that you begin to think of yourself as perfect and infallible borders on vanity. While you don’t necessarily view others as inferior, you do think of yourself as a superior person. And your attitude comes across as arrogance to other people.”

“I know,” Achilles said, and sighed. “It’s not like I’m unaware of the effect I have on those around me. I’m not an idiot. With an I.Q. of one hundred and forty, I’m smarter than most—”

“There you go again,” Blade interrupted, and grinned.

“See? I do it unconsciously,” Achilles stated. “No matter how hard I try to be humble, I can’t. I simply state the facts, and it seems as if the word modest isn’t in my vocabulary.”

“At least you’re aware of the problem. Work on it. You might make a change for the better.”

“But can I perform this miracle in time to be picked as a Warrior?”

“I honestly don’t know. Give it your best shot. I didn’t peg you as a quitter.”

“Thanks. I mean it.”

They continued onward, attended by the buzzing of insects, the chirping of birds, the rustling of the trees by the mild breeze, and an occasional splash in the river as a fish leaped up out of the water. Forty yards ahead the river curved to the right, and the riverbank at that point was covered by a dense thicket, the bushes being over eight feet in height.