David Robbins - The Kalispell Run

The Mole paused and looked back. “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong? Are you mad at me?”

“Don’t pee your pants!” Hickok grinned. “I want you to get behind me and stay there.” He strolled past the Mole and touched the Henry barrel against Silvester’s chin. “And remember, if you make one little peep, do anything to give us away, you’ll be the first one I send to the worlds on high.”

“The what?”

“Just do as I tell you.” Hickok said jerking his thumb backward.

“Yes, sir,” Silvester replied, meekly complying.

Hickok warily took the lead, listening for any unusual sounds, searching for any unnatural movement, his finger on the trigger of the Henry. If they were close to the Mound, even a few miles distant, silence was called for.

He wanted to approach the Mound undetected and study the layout before he made his move. Was Shane still alive? The fool kid! What a stupid stunt! And all to impress him! Unbelievable. Until Shane had told him, he had had no idea the younger Family members considered him a hero. A hero! Him? They wouldn’t say that if they knew him better. Maybe it was the exciting allure of becoming a Warrior. Maybe that accounted for the hero worship. If they only knew what being a Warrior was really like! Your life was on the line every day. You never knew when the next threat would appear.

Hickok rounded a curve in the trail.

Who could blame the younger ones? he reflected. Look at the life they lived. Raised in the sheltered environment of the Home, they attended the Family school, were indoctrinated with Family teachings, lived a quiet existence as a Carpenter, or Tiller of the soil, or a Healer, or Weaver, or whatever, married another Family member, settled into one of the cabins in the center of the thirty-acre compound, and devoted their lives to having children, to raising another generation, to perpetuating the cycle decade after decade. Tranquil. Quaint. Pleasant even.

But utterly boring!

Wasn’t that the reason, Hickok asked himself, he had become a Warrior? Dissatisfaction with the dull, repetitive routine, the same thing day after day after day after day? Maybe, Hickok reasoned, he shouldn’t be so hard on Shane when he found him. After all, the youth merely felt the same way Hickok had felt at his age.

Ironic, Hickok noted, he should be rescuing a younger version of himself, a youth who was longing for action and excitement at a time when he, Hickok, was becoming slightly weary of the constant fighting and killing. How many men had he killed in recent months? He’d lost count.

Trolls. Watchers. Porns. All of them, it was true, were trying to kill him.

But did that justify the killing? Hickok shook his head, clearing his mind.

It wouldn’t do for a Warrior to entertain such thoughts. That blasted Joshua was having an affect on…

Hickok abruptly stopped, motioning for the others to halt.

The woods ended, and the trail crossed a wide field and re-entered the forest on the other side.

No good, Hickok noted. They’d be exposed, vulnerable. Should they go around the field? It would take longer, but be safer.

“What’s wrong?” Sherry whispered.

“I don’t like it,” Hickok replied softly.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Silvester said. “We’re still a long ways from the Mound.”

Hickok glanced at him. “You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Terrific.” Hickok scanned the field for signs of life. The weeds and brush were waist high, and there were few hiding places. Near the center of the field were some huge boulders and rocks. The trail passed between them.

“Oh, go ahead,” Sherry goaded him. “Well make it.”

Despite his better judgment, Hickok nodded and started across. He saw a field mouse scamper from their path, and a rabbit bounded away to their right. Nothing out of the ordinary, though. That was a good sign.

The trio reached the section littered with the rocks and boulders and Hickok followed the trail between two of the larger ones. He hoped rescuing Shane would be a relatively easy task. Break into this Mound, bust out again with Shane, and head for their Home. One, two, three. That was the ideal scenario, the way he wanted the events to unfold.

It wasn’t what he got.

As. Hickok passed between the two large boulders, something scraped above him and he idly glanced upward, not expecting trouble.

A lean Mole with a net was perched on the boulder above his head.

Hickok crouched and ducked as the Mole dropped the net. He swept the Henry up and fired, the 44-40 blasting, the noise deafening in the narrow confines between the boulders. The slug struck the Mole in the forehead and propelled him backward, out of sight.

“Hickok!” Sherry screamed as the first net missed him.

Hickok heard the swish of the descending net before it enveloped him and knew there was another Mole on top of the other boulder, he tried to dodge, to no avail. The heavy net, comprised of knotted rope, cord, and nylon, draped over his shoulders and pinned his arms to his sides.

Blast!

The Glenfield boomed and the Mole on top of the second boulder shrieked and pitched from view.

Good for Sherry, Hickok mentally elated as he struggled against the net.

The damn thing was clinging to him like a bear to honey. He couldn’t shake it off, and he was unable to reach his Pythons and bring them into play.

Moles swarmed from everywhere. Silvester was leaning against one of the boulders, his face a frozen mask.

Sherry aimed the Glenfield as several Moles closed on her. She shot, hitting a husky Mole in the left shoulder and spinning him around. Before she could shoot again, two Moles pounced on her and bore her to the ground, kicking and fighting. They succeeded in wresting the rifle from her grip and restraining her as each man grasped one of her arms in a sturdy hold.

Hickok glanced around.

Six Moles faced him, three on either side, each with a firearm pointed in his general direction. There wasn’t sufficient space for all of them to crowd between the two large boulders, but they were able to cover him effectively with their weapons.

“Slip your rifle through one of the holes in the net,” one of the Moles ordered, a tall, bearded man with sandy hair and green eyes. “Do it slowly! One false move and we’ll blow you away!”

“I sure can’t say much for your hospitality.” Hickok grinned. He complied, slowly feeding the Henry through an opening in the net.

One of the Moles took possession of the rifle.

“Now the short guns,” the same Mole directed. “Same as before. Nice and easy, pal!”

One of the other Moles reached over and eased the slack on the net.

Hickok carefully drew his right Colt and passed it through the net. The Mole with his Henry took the Python.

“Now the other shot gun!” commanded Sandy Hair.

Hickok reluctantly obeyed, realizing his refusal meant instant death.

“Good! Now stand still like a good little boy and we’ll have you out of there in a jiffy.”

Hickok pondered his next move. The Moles had his Henry and the Colts, but they were unaware he carried two backup pieces: a Mitchell’s Derringer strapped to his right wrist, under his buckskin sleeve, and a four-shot C.O.P. in .357 caliber tied to his left leg above the ankle. Should he make a move after the net was lifted over his head? Sherry was being firmly held by the pair of goons, and they were outnumbered four times over.

Nope.

He would have to wait.

The net was pulled off him and he smiled at the Moles.

“You find something funny about all this?” Sandy Hair demanded.

“I was just thinking about how good a job you guys did hiding behind these boulders and rocks,” Hickok commented. “It was real professional, pard.”