No one raised a hand.
“Fine. Then let’s review our Warrior organization. Blade is still the chief Family Warrior, and leads the Warriors in all operations. Our Triads will be constituted as follows. Alpha Triad will include Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo. Beta…”
“Where is Geronimo?” one of the men shouted.
“Yeah,” echoed another. “We haven’t seen him around for a while.”
Plato frowned, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Geronimo requested a temporary leave of absence, which was granted. He has been gone much longer than initially expected, however. We do not know where he is at the moment, but plans have been made, should he not return within a week, to try and locate him.”
“I hope he’s okay,” said a young girl in the crowd.
Plato recognized Star’s voice. She was quite attached to Geronimo, perhaps based on the mutual bond they shared; they were the only Family members with Indian blood. He hastily forged ahead. “Beta Triad will be comprised of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Teucer, and Yama, with Rikki as the head.
Gamma will be made up of Spartacus, the leader, and Seiko and Shane.
Omega Triad will still include Carter, Gideon, and Ares, and Carter will serve as their chief…”
“Do we have to memorize all of this?” one of the men asked, and others laughed.
“…and finally we come to the newest Triad, Zulu, consisting of Crockett, Samson, and Sherry. There you have it. Fifteen Warriors responsible for the defense of the Home. May the Spirit grant them the strength and bravery to fulfill their duty admirably. Will the inductees please step forward?”
Blade strode to Plato’s side and watched as Sherry, Shane, Crockett, and Samson emerged from the gathering.
Sherry waved to Hickok and blew him a kiss. Someone behind the gunman tittered and he whirled, glaring at those to his rear.
Suppressing a grin. Blade addressed the four candidates. “You will raise your right hand and repeat after me.”
All four complied.
Blade studied their faces as he recited the Warrior’s pledge. “I promise to preserve the Home and defend the Family at all costs. I will give my life, if necessary, to protect the lives of every Family member. I will obey all orders at all times. I will faithfully discharge my duties and obligations…”
The four inductees repeated the pledge, word by word, their serious expressions reflecting their sense of commitment.
“…I will be steadfast and loyal to my Family, my fellow Warriors, and my Triad. In the sight of the Almighty Spirit, as witnessed by this assemblage, I hereby vow to live, and die, being the best Warrior I can possibly be.” Blade paused and swept them with his intense gaze. “So do I swear,” he concluded.
“So do I swear!” they chorused.
“Congratulations.” Blade smiled. “You are now Warriors.”
Crockett, a lean, dark-haired man in buckskins, nodded. Samson, a muscular powerhouse of a figure attired in ill-fitting jeans, grinned.
Sherry screeched and spun around in her tracks. Shane, surprisingly, simply stood there, slack jawed.
Blade stepped closer to him. “Are you okay?”
“It just occurred to me,” Shane said.
“What did?”
“I’m really a Warrior!” the youth exclaimed.
“Yes,” Blade nodded, “you’re really a Warrior. Just do us both a favor and don’t get yourself needlessly killed. We expect only your best at all times.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Shane assured him.
“I don’t? Why not?”
“Because,” Shane beamed, “I’m going to be one of the best Warriors the Family has ever seen. I’ll be just like my hero.”
“Your hero?” Blade repeated.
“Yep.”
“Who’s your hero?” Blade inquired.
“Who else?” Shane seemed surprised at Blade’s ignorance. “Hickok!”
“Let me get this straight,” Blade said slowly. “You plan to become just like Hickok?”
“Sure do.”
“Exactly like him in every respect?”
“Absolutely,” Shane stated, nodding.
Blade made a show of placing his right hand on his forehead and groaning.
“What’s wrong?” Shane immediately queried him.
“It just boggles the brain!” Blade replied.
“What does?”
“Two Hickoks on the same planet! I don’t know if we can survive it!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You don’t have to do this!”
“You’re crazy if you go through with it!”
“Don’t do it! Please? For me?”
Geronimo glanced at the trio of speakers in the order in which they’d spoken: Kilrane, Hamlin, and Cynthia. Boone stood nearby, shaking his head.
“I still don’t get it,” Geronimo admitted. “Why did he pick me? I’m not with the Cavalry or the Legion.”
“He’s well aware of that fact,” Kilrane responded. “But you were riding with us, so technically he could choose you.”
“But you said I was a stranger,” Geronimo pointed out. “He can still do it? Select a stranger?”
Kilrane glared at the distant Rory, fifty yards away, seated on his horse and holding a metal-tipped lance in his right hand. “The bastard is clutching at straws. He picked you hoping we would say no. You see, the majority of us can’t stand his guts, but there are some who would become mighty upset if we did anything unfair, if there was the slightest hint of a frame or a setup.”
“Even after what he did to Adrian?” Cynthia interjected.
“They’d still want his fate to be decided justly.”
Kilrane declared. “We never kill anyone without a reason. You know that. And we always give the accused the chance to defend himself. Or herself. We believe in fair play.”
“What happens if I refuse to fight him?” Geronimo asked.
“Then the son of a bitch will claim a forfeit,” Kilrane detailed, “and skip out, free as a bird.”
“But you can’t honestly expect Geronimo to do it?” Cynthia asked.
“It’s up to him,” Kilrane said. “Hell, I’d challenge Rory myself, but I know he’d refuse, and where would that leave us? If I gun him down in cold blood, I’d be a marked man.”
“But just a while ago the men were clamoring for his death,” Cynthia reminded them.
“And they want him dead,” Kilrane stressed. “But he’ll demanded a trial by combat and we can’t say no.”
“Let me get this straight,” Geronimo interrupted. “If you tell Rory I’m not one of the Cavalry and won’t fight him, then he goes free?”
“On a technicality, yes,” Kilrane confirmed.
“And if I personally say I won’t do it,” Geronimo said, “then he claims a forfeit and can go?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“So the only way of preventing his departure,” Geronimo concluded, “is if I kill him in this duel with lances?”
“You got it,” Kilrane stated. “Unless one of us wants to shoot him on the spot.”
Geronimo sighed. “I wish my friend Hickok was here.”
“Why’s that?” Cynthia asked.
“Because he’d walk right up to Rory, give him to the count of three to draw, and then shoot him in the head whether he drew or not,” Geronimo explained.
“This Hickok would do that?” Kilrane inquired, impressed.
“Without hesitation,” Geronimo affirmed.
“I sure would like to meet this hombre some day,” Kilrane said wistfully. “He sounds like my kind of man.”
“So what are you going to do?” Cynthia addressed Geronimo.
“I guess some of Hickok has rubbed off on me,” Geronimo remarked.
“Someone get me a lance.”
“No!” Cynthia protested. “Don’t do it!”
“She’s right,” Hamlin joined the conversation. “There’s another reason why you shouldn’t do it.”
“What is it?” Geronimo asked.
“Have you ever used a lance before?” Hamlin questioned.
“No,” Geronimo admitted. “Never have.”
Hamlin looked at Rory. “He’s good with a lance. Real good. He’s had lots of practice and killed a number of good men with a lance. Not many use the lance on a regular basis. He probably figured you’d be no good at it.”
“We don’t have any choice,” Boone said, speaking up. “We can’t allow this man to fight Rory.”
“As much as I hate to admit it,” Kilrane said, “I have to agree. It would be suicide.”
“Good,” Cynthia smiled. “It’s settled.”
“No, it isn’t,” Geronimo disagreed. “I’m going to do it.”
“What? Why?”
“Because,” Geronimo told her, “I owe Kilrane for saving my life.
Because I can’t stomach the idea of Rory getting off the hook. Because he challenged me, counting on my cowardice. And finally, because I’m a Warrior. I don’t care whether it’s my Family or someone I don’t even know; if they’re threatened, then I’ll eliminate that threat. A long time ago I gave my word. I promised I’d be the best Warrior I could possibly be, and no Warrior worth his pledge would allow the Rorys of this world to run loose, to go free to probably kill or rape someone else. I’ve met men like Rory before. They don’t deserve to live.”
Kilrane was smiling. “Hickok isn’t the only one who’s my kind of man. This Family of yours must be tough. I’d sure hate to tangle with them.”
“After this is over,” Geronimo offered, “I’ll take you to meet them, if you’d like. We’d like to consider you as our friends.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Kilrane declared. “We’ll hold the election and escort you home.”
“Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves?” Hamlin asked, nodding toward Rory.
As if on cue, Rory suddenly shouted to them. “Let’s get on with it! Is he going to fight or not? I haven’t got all day!”
“Cocky turd!” Hamlin spat.
“If you’re set on doing this,” Kilrane said, “you’re going to do it right. Forget that brown stallion.”
“Then what horse will I use?”
Kilrane turned and grabbed the reins of his Palomino. “Here. Use my horse. It’s been trained to handle lance fighting. Use your knees to guide it. I trained this animal myself. It will do everything for you except plant the lance in his gut.”
“Are you sure?” Geronimo queried. “It’s a fine horse. I’d hate to damage it.”
“Be serious,” Kilrane replied. “What’s more important? Your life or a horse?”
Boone motioned, and one of the Cavalry riders approached with a lance. He gave it to Boone, who then presented the weapon to Geronimo.
Geronimo hefted the lance. It was ten feet long, as thick as a man’s arm, and tipped with a metal point. Despite its size, the weapon was surprisingly light.
“Geronimo!” Cynthia exclaimed, abruptly grabbing him by the shoulders.
“I’ll be all right,” he promised her.
“Take care,” she said, and kissed him on the lips.
Geronimo nodded and mounted the Palomino.
“Extend about two-thirds of the lance in front of your body,” Kilrane advised. “Keep your grip firm, but don’t lock your elbow in case you have to turn fast.”
“Keep your body as close to the horse as you can,” Boone suggested.
“Present as small a target as you can.”
“Watch that prick,” Hamlin joined in. “Rory likes to twist as he’s passing and jab the other guy in the back.”
“If you knock him from his horse,” Kilrane detailed, “you can finish him any way you want. It’s the rules.”
“I’ve got it,” Geronimo told them.
“Take care,” Cynthia repeated, her lovely eyes brimming with worry.
“Give him one for me!” Hamlin urged.
“Ride out until about twenty-five yards are between you,” Kilrane directed. “When you hear me fire my gun, that’s the signal. Remember, this Palomino knows what to do. Rely on its instincts.”
Geronimo nodded, gazed fondly at his newfound friends, and rode forward.
Rory saw him coming and tightened his grip on his lance, raising it to chest level.
Geronimo felt an adrenaline surge rush through his body.
Rory’s black horse was prancing in place, apparently accustomed to the duel and ready to begin.
It figured. Rory would own a well-trained horse too.
The Cavalry and Legion men were lined up to the east and the west of the duelists, about half on each side.
Geronimo glanced over his left shoulder and noted Kilrane was holding his revolver in his right hand.
Any second now!
He recalled every word of advice they’d given him, going over it again and again. Stay low, close to the Palomino. Keep two-thirds of the lance in front of him. Don’t lock the elbow. It all sounded easy enough, but one mistake could cost him his life. His best bet might be to knock Rory off his horse. According to Kilrane, if he succeeded, he could end the conflict any way he desired. He’d use the Arminius to…
Hold it!
Had he reloaded the revolver after the fight with the ants?
No!
Geronimo debated whether to attempt to load the gun before Kilrane fired the starting shot, but decided against it. Too risky. Besides, he still had the tomahawk tucked in his belt. If worse came to worst, he’d use the tomahawk against his foe.
Rory was eyeing his opponent with a smug expression on his rotund face.
Hamlin was right. Rory was a cocky turd, to say the least!
The blast of Kilrane’s revolver behind him was the signal for the contest to begin.
Rory immediately goaded his mount forward into a gallop, leveling his lance as the horse gained speed.
Geronimo barely applied pressure to the Palomino and it was off, charging at Rory. He found it difficult to hold the long lance steady as the horse moved; the point kept bouncing up and down. The two animals were eating up the distance at an astounding rate. He realized he’d never impale Rory on the initial pass, so he opted to concentrate on avoiding Rory’s first strike.
Rory came in fast and strong, his lance aimed for Geronimo’s midsection. He leaned forward, adding momentum to his lunge, as the two horses came abreast of one another.
Geronimo saw that gleaming metal tip sweeping toward his stomach, and he instinctively adjusted, using his lower legs and knees to retain his hold on the Palomino as he lowered his upper torso over the side of his steed, away from Rory’s thrust.
The lance missed, and the two horses were past each other and already circling.
Geronimo sat up, trying to hold his lance steady. He heard an outburst of applause from the assembled horsemen.
Rory, his features a mask of intensity, was coming in for the second strike.
Geronimo hunched over, keeping his eyes locked on the tip of Rory’s lance.
The horses were only feet apart when Rory made his move, ramming his lance at his enemy.
Geronimo was scarcely able to twist aside. He felt Rory’s lance scrape his right side, and knew his own weapon was held too wide to be of any use.
In an instant, the mounts were circling again for the next strike.
Geronimo changed his grip on his lance, extending more of it in front of him, hoping the additional length would compensate for his inexperience.
Rory was bearing down, grinning, confident in his superior ability.
Geronimo gauged the space between them, prepared to attempt a new tactic.
Fifteen yards.
Ten.
He tensed his body, his fingers holding the lance so hard the knuckles turned white.
Five yards!
Now!
Geronimo swung to his left as Rory jabbed with his lance. The tip passed to Geronimo’s right, just missing his chest. In that split second, Geroni
mo had swung his own lance outward. He caught Rory in the side, smashing the wooden section against his ribs, but missed with the metal point.
A rousing cheer arose from the men as the two steeds geared for the fourth run.
What were those idiots cheering about? Geronimo wondered. He’d missed, hadn’t he?
He suddenly realized Rory had reined in.
Why?
Geronimo did likewise, confused. What was Rory up to now? He was just sitting there, staring. What for?
“You’re better than I thought!” Rory called out.
What was this act? Reverse psychology?
Geronimo smiled and raised his lance. “I’m getting the hang of it! Let’s try it one more time!”
Rory frowned. “You’re awful eager to die!”
“No,” Geronimo yelled. “I’m eager to kill you!”
“You don’t even know me!”
“True,” Geronimo conceded. “And from what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t want to know you!”
Rory, insulted, started his next charge.
So much for Mr. Nice Guy!
Geronimo leaned forward as the Palomino galloped ahead. He had to try something new this time, something unexpected. He couldn’t expect Rory to miss forever. So far, only dumb luck and his quick reflexes had prevented disaster.
Twenty yards to go.
Let’s see. What would be completely different? Something Rory wouldn’t expect in a million years?
Fifteen yards.
What could he possibly…?
They were ten yards apart when the inspiration struck Geronimo, and he put his idea into operation instantaneously with the thought. He wrenched on the reins, the Palomino responding magnificently, the horse slewing to an abrupt stop, even as Geronimo rose to his full height, the lance clenched in his right fist. He elevated his arm and swung the lance back, gathering his strength.
Rory, startled by the unorthodox maneuver, vainly endeavored to turn the black aside before it was too late.
He failed.
Geronimo swept the lance forward, throwing this weapon as he had a spear many times in the past. Among the many weapons Kurt Carpenter included in the Family armory were several spears, enclosed in a rack labeled “Miscellaneous.” Under a section headed “Early North American”
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