Twin Cities Run

by David Robbins

  “I don’t have time to talk right now.” Bertha took a step toward them.

  Tommy jerked the stock to his shoulder. “Not one more step, Bertha! I’m warning you.”

  Bertha thought of Hickok, alone and defenseless, needing her. “I ain’t got time to explain,” she said impatiently.

  “Boys,” Tommy told the others, “if she takes another step, put an arrow into her.”

  “Tommy! It’s me, Bertha!” She angrily stamped her right foot. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “The only reason you ain’t already dead,” Tommy informed her, “is because we was friends, once.”

  “Tommy…”

  “Don’t press it!” he warned her. “Just put that gun on the ground. We’re takin’ you back to Z. There’s a lot of questions he’s gonna want to ask you, sweet cheeks.”

  “Maybe she’s gone back to the Porns,” one of the other men suggested.

  Tommy nodded slowly. “I done thought of that. Which is why we treat her like we would any enemy… or traitor!”

  “I ain’t no traitor!” Bertha snapped.

  “Oh? How do we know that?”

  “Tommy, listen to me…”

  “Not now. We ain’t got the time. We heard a lot of shooting last night and came for a look-see. The Horns and the Porns might do the same.

  We’re headin’ back, and we’re takin’ you with us.”

  “I can’t go with you.”

  “You ain’t got much choice, honey.”

  Bertha weighed the odds. They weren’t good. If she tried to buck them, they’d get her before she could fire a shot.

  “I don’t like the way she’s just standing there,” another Nomad said.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” added yet another.

  “You heard them,” Tommy said to Bertha. “I’m real sorry, babe, we got to treat you this way. You understand, don’t you?”

  “I do,” she agreed. “But you’ve got to let me explain…”

  “Not now. Tell it to Z. Drop the gun.”

  “Tommy, listen.” Bertha took a step towards him.

  One of the bowmen let fly.

  “No!” Tommy shouted at the same instant.

  In what seemed like slow motion, Bertha watched the brown shaft come at her, the feathers spinning as the arrow covered the fifteen yards between the bowman and her. The point, a nail imbedded in the top of the shaft with the flattened head removed and filed to a sharp edge, glistened in the sunlight, coming closer and closer and…

  The arrow slammed into Bertha’s body, slicing into her above her right breast, penetrating, the impact twisting her to the side, stunning her.

  “Damn!” Tommy fumed. “She wasn’t going to hurt us!”

  “But you said to shoot if she came at you,” the bowman protested.

  Bertha recognized the man who had fired. Vint. He always was an asshole!

  Tommy ran up to her. “Bertha! You okay?”

  The shock was spreading, numbing her. She sagged, her legs weakening.

  Tommy caught her. “Damn! Look at all that blood!”

  Bertha’s mind was spinning. She vainly attempted to focus. “Tommy…”

  “I’m here. We’ll get you back and take care of you.”

  “No. No,” she said weakly. “Listen. Got to help…”

  “We’ll help you,” he assured her.

  “No. Not me. Help him. Got to help him.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Help who?”

  “Help… him. Hurt. Help White Mea…” She went limp in his arms.

  “She’s out,” one of the Nomads announced.

  “I can see that!” Tommy spat.

  “Do you really think she went over to the Porns?” Vint asked.

  “After what Maggot did to her?” Tommy shook his head. “Not likely.

  This poor girl has the worst luck of anyone I’ve ever seen!”

  “I’m sorry I hurt her,” Vint apologized. “I always liked her. I was just doing what you told me.”

  “Yeah.” Tommy sadly stared at Bertha. “Me and my big mouth. Let’s get out of here! She needs help.”

  “What about the other one she mentioned?” another Nomad brought up.

  “Who knows?”

  “Maybe someone was with her. Maybe he’s around here somewhere, and needs help.”

  “If he does,” Tommy said, “it’s too bad for him. We can’t take the time to look all over the place. Whoever she was tryin’ to tell us about is all on his own.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Geronimo was greatly relieved when dawn finally broke. He stood and stretched. Joshua was still unconscious, and rest was best for him in his condition. Geronimo yawned. He could use some sleep himself. He’d give Joshua another hour, then wake him, minister to the injury, and begin tracking the Wacks.

  An idea occurred to him.

  If Joshua had dropped the Smith and Wesson somewhere between their hiding place and University Avenue, he might be able to find it and leave it with Joshua. That way, he could take the Browning with him. He’d need the firepower if he caught up with the Wacks. If? If he didn’t, Blade was dead.

  Joshua still had the leather pouch containing the Ruger Redhawk draped over his right shoulder. He’d need more than that, if left alone.

  Joshua wasn’t experienced with guns, and the shotgun would serve him in better stead.

  Geronimo crouched and headed for the road, keeping low, moving rapidly from cover to cover, pausing to listen and look at the slightest noise. He reached a parking lot and froze.

  Two bodies lay in the center of the tarmac, another one at the edge of the weeds on the far side.

  Blade?

  Geronimo sped across the parking lot, into the brush on the other side.

  He almost tripped over another dead Wack, and further on found two more lying under a large tree. If the Wacks had indeed captured Blade, it had cost them dearly. He smiled, feeling strangely assured by the dead Wacks. The only Warrior in the Family capable of equaling Blade’s aptitude for killing was Hickok, and possibly Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, but when Blade lost his temper, not even the gunman could match his primal fury.

  He reached University Avenue, discovering a lifeless Wack glaring up at the blue sky, a pitchfork nearby. And at the verge of the road, almost obscured by thick weeds, the Smith and Wesson. He was stooping to pick it up when he heard the tittering giggle. Automatically, he flattened and rolled to his right, sighting down the Browning, searching for the source of the laugh.

  She was standing in the open, about ten yards west of University Avenue, holding her bloody left arm pressed against her side. Torn, filthy rags hung from her emaciated form. All visible skin was covered with dirt and her hair was plastered with dried mud. She was smiling, exposing gaps where her front teeth once were.

  Geronimo warily rose, expecting other Wacks to come charging at him any moment.

  None came.

  The girl jumped up and down and cackled.

  “Hello,” Geronimo ventured, trying to engage her in conversation.

  “Who are you?”

  She spun completely around, pointed at him with her right hand, and cackled harder.

  What was the matter with her? Besides the obvious?

  “My name is Geronimo,” he offered hopefully. “What’s yours?”

  The girl shook her head.

  How old was she? Eighteen? Twenty at the most.

  “Can I help you?” Geronimo slowly stepped towards her. Maybe, if he could establish a friendship, gain her trust, she would lead him to where the Wacks were holding Blade.

  She shyly lowered her eyes and backed away.

  “Don’t!” he called out. “Please, don’t!”

  The girl turned and began running off.

  What should he do now? If he went after her, Joshua would be left unattended until he returned, vulnerable to attack. On the other hand, if he didn’t pursue the girl, he’d lose a golden opportunity to find the Wacks’
lair. He could compromise, follow her as far as feasible, then return to Joshua.

  Geronimo ran after her.

  The Wack fled like a panicked gazelle, darting between trees and bushes with amazing grace and timing.

  Geronimo was hard pressed to keep her in sight.

  She followed a narrow green belt between two cluster of buildings, sure of herself, as if she knew where she was going and had a definite destination in mind.

  Geronimo tried in vain to gain on her.

  The Wack reached a road, paused to glance back and insure she was still being followed, then she ran across the road and into a narrow alley separating two tall structures.

  Geronimo stopped at the alley entrance. The alley was dim, the ten-story buildings diminishing the sunlight reaching into it. Piles and piles of debris and garbage littered both sides of the alley, leaving only a cramped, sinuous path threading towards the dark recess of the alley’s interior.

  The setup was unsettling.

  Geronimo suspected a trap, but in those limited confines any attackers would be compelled to attack him one at a time, and he’d easily be able to defend himself with the Browning. It couldn’t hurt to follow the alley for a short distance and see where it led. There seemed to be a high wall at the far end, perhaps fifty yards away.

  Despite warnings from his better judgment, Geronimo entered the alley, the stench overpowering, his moccasins sinking an inch into a slimy muck with every step he took. A lot of garbage he passed was relatively fresh, deposited recently. By the Wacks? He noticed a considerable number of bones, all apparently from animals, a white contrast to the dark alley.

  Where had the girl gone?

  Geronimo proceeded for thirty yards into the alley, then hesitated. This was dumb. He wasn’t getting any closer to Blade, and Joshua was unprotected in their hiding place. Squatting, he studied the tracks. A number of people had passed this way in the past eight to twelve hours.

  The mire was a maze of footprints. Odd. Where would they all be going?

  Well, he didn’t have the time to find out. He’d left Joshua alone too long as it was. He stood, prepared to leave.

  “Want to play dolls with me?”

  The girl was ten yards from him, swaying, grinning, twirling her bangs with her right hand.

  “What?” he asked, not sure he’d heard correctly.

  “Fant show you his toes.”

  There was that peculiar name again. “Who is Fant?” he inquired.

  She laughed insanely. “Dummy! Dummy! Dummy! Fant not who, not you or me. Don’t you see?”

  He didn’t see. “Will you run away if I come closer?”

  She demurely shook her head.

  “You’ll stay?”

  “Me stay.”

  Geronimo edged forward. The girl was as good as her word, staying exactly where she was. Considering her earlier flight, this behavior was strangely ominous. Why would she suddenly pop out of nowhere, acting friendly, actually waiting for him to approach? If she was as crazy as she appeared, no explanation was necessary. But if a shred of sanity remained, then this could well be a ruse designed to lead him into an ambush. He glanced up.

  Just in time to save his life.

  Perched on top of the garbage to his right, a knife held ready in the left hand, was a male Wack. Even as Geronimo saw him, he screeched and launched himself straight down.

  Geronimo already had the Browning tilted up at an angle. He shifted, pulling the trigger, the blast catching the Wack in the chest and deflecting his leap to one side. The Wack crashed into the pile of debris, his head and shoulder disappearing from view.

  The girl screamed and ran.

  “Wait!” Geronimo called after her. “Don’t go!” He loped in pursuit, surprised when she abruptly wheeled, laughing again, laughing and pointing at the ground at his feet. What in the world…

  His feet gave out from under him, and he was dropping down into a hole in the ground. He tried to grab the edge of the hole, gripping the metal rim with his right hand, his left hand still holding the Browning and pinned between his body and the opening. For the moment, he was caught, unable to climb out and slowly slipping down.

  Someone was standing over him, cackling.

  Geronimo tried to strengthen his hold and failed, the effort costing him several inches. He was now dangling up to his chest.

  “Dummy! Dummy! Dummy!” the girl taunted him.

  “Help me! Please!” He tried to find something to support his suspended feet, but nothing was in reach.

  “Dummy! Dummy! Dummy!”

  He was continuing to slip.

  “Say hi to Teeth,” the girl said, smiling.

  Teeth?

  Geronimo was in to his shoulders and the Browning was loose in his hand. He had one chance. If he could grab the edge with his left hand, he would be able to pull himself up. But, to do that, he had to let go of the Browning. There wasn’t any choice.

  The girl leaned over and patted him on the head. “Bye-bye.”

  He released the Browning and brought his left hand up, managing to get a hold on the rim before he could plummet into the depths below.

  Without the Browning between his body and the rim, he would fall like a stone. His swinging feet touched a surface, a ledge or something similar he could use for support, and he braced himself for the heave to the surface.

  “Not nice,” the girl said gravely. “Not nice.”

  What the hell was she babbling about?

  “Not nice,” she repeated, stepping closer, drawing her right foot back.

  “Wait…” he tried to protest.

  She kicked him in the head, above his right ear.

  Reeling, Geronimo frantically tried to clamber out of the manhole.

  She kicked him again.

  His hold was fading.

  And again.

  He couldn’t seem to concentrate and his legs were sagging.

  Again.

  Geronimo felt his hands release their grip, and he plunged out of sight.

  The girl waved at the black hole.

  “Bye-bye!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  He had the impression his entire universe was comprised of sheer pain, and he didn’t want to open his eyes to face a cosmos bent on torturing him. Memories filtered through his brain. The trip to the Twin Cities.

  Bertha. The Wacks. The Wacks! He remembered their attack, and the one with the hammer, and he flinched and opened his eyes, wishing he hadn’t as waves of agony rippled along his nervous system.

  Blast!

  “Well, well, well,” said a deep voice. “Look who’s finally woke up!”

  “I was sure he wasn’t gonna make it,” snapped a squeaky voice.

  “Pay up.”

  “I ain’t got it.”

  “You best have it.”

  Hickok rose on his elbows. He was lying on a cot in a small room, sunlight streaming in through a shattered window. Two men were in the room with him, one standing on either side of the only door.

  “I’ll get it,” said the small man on the right, a man with tiny eyes and a small nose, wearing faded jeans and a torn blue shirt.

  “A bet is a bet,” said the big man to the left of the door. “You bet six rounds he wasn’t gonna come out of it, and you were wrong. I’d best have my ammo by the end of the week.” This one wore only jeans, his torso bare and bulging with power, his black skin blending with the shadows in his corner. He was holding a Winchester in his left hand, a 30-30.

  “You’ll get it, Bear,” reiterated the other. “I always make good.” He had a revolver strapped around his waist, a Taurus Model 86 in the holster on his left hip.

  “I know you do, Rat.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Hickok blithely interrupted. “Could I bother you for a drink? My throat is awful dry.”

  “Is it, now?” Rat grinned. “You’ll get a drink when we’re damn ready to give you one and not before.”

  “You know, ugly,” Hickok said coldly, “
if I was feeling any stronger, I’d get up out of this cot and stuff your face up your ass. Who knows? The view might improve your disposition.”

  Hat clenched his fists and came at Hickok.

  “Cool it, Rat,” the one called Bear warned.

  “You heard what he said to me!” Rat exploded, stopping.

  “I heard.” Bear laughed.

  Rat reddened. “No one talks like that to me and lives!”

  “Our orders are to keep him alive,” Bear said.

  Rat glared at Hickok, his fists opening and closing. “I’ll get my chance,” he stated. “Sooner or later.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared in my life,” Hickok grinned.

  Rat reluctantly backed to the door.

  “You believe in living dangerously, don’t you?” Bear asked Hickok.

  “Is there any other way?”

  Bear walked over to the cot. “How you feeling?”

  “Plumb tuckered out,” Hickok admitted. “I take it I’m your prisoner?”

  “You got that right.”

  “And who are you guys? Horns?”

  This time it was Rat who laughed. “Did you hear that? He thinks we’re Horns? What an idiot!”

  “Which proves that Maggot was right, as usual,” Bear said. “This one ain’t from the Twins.”

  “Where you from?” Rat demanded.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Hickok retorted.

  “We’ll find out,” Rat promised. “Sooner or later.”

  Hickok took stock of his weapons. The Henry and the Pythons were gone, but he could feel the Derringer on his right wrist and the C.O.P. .357

  Magnum strapped to his left leg, above the ankle. Both guns were hidden by his buckskins. Good. He wasn’t defenseless.

  “How’d I get here?” Hickok asked them.

  “We sent a patrol out after hearing a lot of shooting the night before last,” Bear answered. “They found you out cold.”

  Hickok sat up. “You mean I’ve been here a day and a half?” he asked incredulously.

  “Sure have. The patrol was checkin’ bodies on University Avenue when they found you still alive. Had a nasty bump on the head. They couldn’t figure out what you were. You sure weren’t no Wack, and you weren’t dressed like a Horn, and you ain’t one of us. They decided to bring you back to Maggot.”