David Robbins - Boston Run

Nezgorski looked at the Warrior. “How did you know about them?” he asked, then quickly added, “Yeah. It’s one of those with extended-flight capability.”

“So if we blow up the other one, they’ll never catch us,” Blade predicted.

“And after I destroy the hangars?”

“Home, James. Home.”

He found the gunman at the small cemetery plot located in the northeast corner of the Home, near the gently flowing inner moat. Birds chirped in the surrounding trees, and a warm breeze blew in from the west.

Hickok stood next to a recently constructed marker, staring at a mound of dirt, his hands clasped at his waist, his features downcast. New patches covered holes in his buckskins, one on his left leg and the other on his left shoulder.

“Nathan?”

The gunfighter turned and smiled wanly. “How’s it going, pard?”

“I’ve never been happier,” Blade answered, joining his friend beside the grave. “Jenny has been spoiling me rotten every day, waiting on me hand and foot. Gabe has been a perfect angel. Maybe I should be captured more often.”

Hickok grinned. “Have you recovered from that little stroll of yours?”

“Walking from Detroit Lakes to here wasn’t so hard,” Blade said. “I was fortunate the helicopter got me as far as Illinois, and that jeep got me from Illinois to Detroit Lake before it broke down.”

“Did those scavengers give you any grief when you swiped their jeep?”

“They objected, but I disposed of their objections,” Blade said. “Too bad the jeep gave out when it did. I would have reached the Home that much sooner.”

“The important thing is you showed up before Geronimo, Ares, and I took off to find you,” Hickok noted.

Blade motioned at the grave. “Geronimo tells me you’ve been coming here every day.”

“That mangy Injun is a blabbermouth.”

“Care to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Do you blame yourself for Marcus’s death?” Blade inquired.

The corners of Hickok’s eyes crinkled and his mouth curled downward.

“I picked him to go. I knew he was a greenhorn.”

“You had the right idea. His death proves it.”

Hickok looked up. “How do you figure?”

“At least half of the Warriors require more experience, and taking them on runs into the Outlands and elsewhere is the best way for them to acquire the combat seasoning they need. If Marcus had had more experience, he might have given the signal sooner and would still be with us,” Blade said. “His death wasn’t your fault.”

“If you say so,” Hickok responded skeptically.

“In fact,” Blade went on, “I intend to implement your policy and start taking the less-experienced Warriors with us from time to time.”

“I’m glad you like the idea, but I can’t take the credit. Lynx gave me the brainstorm.”

“Lynx? He never makes a suggestion unless he has an ulterior motive.”

“I reckon he wanted me to take him along,” Hickok guessed.

“So, Lynx wants to go on a mission, huh?” Blade said, then chuckled.

“Okay. We’ll take him.”

“We will?”

“Sure. Last.”

For the first time in three weeks, Hickok threw back his head and enjoyed a hearty laugh.