David Robbins - New York Run

“Slowly!” Hickok said.

The Technic licked his dry lips as he moved in slow motion, raising the automatic to chest level, inches from Hickok’s left hand.

“A little higher,” Hickok instructed him.

The guard elevated the pistol to within an inch of the gunman’s right hand.

Hickok glanced at the automatic, a 45 of indeterminate manufacture, probably produced by the Technics. He saw a safety button above the grips.

Blast!

The safety was on!

Hickok hesitated. He would need to drop the fork, draw the pistol, and flick the safety all in one move, leaving himself vulnerable for the fraction of a second his right hand would be empty. Could he do it before he soldier reacted?

Was there any other option?

“You’ve been a good boy,” Hickok said sarcastically. “But I still think I should put out your eye!”

“Please!” the trooper whined. “Don’t!”

Hickok scraped the fork tines over the guard’s right eyelid, and the soldier flinched, his eyes closing in instinctive defense as his face recoiled.

Which was just what the gunman wanted.

Hickok released the fork and snatched the automatic, his thumb flipping the safety off, and before the Technic quite knew what had transpired he found the fork replaced by the pistol. “Now we come to the easy part,” Hickok said.

“Anything,” the guard declared.

“Your momma sure raised a polite cuss,” Hickok joked. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot. You Technic types don’t know who your momma or pappa was, do you?”

“No,” the trooper replied.

“Too bad. A little parental love might have changed you from a jackass to a thoroughbred.” Hickok wagged the pistol barrel downward. “Now I want you to lower us down, real slow. I’ll let you know when to stop.”

Struggling to support the gunman’s weight, the soldier eased to his knees.

“I’m gonna let go of your shirt,” Hickok said. “When I do, slide your butt backwards. Don’t try anything stupid!”

The trooper nodded his understanding.

Hickok released his hold on the shirt, shoving the guard from him and dropping his left hand to the tiled floor to support his body. He wound up in the push-up position, his left arm bracing him, his ankles smarting like the dickens from the manacles above his feet.

The Technic was crouched not a foot away, staring at the pistol barrel.

“Pick up the keys,” Hickok ordered.

The trooper immediately complied, stretching his left arm to the keys and cautiously retrieving them.

“Now unlock my legs,” Hickok said. “I’ll have you covered all the way, and believe me when I say I can perforate your noggin if you so much as look at me crossways. Do it!”

The guard sidled to the left, still on his knees, toward the wall.

Hickok shifted his left arm, twisting his body, keeping the pistol in his right hand trained on the trooper.

The soldier reached the wall and quickly unfastened the first manacle.

Hickok felt a wave of relief as the agony in his left leg subsided.

The guard unlocked the last manacle.

Hickok rolled to his right, coming up on his knees, the automatic pointed at the Technic. “Thanks, pard. Now stand up and lock the manacles on yourself.”

The soldier obeyed without complaining, securing his legs and left wrist.

“Now freeze!” Hickok said.

The Technic became a statue.

Hickok rose and walked up to the guard, placing the pistol barrel a centimeter from the soldier’s nose. “Blink, and you’ll wind up with a new nasal passage!”

The trooper’s throat bobbed.

Hickok locked the right steel manacle on the guard’s right wrist, then smiled. “Do you want to live?”

The Technic nodded.

“Then tell me where the blazes they’ve got my guns and clothes,” Hickok directed.

“Right here,” the guard responded.

“Here?” Hickok scanned the chamber. All he saw was the brown easy chair. He tapped the barrel on the Technic’s nose. “You wouldn’t be joshin’

me, would you?”

“No!” the soldier assured the gunman. He nodded toward the right-hand wall. “There! You’ll find them there!”

Hickok stared at the blue wall. “Where?”

“They’re in a closet,” the trooper said.

“A closet?”

“A compartment in the wall. Go to the center of the wall,” the guard stated.

Hickok walked to the middle of the wall, the pistol trained on the trooper. If the wall was booby-trapped, he intended to blow the soldier away before he went.

“Look for a small button,” the guard said. “A little circle on the wall.”

Hickok recalled the incident with the syringe, and how Captain Wargo had touched a spot on the left wall, exposing the tray. He peered at the seemingly solid wall. “I don’t see it.”

“Keep looking!” the Technic said nervously. “It’s there!” he assured the gunman.

Hickok saw a circular indentation to his right, about waist height. He pressed the indentation and it sank inward several inches. So that’s how they did it!

With a whisk of air, a panel slid aside, a section of the wall simply disappearing as it slid into a recessed groove.

“Bingo!” Hickok said, smiling.

The compartment was six feet high by five feet wide. A metal bar was aligned across the space, six inches from the top. Dangling from silver metal hangers were the gunman’s buckskin shirt and leggings. His moccasins had been deposited on the floor in a corner. Leaning against the back wall were Hickok’s Henry, Blade’s Commando, and Geronimo’s FNC. Lying in a pile in the middle of the compartment were Blade’s Bowies, Geronimo’s tomahawk and Arminius, and one other item, the sight of which caused the gunman’s eyes to light up and a wave of genuine joy to wash over him: his pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers in their holsters.

Praise the Spirit!

Hickok crouched and laid the Technic pistol on the floor. He drew one of the Pythons and checked the cylinder to insure it was loaded. Satisfied, he raised the revolver and stroked his right cheek with the cool barrel.

The guard was gawking at the gunman in amazement.

“What’s the matter?” Hickok demanded gruffly.

“Ain’t you ever seen anyone in love with a gun before?”

“You’re crazy,” the Technic mustered the courage to comment.

“You think so, huh?”

“What else would you call it?” the soldier countered. “I’ve never seen anybody act the way you do over a rotten gun.”

“These Pythons have gotten me out of more tight scrapes than I care to remember,” Hickok said. “I know they’re just tools of my trade, but after all these years I’ve sort of developed a personal relationship with ’em. In a fix, they’re the best friends I’ve got.”

“Like I said,” the guard reiterated, “you’re crazy.”

“And you talk too much,” Hickok rejoined.

The guard clammed up.

Hickok hurriedly dressed, relieved to be clothed again. He strapped his gunbelt around his waist, then paused, considering the other weapons in the closet. What was he supposed to do about them? He couldn’t leave them for the Technics. Besides, Blade was as fond of the Bowies and Geronimo as attached to his tomahawk as he was to the Pythons. Nope.

He owed it to his pards to take the weapons with him, even if the extra weight slowed him down a mite. He picked up the tomahawk and slid it under his gunbelt in the small of his back. The Bowies, sheaths and all, he angled under the gunbelt, one on either side of the tomahawk. Bending over would pose a problem, but his hands had a clear path to the Pythons.

Next, he slung his Henry over his right shoulder. The FNC went over his left. He was about to grab the Commando when he saw the Arminius still on the floor.