David Robbins - Denver Run

Blade patted his Bowies. “Just these.”

“No gun?” Rikki responded, surprised.

“The driver told us Samuel would be unarmed,” Blade stated. “I’m not about to waltz into the tent packing a lot of hardware. My Bowies have never failed me before. They’ll suffice.”

“Are you taking the SEAL?” Yama asked him.

“Nope,” Blade answered. He glanced at Kilrane. “Would you have one of our jeeps driven up here?”

“On its way,” Kilrane said, and departed.

“Why won’t you take the SEAL?” Rikki wanted to know. “Its bulletproof body can protect you in case of an ambush.”

“The SEAL stays here,” Blade declared. “We can’t run the risk of it falling into enemy hands. With all the firepower it has, the SEAL is invaluable to our Family.” He paused. “Besides, if I do get into hot water, you can bail me out with the SEAL.”

“I don’t know,” Rikki commented doubtfully.

“You have been paying attention to the driving lessons I gave you on the way down here, haven’t you?” Blade asked.

“You know I have,” Rikki retorted.

“Then what’s the problem?” Blade queried him.

Further conversation was precluded by the arrival of the jeep. The driver, a brown-haired man from the Clan, parked the vehicle and hopped out, leaving the engine idling. “It’s all yours,” he said to Blade.

Blade walked around the front of the jeep and climbed into the driver’s seat. He fondly gazed at Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. “Hold the fort until I return.” He hesitated. “If I shouldn’t return,” he added, “then you know what to tell Jenny.”

Rikki nodded.

“Give a yell if you need us,” Yama advised.

Blade smiled at them and shifted into gear.

“The Spirit be with you,” Rikki offered.

Blade drove toward the tent. He didn’t want to alarm his friends, but he agreed with their assessment. Knowing Samuel II as he did, there was no doubt this arrangement was a setup. But if he refused to attend, the violent clash between the Freedom Federation and the Civilized Zone’s army became inevitable. If he did meet with Samuel, there was always the prospect, no matter how unlikely, of resolving the conflict, of settling the war, without the further loss of lives.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi had been right; the needless loss of life appalled him.

He could kill when necessary, even ruthlessly on occasion, but not wantonly, not indiscriminately.

The tent reared its dark green shape directly ahead, its sides whipping in the wind like a ghastly green ghost.

Blade parked his jeep alongside the front one. He peered into Samuel’s vehicle before climbing from his own, noting it empty. As he slid from his jeep he happened to notice a brown tarp bundled on the back seat.

The sun was almost overhead, at the noontime point in its aerial trajectory.

Blade insured his Bowies were loose in their sheaths, took a deep breath, and entered the tent.

“I was beginning to believe you wouldn’t show,” stated the lone occupant.

Blade scanned the interior, noting the table, the chairs, the wide empty space beyond. A disturbing thought flitted across his mind: why so large a tent for a meeting between two men?

“Did you have to bring them?” demanded the speaker.

Blade stared at the man sitting to the left of the folding table, and it was only with consumate self-control that he was able to prevent his shock from showing.

Samuel II was well on in years, and his aged body displayed every wrinkle, every crack in his dry, sagging skin. His shiny pate was bald, utterly devoid of hair, but laced with a prominent network of protruding veins. The man’s face seemed to have sunk, to have turned inward on itself; his cheeks were pronounced hollows, his eyes black pools in their recessed sockets, and even his chin had a decidedly cleft aspect. His nose, a long pointed extention of flesh and cartilage, was the only elevated feature on his countenance. Thin, tight lips covered his small mouth. Not much of his body was visible owing to the ill-fitting green fatigues he wore. He raised his withered right hand and pointed at the Bowies. “Did you have to bring them?” he repeated in his raspy voice.

“I never go anywhere without them,” Blade replied.

“Ahhhh, yes. Ever the devoted Warrior.” Samuel II indicated the vacant chair. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

Blade slowly crossed to the chair and sat down.

“Care for some water?” Samuel asked.

“No thanks,” Blade replied.

“Suit yourself,” Samuel said. He poured himself a tall glass and held it close to his lips. “Here’s to progress,” the remarked, and gulped a mouthful.

What was that supposed to mean? Blade gazed around the tent again.

“A bit nervous, are we?” Samuel inquired a trifle sarcastically.

“You wanted to discuss a truce,” Blade reminded him.

Samuel tittered, his dark eyes twinkling in their sockets. Despite his advanced years, there was considerable vitality left in the man.

“What’s so funny?” Blade demanded.

“A private joke,” Samuel responded. “We’ll talk about the truce soon enough. First, though, I’d like to get to know you a little better.”

“What?”

“I thought we’d have a nice chitchat,” Samuel mentioned.

A nice chitchat? Blade studied the dictator, perplexed. What kind of game was Samuel playing? Was he senile? Here they were, the Civilized Zone and the Freedom Federation, embroiled in an all-out war, and Samuel wanted to “chitchat”?

Something wasn’t right.

“I must say,” Samuel said politely, “your Family has caused me no end of trouble. You Warriors are a fierce bunch.”

Was that intended as a compliment? Blade remained silent.

“If you don’t mind,” Samuel continued undeterred, “I’d like to pose a few questions your way.”

Blade leaned forward in his chair. “Questions?”

“Yes,” Samuel said, nodding, his skin quivering as he moved. “For instance, what have you done with the Doktor?”

Blade didn’t reply.

“Is he dead?” Samuel inquired. “I haven’t heard from him, and the last I knew he was heading for Catlow, Wyoming. I’ve received reports of a terrible battle there. Was that you?”

“We were in Catlow,” Blade disclosed.

“And now you are here and the Doktor isn’t,” Samuel observed. “The answer to my question is self-evident.” He examined Blade for a moment.

“You are much younger than I expected.”

Why was Samuel being so courteous? Blade was stumped. This didn’t conform to the dictator’s reputation as a singularly blood-thirsty individual.

“Still,” Samuel went on, “I know age is no determiner of ability. You must be equally as surprised to find someone of my advanced years ruling the Civilized Zone.”

“I am,” Blade admitted.

“Do you know how I do it?” Samuel queried.

“I know how you do it,” Blade snapped. “You rule with an iron fist and you crush all opposition.”

Samuel nodded, cackling. “True. But that’s only half of my secret. Do you know what the other half is?”

Blade shook his head.

“Giving the people a third of the things they think they want. You can’t have them completely unsatisfied or a spontaneous revolution will develop practically overnight. No, you give them some of the luxuries of life, just enough to keep them contented and under your thumb. It works every time.” Samuel beamed.

“And you admit it?” Blade asked, surprised.

Samuel swept the tent with his spindly right arm. “There’s no one else here. Who’s to tell?”

“Your audacity astounds me,” Blade stated.

“Thank you,” Samuel rejoined.

“About the truce,” Blade prompted him.