David Robbins - Dallas Run

“Well, something like that,” Melanie admitted sheepishly.

“What went wrong?”

“They don’t like bright light, and I didn’t think they would come out of the warehouse during the day. I hid at the back, near those black doors, and made some noise to get your attention. Before I knew it, one of the roaches pounced on me, knocking me over. My head hit the floor and I passed out. The next thing I knew, I was in this pit,” Melanie detailed. “A few of them watched me for a minute or two, then took off. When I heard them coming, I hid. And here I am.”

“Lucky me,” Hickok muttered, scrutinizing the wall of trash.

“You don’t sound very happy to see me.”

“Where’d you ever get a cockamamie notion like that?”

Hickok responded stiffly. “I’m tickled pink at seein’ you again. Next to havin’ a rattlesnake in my britches, I can’t think of anything I’d rather have happen than to bump into you again.”

“You don’t like me, do you?”

“Sure I do. You rank right up there with poison ivy.”

Melanie frowned and fidgeted with her shirt. “I bet you’re mad at me too.”

“And who says you don’t have any smarts?”

“You can’t blame this on me!”

Hickok glanced at her. “Shucks, no. I wouldn’t think of puttin’ the blame on you. Personally, I reckon this is all part of a plot hatched by the Easter Bunny so he can take over the world.”

“What?”

“Never mind. I doubt you’re much into philosophy.”

“What’s philosophy?”

“The Elders at our Home practice it. Philosophy is the art of thinkin’ in circles.”

“Why would anyone want to think in circles?”

Hickok shrugged. “It beats thinkin’ into a corner.”

She stared at him in apparent confusion, then suddenly burst into tears. “You’re making fun of me! You hate me!”

“I wouldn’t say I hate you,” Hickok said, frowning.

“Yes, you do!” Melanie insisted, and cried louder.

Hickok walked over to her and placed his right hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She covered her face with her hands and blubbered.

“We’d best keep the noise down,” Hickok advised. “We wouldn’t want to attract the bugs.”

Melanie tried to stop crying, sniffling and whining softly. “I’m sorry,” she apologized in a high, squeaky tone.

“We’ve got to skedaddle before those cockroaches decide it’s supper time.”

She lowered her hands and gaped at the scattered skeletons. “That’s right. We’re their next meal.”

“Or their between-meals snack,” Hickok said.

Melanie gazed at the top of the mound. “How can we get out? We’re not tall enough to reach the edge.”

“We can do it workin’ together. Are you game?” Hickok asked.

“What choice do I have?”

The Warrior stepped to the wall and ran his hand over the side, marveling at how tightly the roaches had packed the material for their nest. He extended his right arm overhead. The rim was still approximately a foot and a half from the tips of his fingers.

“See? Even you can’t reach it, and you must be six feet tall,” Melanie commented.

“I can reach it with your help.”

“What do you want me to do?” she inquired.

Hickok slung the Henry over his right shoulder and motioned for her to move closer. “Stand with your back to the wall,” he instructed her. “Cup your hands at your waist.”

She complied. “Now what?”

Taking two strides backwards, Hickok stared at the rim and tensed his leg muscles. “I aim to plant my right foot on your hands and jump. The strain will be terrific, but you’ve got to bear it or I’ll fall on top of you.

Savvy?”

“What?”

“Do you understand?”

“Oh. Sure. Why do you talk so weird sometimes?”

“How do you know it isn’t everybody else who talks weird and I’m the only one who palavers normal?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. We don’t want to get on the subject of philosophy again.”

“What?”

Hickok took a deep breath. “Are you ready?”

She gulped and nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The Warrior swept into action, reaching her before she could so much as blink, his right foot coming down on her interlaced fingers even as he vaulted upward. He felt her hands start to give and flung his arms out.

Melanie grunted from the effort.

For a millisecond Hickok thought he wouldn’t succeed, until his fingers closed on the rim and he dug his fingers into the compacted trash and held fast, dangling from the lip. He gritted his teeth and managed to secure a firmer purchase. So far, so good.

“Hey, you’re not climbing out and leaving me, are you?” Melanie asked.

“Don’t give me any ideas,” Hickok told her.

“How do I get out?”

“We’ll get to you in a minute. Keep quiet while I’ll take a gander.”

“A what?”

“Shut your face.”

“Oh. Sure. Fine. Whatever you say.”

Hickok started to pull himself up to the rim. Why, he wondered, was it always him who ran into certified cow chips when the Warriors went on a run? He seemed to draw them like a magnet drew metal. Once, just once, he’d like to bump into a genuine genius. At least an egghead wouldn’t give him half the grief the idiots did. He inched his head above the lip and peeked at the mound and the chamber.

No bugs were in evidence.

Thank the Spirit!

“Okay,” Hickok said, lowering himself again. “Start climbin’.”

“You mean climb over you?”

“No, climb the wall,” Hickok responded sarcastically.

There was a pause.

“I don’t think I can.”

The gunman sighed and rested his forehead on the trash. He toyed with the notion of shooting her and putting her out of her misery, but why should he waste a perfectly good bullet? “Climb up over me. Move as quickly as you can, and try not to gouge me with your knees.”

“You can hold the weight of both of us?” Melanie asked skeptically.

“There’s only one way to find out. And I’d appreciate it if you’d get a move on before my arms get tired. Any time this year would be nice.”

“Boy, are you a smart-ass,” Melanie commented, and jumped as high as she could. She caught hold of the Warrior around the waist, locked her legs on his, and clung to him.

“Keep going!” Hickok prompted her gruffly.

Melanie clambered higher, clutching at the sturdy fabric of his buckskin shirt. Her left hand found a purchase on his left shoulder, and she was able to place her right hand on the top of his head, then lunge at the rim. Her fingers slipped and she sagged, perching precariously on his shoulders and upper torso.

His arms feeling as if they were about to be yanked from their sockets, Hickok closed his eyes and focused exclusively on retaining his grip. His arms quivered from the tremendous strain.

Melanie tried again, her left knee inadvertently digging into the gunman’s back. Her right hand grasped the lip, and a moment later she had both her hands on the rim. “I did it!” she cried, elated.

“Let the bugs know, why don’t you?” Hickok growled.

She raised herself onto her elbows, arched her back, and swung her legs up. Once flat on the rim, she rested, grinning and breathing deeply.

“You’re on my hands, you ding-a-ling!” Hickok snapped.

“Oh. Sorry,” Melanie said, and eased down the mound, lying with her head near the lip, to the gunfighter’s left.

Hickok began to pull himself to the rim again, his arms and shoulders aching terribly. His whole body shook with the effort. Sweat had formed on his palms, and he felt his left hand slipping. If he fell back in, he might be trapped until the bugs returned! Desperation seized him when his left hand came loose and he started to drop.