“Why’s that?” the leader asked.
The Warrior jerked his hand at his companions. “If you so much as blink funny, my friend in the buckskins will add a nostril to your forehead.”
The man glanced at the gunfighter. “Was he the one who shot my hat off my head?”
“That’s him.”
“Damn. That was a new beaver hat.”
“The next time you encounter strangers, don’t act as if you’re going to ride them down,” Blade advised.
“Who are you, mister?”
“The name is Blade. I’m the head of the Freedom Force.”
“The what?”
“You’ve never heard of the Force?”
“Can’t say as I have,” the leader said. “My name, by the way, is Harmon.”
“Are you a citizen of the Civilized Zone?”
Harmon uttered a short, sharp laugh. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.
I was born there, anyway.”
“What are you doing in Yellowstone?”
“In what?”
“In this area,” Blade elaborated. “This whole region was once known as Yellowstone National Park, back in the days when the United States existed.”
“I don’t know nothing about no Yellowstone or United States. I do know this area is about as remote as they come, and hardly anyone ever comes here,” Harmon said, then smirked. “Oh, a few nature-lovers show up every now and then.”
Blade studied the man for a moment, then gazed at the band, calculating probabilities. “You’re scavengers,” he declared.
Harmon tensed. “There’s no need to be calling us names, mister, I rode down here friendly-like to talk to you, not be insulted.”
The Warrior locked his eyes on Harmon’s. “You’re all scavengers, or worse,” he reiterated. “You and those others make your living by raiding and stealing, and I’d be willing to bet that you’re wanted by the Civilized Zone authorities, which is why you hide out in this remote region.”
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 st
ill 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.
A few willows were interspersed with the underbrush. The thicket extended for 30 yards to the east.
Geronimo, who was 40 feet in front of Blade, halted and looked back.
“Should we go around it?”
“See if you can find a trail through it.”
Nodding, Geronimo walked closer to the vegetation.
Achilles looked at the head Warrior. “I hope I’ll be able to repay you someday.”
“You can repay me by always discharging your duties properly if you’re selected. That, and learning to behave like a normal human being.”
“Like Hickok, for instance?”
They both laughed.
“I heard that!” the gunman declared from 12 feet behind them.
Blade grinned and idly gazed skyward. Flying to the west were four large white birds unlike any he had ever beheld. They were five feet long, with white feathers, broad wings, and big beaks a third the size of their bodies. Each had a yellow throat pouch. He watched them for a minute before he identified them from pictures he had once seen in a book in the library. They were pelicans. What in the world were pelicans doing in Yellowstone National Park? He’d always associated them with the sea. Did they nest on the many lakes in the Park?
“When we stop for the night, I’d like to volunteer for the first guard shift,” Achilles offered.
“Trying to impress me?” Blade asked.
“No. I’d like to show Hickok and Geronimo that I’m just one of the guys. If I pull my weight on this assignment, they might change their opinions of me.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
“But will it be enough to convince the Elders?”
“If Nathan, Geronimo, and I all make a special appeal to the Elders to have you instated, they’ll have to present an irrefutable argument to reject you,” Blade noted, gazing at Geronimo.
The stocky Warrior had reached the thicket and was searching for a way through. He moved to the right, then pivoted and smiled. “Here’s a deer trail. Just what we need.”
Blade had opened his mouth to acknowledge the information when behind his friend an immense, bulky form reared up in the thicket, its jaws wide, its five-inch claws glinting in the bright sunlight.
The awesome form of a grizzly bear.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Blade broke into a run, swinging the Commando barrel up. “Behind you!” he bellowed. “A grizzly!”
Reacting instinctively, not even bothering to glance at the thicket, Geronimo dived forward. He landed on his left shoulder and rolled onto his back, the FNC stock pressed against his thigh, the assault rifle at a slant.
Uttering a rumbling growl, the grizzly dropped onto all fours and barreled from the undergrowth, going for the human in green.
Geronimo fired from a range of only six feet, and he heard his rounds smacking into the bruin’s wide skull. He saw the grizzly halt and swipe at its face, as if batting at bothersome mosquitoes, giving him the time he needed to leap to his feet and run.
The grizzly lumbered in pursuit.
“Out of the way!” Blade snouted, motioning with his right arm and angling to the left, trying for a clear shot.
Geronimo obliged by abruptly darting to the east.
Instantly Blade cut loose, squeezing the trigger and holding it down, feeling the Commando buck in his arms as he sent a hail of heavy slugs into the beast. He heard more gunshots to his right, the sharp retort of Hickok’s Henry and the deeper discharge of Achilles’ Bullpup.
A series of red dots blossomed on the grizzly’s head, but instead of falling it charged, making straight for the giant human.
Blade kept firing, expecting the bear to go down long before it reached him. There wasn’t an animal alive that could absorb 90 rounds from a machine gun and still keep coming. Or so he believed.
The grizzly never slowed. Fifteen hundred pounds of sinew and muscle, seven feet long and almost five feet high at the shoulders, with its bulging hump adding to its height, the bruin was virtually unstoppable unless pierced in the brain or the heart, and even then the beast’s tremendous vitality could drive it onward.
The Commando went empty when the grizzly was still eight feet away, and Blade reversed his grip, taking hold of the gun by the barrel and sweeping the stock overhead, prepared to use the Carbine as a club. He could see the bear’s slavering, yawning maw, and the animal’s musculature rippling under its coat of brown fur. Grasping the barrel firmly, he waited until the very last second, until the grizzly was almost on top of him, and then swung with all of his strength, slamming the stock onto the bruin’s head.
Not breaking its stride, acting as if it was impervious to the blow, the grizzly plowed into the human.
Blade felt a jarring impact in his abdomen and chest, and he was flung backwards. Something cut into his left shoulder, producing an intense stinging sensation. His arms flailing, short of breath and in exquisite pain, he tumbled onto his back. Above him loomed the bear, and he braced for the crunching of strong teeth on his body.
The grizzly reared its head and spread its mouth wide, about to bite, when unexpectedly the bear sprawled forward, venting a loud growl, collapsing onto its victim’s legs.
Blade hurled the Commando aside and whipped his Bodies from their sheaths. For a moment, as the massive bear lay still with its eyes closed, its weight causing excruciating agony from his knees down, he thought the beast was dead. He bent toward it, intending to try and lift the bear’s head and shoulders so he could slide his legs out.
The grizzly opened its eyes and fixed a baleful gaze on the Warrior, then began to rise.
Realizing the bruin could disembowel him with one slash of its sharp claws once it regained its footing. Blade took the offensive, deliberately leaning forward at the waist, placing his face within inches of the bear’s, and spe
ared his gleaming Bowies into the bruin’s eyes before the animal could snap at him.
A mammoth cry of rage issued from the grizzly and it jerked its body backwards.
Blade held onto the hilts of his knives and shoved erect the second his legs were free. The grizzly lashed wildly at him with its right forepaw, and he darted to the right to evade its claws.
Blood streaming from its sliced orbs, the bear shook its head and shuffled after the human.
Tensing his legs for a spring. Blade detected a motion out of the corner of his left eye.
Achilles and Hickok materialized, their weapons blasting at point-blank range. Four, five, six shots sounded, and with the sixth the grizzly bear grunted and fell, dead in its tracks, its head thudding onto the ground.
Hickok shot the bruin once more for good measure, then lowered the Henry. “I was beginning to think this critter would never go down,” he commented in amazement.
“Had the brute not fallen when it did, I was prepared to dispatch it with my Amazon,” Achilles said.
“Your toothpick against this dinosaur? Give me a break,” Hickok quipped.
“Your comparison is in error,” Achilles corrected him. “Dinosaurs were reptiles. This bear is a mammal.”
“Really? How did we get by all these years without your wisdom?”
Blade listened inattentively to their exchange, breathing deeply, restoring his composure. The grizzly attack had made his adrenaline surge. He looked down at his Bowies and saw the bear’s blood dripping from both knives. Footsteps sounded on his right.
“Are you okay?” Geronimo inquired.
“Fine,” Blade replied softly.
“What about your shoulder?”
Blade recalled the slinging sensation and glanced at his left shoulder.
With a start he realized the grizzly had nailed him. There were five deep gashes, each over an inch deep. The bear’s claws had torn through his leather vest and his flesh as if both were made of putty, and blood flowed from all five slits.
The gunfighter hastily stepped closer. “Damn! “he vented a rare oath. “I didn’t know the varmint had clipped you.”
“You were too busy flapping your gums,” Geronimo said, and slung the FNC over his shoulder. He moved in front of the giant and motioned for Blade to sit. “Let me take a look at it.”
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