David Robbins - The Kalispell Run

In the second Blade delayed, overcome by amazement, the thing pounced, slamming into the Warrior and driving him back. One of its bony hands clamped on Blade’s neck and the other grabbed his right wrist to prevent him from using the Bowie.

Move!

Blade allowed the force of the creature’s impact to work in his favor. He rolled onto his back, drove his feet into the thing’s stomach, and kicked.

The creature flew over Blade’s head and landed on its back in the street, recovering immediately and leaping to its feet.

Blade followed suit, extending his Bowie, mentally debating if he should kill this thing or try to capture it alive.

The creature grinned at the Warrior. “You good one, no? Not be easy, yes?”

Blade couldn’t believe the thing was actually speaking to him. What was it?

The thing held its hands out, palms up. “Surrender, no? Not hurt you, yes?”

Why did it talk the way it did? “If you expect me to give up, bozo,” he told it, “you’ve got another think coming.”

The creature cocked its head and stared at him, puzzled. “What mean you? Not bozo, no! Gremlin, yes.”

“Why did you attack me?” Blade demanded, straightening.

“Doktor’s orders.”

“I don’t understand,” Blade admitted, still wary, suspecting a trick.

“Must take you, no? Come along, yes?” The creature pointed at the Bowies and the .44 Magnum under Blade’s left arm. “Drop, please.”

“You’re nuts,” Blade retorted.

“Incorrect. Not want to hurt, yes? Please,” the thing pleaded with him.

“Who are you?” Blade ignored the entreaty. “Better yet, what are you?”

Despite its ferocious visage, the creature apparently didn’t desire to continue their fight.

“Please!” the thing repeated, and abruptly gripped the metal collar it wore with both hands, trembling.

Blade noticed a small indicator light in the middle of the collar. Until now the light had been unlit, but it unexpectedly glowed a brilliant blue hue.

The creature reacted as if it were in pain. “No, Doktor! Will do bidding, yes! Stop! Stop!”

The blue light went out.

What the hell was going on here?

The thing was quaking and whining, doubled over.

“What’s going on?” Blade asked. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

The creature looked up, its face contorted in sheer rage.

“NOOOOOOO!” it shrieked, and charged.

Blade was caught off guard. The thing barreled into him, incredibly strong, unbelievably fast, and rammed him to the ground. His right Bowie clattered to the asphalt as his right wrist hit the pavement.

“NOOOOOOO!” the creature wailed again.

Blade swung his left fist, clipping the thing on the chin. The creature swayed, but stayed astride his chest. It seized his neck in both hands and squeezed. Blade felt a constricting sensation in his throat as he placed his hands together and, using his arms as a single, steely mallet, struck the creature on the left ear.

Snarling in fury, the thing rolled to the street and jumped erect.

Blade was trying to rise when he caught a fleeting glimpse of a foot coming at his head. Pain exploded in the right side of his skull, and he staggered, still game, attempting to focus on the creature. Vaguely, he experienced the sensation of two more blows striking his head.

Damn!

The thing was so astoundingly quick!

So…

Silvester the Mole was grabbed from behind, wrenched around, and compelled to appreciate the craftsmanship of a Henry barrel from a distance of two inches.

“You know, pard,” Hickok rudely informed him, “I get the distinct impression you are jerking me around by my G-string, and I’m here to tell you it’s a decidedly unhealthy practice.”

Silvester’s eyes widened in abject terror. “Wh… Wh… What do you mean?” he fearfully stammered.

Hickok swept his right hand in an arc. “We’ve been waltzing around this forest for a day and a half looking for this Mound of yours. You said it was in this area. By my reckoning, we’re over fifty miles southeast of Fox. So where the blazes is the Mound?”

“I’m… I’m not sure,” Silvester mumbled.

Hickok stared into the Mole’s eyes. “Are you tryin’ to stall me, pard?”

“No, sir,” Silvester promptly replied.

“Then explain to me why you can’t find where you live,” Hickok gruffly demanded.

“I’m not much good in the woods,” Silvester replied sheepishly.

“You can say that again,” Hickok agreed. “I can’t afford these delays!”

he snapped. “I need to find Shane and return to my Home.”

“Maybe we should spread out?” Sherry suggested. They were standing in the sunlit center of a small clearing in the forest.

“No way,” Hickok disagreed. “The way my luck’s been running, you’d get lost and I’d lose more time findin’ you. It took us two days to reach this part of the country, and now we’ve wasted all this time looking for this jerk’s Mound. I’m here to tell you,” he said, glaring at the Mole, “I’m beginning to get a mite ticked off!”

“I know it’s around here somewhere!” Silvester stated.

“From what I’ve seen of you,” the gunman commented, “you’re a lousy fighter, a rotten tracker, and about as useful in the woods as a fish out of water. So why did this Wolfe send you to check on Fox?”

“Two reasons,” Silvester said.

“I’m listening.”

“First, if anyone was still living there, we could raid it,” the Mole said.

“Raid it? You mean to tell me you raid other communities and towns?”

Hickok queried him.

“How else could we get by?” Silvester said, protesting Hickok’s angry tone.

“You could grow your own crops and hunt your game, for starters,” the Warrior proposed.

“No one knows how to do that stuff,” Silvester retorted. “Oh, we grow some food, but not much. Mostly, we take what we want.”

“You’re no better than the scavengers,” Hickok muttered.

Silvester, embarrassed, stared at the ground. “It ain’t my idea, you know,” he said. “It’s just the way we do things.”

“You’re no better than the Trolls even!” Hickok rebuffed him. “They made slaves of all the women they found, and killed any men they encountered. What do you do with the people in the places you raid?”

Silvester mumbled a few words, unintelligible to the other two.

“Speak up,” Hickok ordered. “We can’t hear you.”

“We… we…” Silvester began in a low voice. “We make slaves of the men.”

“And the women?” Hickok pressed him.

“They’re auctioned off to the highest bidder,” Silvester explained.

“Sounds like the kind of place I’d want to avoid like the plague,” Sherry noted.

Hickok grabbed Silvester by the front of his gray shirt. “I was right. You’re no better than the Trolls!” He stopped, struck by a thought. “I’m surprised the Moles and the Trolls didn’t run into each other long before this. Too bad you didn’t! You could have killed each other off and made the world a better place in which to live.”

“The Trolls are too far north of us,” Silvester mentioned. “Or, at least they were too far north. We don’t usually send out patrols to the north. We send them south.”

“Why?” Hickok asked.

“Because a lot of people still live south of us, on the other side of the lakes.”

“What lakes?” Sherry inquired.

“The Upper Red Lake and the Lower Red Lake. On the other side of the lakes are some towns with people still in them,” Silvester responded.

“There are a lot of people in the Bemidji area,” he added.

“And the Trolls seldom conducted their pillage and plunder tactics to the south,” Hickok said thoughtfully. “So that explains it.”