David Robbins - Dakota Run

“I am going to leave the Home tomorrow,” Hickok declared.

Plato promptly frowned. “Again? I wasn’t very pleased with you the last time you abruptly departed…”

“I had to go after Shane,” Hickok interrupted. He slid his right Colt back into its holster and drew his left.

“Granted, you did save Shane,” Plato conceded. “But you also promised me afterwards you wouldn’t leave the Home again without informing me first.”

“Which is what I’m doing right now,” Hickok pointed out.

“I don’t like it,” Plato said, sighing. “It’s Geronimo, isn’t it?”

Hickok’s eyes narrowed, reflecting his concern. “My pard’s been gone way too long. He said he’d be back in a week or so. I think he’s in trouble and I’m going to go find him.”

“How?” Plato demanded. “You don’t have the slightest idea where he is.”

“I’ll get the Empaths to home in on him,” Hickok stated, referring to the Family Empaths, six individuals with exceptional psychic abilities.

Several times in the past they had been able to locate others, overdue hunters or lost Family members, at great distances utilizing their psychic capabilities.

“I should never have given my permission for Geronimo to leave the Home,” Plato said, “and I’d prefer it if you remained here for the time being. We can’t be certain the Watchers won’t attack the Home. More of these things might be sent against us. The Family can’t spare another Warrior.”

“I realize that,” Hickok admitted, his left Python reloaded and replaced.

“But I took an oath to my fellow Warriors, to my Triad, as well as to the Family and the Home. I won’t rest until I know what’s happened to him.”

Plato absently bit his lower lip and shook his head. “I know better than to attempt to persuade you from doing something you have your mind set on, so I won’t waste my breath. But I will make a request of you.”

“Shoot.”

“Will you at least wait one week?”

“I don’t know…” Hickok said reluctantly.

“Just one week,” Plato stressed. “If Geronimo hasn’t returned in that length of time, you’ll have my blessing to go and seek him.”

“Why a week?” Hickok inquired.

“I’m gambling,” Plato revealed. “I’m hoping Geronimo will return to us within a week and your departure won’t be necessary.”

“I reckon another week won’t much matter,” Hickok said. “If my pard is already dead, there’s nothing much I can do about it except find the one responsible and plant a bullet between his eyes.”

Plato studied Hickok. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“You’re one of the best Warriors the Family has,” Plato stated slowly.

“You’ve killed more opponents in the line of duty than all the other Warriors combined, with the notable exception of your peers in Alpha Triad…”

“Yeah? So?” Hickok interjected.

Plato stared into Hickok’s eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired of all the killing? I honestly can’t comprehend how you do it. I could never function as a Warrior. Terminating others would bother me too much. Doesn’t it ever bother you?”

A shadow seemed to flit across Hickok’s face. “I don’t give the killing much thought. I know all men and women are my brothers and sisters, spiritually speaking. I know if we have a flicker of faith, as Joshua keeps reminding us, we’ll pass on to the mansions on high. That goes for the ones I blow away too. I don’t get upset about it because I’m not a cold-blooded murderer. I don’t go around shooting folks for the fun of it. Usually, it’s the enemy or me in a fight, and I don’t stop to reflect on whether it’s a sin or not. I mean, look at the Bible. We were taught in school about the great warriors in the Old Testament, about Samson and David and the rest. They killed and they were considered highly spiritual. Besides, after it’s all done with, what’s the use of getting upset? Killing a bad man doesn’t get me any more disturbed than, say, killing a rabid dog or a mutate. That make any sense to you?”

“It makes perfect sense,” Plato admitted.

“Good.” Hickok nodded. “The philosophy is far from original. I first came across it in a book in the Family library, a book on the life and times of James Butler Hickok, or Wild Bill Hickok as he was commonly known in his day and time. He once told a newspaper reporter pretty much the same thing. You know how much I admire the man. Heck, I even adopted his name at my Naming.”

“Yes, I know, Nathan,” Plato said. He glanced at the hairy creature.

“Well, if you will assist me, we’ll carry this one to the infirmary and have the Healers examine him.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Hickok suggested. “This critter ain’t that heavy.” So saying, he placed his hands under the runt’s arms and heaved, lifting the thing up high enough to drape the body over his left shoulder.

“Are you positive you can manage?” Plato asked.

“Piece of cake,” Hickok responded, rising.

They started back.

“You’ll be happy to know Sherry appears to be fine,” Plato mentioned.

“She was standing when we reached her, rubbing a bruise on her temple. I ordered her to the infirmary.” He paused. “She told us you’d already been by and were after the creatures abducting Blade and Gremlin.”

“I was the first one on the scene,” Hickok explained. “She was just coming around. Didn’t seem like she was hurt very bad. She told me what had happened and I took off after them.”

“You should have awaited assistance,” Plato quibbled.

“Wasn’t time,” Hickok countered.

They covered several hundred yards in silence.

“I hope Gremlin’s wounds aren’t severe,” Plato commented as they rounded a boulder.

“You partial to that critter?” Hickok questioned him.

“That critter, as you refer to him,” Plato replied, “has been of incalculable benefit in our research into the premature senility. Gremlin is quite knowledgeable in chemistry.”

“You’re kidding,” Hickok said.

“I do not jest,” Plato retorted stiffly. “Gremlin evidently spent many hours aiding the Doktor in his laboratory at Cheyenne. With his aid, we may be able to isolate the cause of the senility soon. If we are successful, the next step will be to develop a cure.”

Hickok, knowing Plato was one of the half-dozen or so Elders afflicted with the premature senility, stared at the Family Leader. “How you holding up, old-timer?”

Plato grinned. “Quite well, thank you, Nathan. My arthritis is worsening week by week, but except for unaccountable aches and pains at infrequent intervals, I’m relatively fine.”

“We’ll find a cure,” Hickok predicted.

“We must,” Plato stated. “The fate of our Family hangs in the balance.”

“Speaking of our fate,” Hickok remarked, “what are we going to do about the Doktor and his goons.”

“What can we do?” Plato rejoined. “We’re vastly outnumbered and outgunned. There are thousands upon thousands of soldiers in the Army of Samuel. The Doktor, according to Gremlin, has around fifteen hundred creatures in his Genetic Research Division. If they should decide to assault the Home en masse we wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“We’ve licked them every time so far,” Hickok noted.

“True,” Plato conceded, “but in our encounters with the Watchers and the genetic deviates we’ve been extremely lucky. Either we’ve had the element of surprise on our side, or they simply were not prepared to deal with the proficiency of our Warriors.”

“You mean,” Hickok elucidated, “they weren’t expecting us to be as good as we are.”

“Exactly. But our good fortune can’t hold forever.”