David Robbins - The Kalispell Run

Hickok estimated four dozen Moles occupied the audience room, most of them congregated at the foot of a series of cement stairs leading up to a circular dais. The exact middle of the dais was occupied by an enormous purple chair. But it was the man seated on the chair, scanning the chamber like a great, grim bird of prey, who drew Hickok’s gaze.

Wolfe.

The Mole leader was exceptionally tall, a giant of a man, but as abnormally thin as he was tall. An unruly mane of red hair crowned a craggy countenance, resembling, more than anything else, the visage of a mighty eagle. His eyes were an intense blue hue, ever in motion, conveying the impression he saw everything going on around him. He wore clean clothes, both a purple shirt and purple slacks, and polished black leather boots. Strapped to his waist were a pair of pearl-handled revolvers, and leaning against the purple chair was a heavy-caliber rifle.

Hickok suppressed an impulse to charge up the steps and seize the revolvers and the rifle, his Pythons and the Henry. Well, at least he knew where to find them when the time came.

All eyes were on the prisoners as Goldman marched them to the base of the stairs. He bowed and smiled. “I have brought the new captives, as ordered.”

“And they have been checked?” This question, spoken directly to Watson, came in an eerie, sibilant tone, remarkable in its uncanny projection and resonance.

Watson dutifully bowed. “They have, sir, and I can safely report they are clean.”

“They better be.”

“Your orders, sir?” Goldman requested.

Wolfe shot a stony stare at Goldman. “When I am ready.”

Goldman bowed and averted his eyes.

“These are yours?” Wolfe looked at Hickok and patted the revolver on his right hip.

“You bet your ass,” Hickok arrogantly replied, and Sherry abruptly groaned.

“I want to thank you,” Wolfe said, ignoring the barb. “It isn’t often we find weapons in such superb condition, of such excellent… caliber.” The Mole leader snickered at his own joke.

“Enjoy ’em while you got ‘em,” Hickok advised. “You won’t have them for long.”

“Oh?” Wolfe’s eyebrows arched upward. “Is that a fact?”

“It sure is,” Hickok vowed. “The last son of a bitch who took my guns wound up as rat food. I don’t like it when someone takes my guns,” he added, speaking slowly, deliberately.

“You’re scaring me to death,” Wolfe commented drolly.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Hickok promised. He climbed the first step, then froze as guards materialized, ringing him, their weapons trained on his chest.

“No hasty moves, please,” Wolfe directed. “My men might decide you pose a threat, and one of them might shoot before I could stop him. I wouldn’t want that to happen. We have a lot to discuss.”

“There’s only one thing we have to talk about,” Hickok disagreed.

“Indeed? And what is that?”

“I’m looking for a pard of mine, a kid wearing black clothes. I’m told he’s here and I want him.”

Wolfe, frowning, stood. “Goldman told me about your mouth, but I still can’t believe anyone could be so inane.” He walked to the edge of the dais and glared at Hickok. “No one talks to me the way you just did!” he growled. “No one!”

“Maybe you’re hard of hearing,” Hickok stated. “Want me to do it again?”

A deathly silence descended on the audience chamber as the assembled Moles awaited Wolfe’s reaction to Hickok’s taunt.

The Mole leader studied the gunman from head to toe. “You have courage, I’ll grant you that. A remarkable lack of intellect, but courage.

Just like the youth you seek. Very well!” He glanced at Goldman. “He wants to see his friend so much, we’ll let him. Take him to the cells!”

“And the woman?” Goldman inquired.

Wolfe’s blue eyes rested on Sherry’s voluptuous body. “I see she is not without certain… talents,” he announced, mentally undressing her. “I claim her for mine!”

“As you wish, sir,” Goldman said, bowing, disguising his disappointment. He’d hoped Sherry would be offered on the public auction block, but among the special privileges enjoyed by the Mole leader was the prerogative of first rights to any new female.

Hickok quickly caught Sherry’s eye and smiled reassuringly. “Hang in there,” he urged her. “I’m coming for you soon.”

Sherry bravely returned his smile and reached for his hand, but a guard grabbed her and spun her around.

Hickok leaped, diving from the first step, catching the guard across the lower legs and knocking him to the stone floor. He rolled past the guard and jumped to his feet, taking Sherry’s hand in his. “Keep the faith, gorgeous!” he said, winking.

The stock of Goldman’s Winchester slammed into Hickok’s head from behind.

The Warrior dropped to his knees, weaving.

“Bastard!” Sherry angrily shouted, lunging at Goldman and clawing at his eyes. Her nails tore into the soft flesh above his left eye and ripped a chunk away, blood flowing from the wound and covering the eye as, enraged, he shoved her aside.

Goldman cursed and backed off as five of the guards swarmed on Sherry and wrestled her to the floor.

Wolfe held his right hand aloft. “Enough!” he bellowed. “Control them or else!” He motioned at one of the guards. “Take him to the cells as I ordered!” he snapped, pointing to Hickok.

A pair of guards gripped the gunman under the arms and hauled him from the audience chamber.

“And you,” the Mole leader said, leering at Sherry, “will provide me with hours of amusement. I’m not afraid of your claws, witch! I like it when a woman fights me.”

Goldman, his left hand pressed over his left eye, blood seeping between his fingers, moaned.

Wolfe glanced at his injured subject. “Take the woman to my private chambers,” he ordered.

Goldman glared at Sherry with his good eye. “Get going, you bitch!” He pushed her so hard she stumbled and nearly fell.

“Goldman!” Wolfe barked.

Goldman looked up.

“If one hair on her beautiful head is damaged,” Wolfe warned, “that little scratch will be the very least of your worries.”

Goldman, furious, his face livid, bowed and nodded at three of the guards. Two fell in on either side of Sherry and one brought up the rear as Goldman led them from the audience room.

Sherry searched for the men carrying Hickok, but they were out of sight and she had no idea which direction they’d taken.

Goldman turned at the intersection, his hand still over his eye. “You may be under Wolfe’s protection now,” he snarled. “But he’ll tire of you soon enough, and then any man can bid for you. I intend to make sure I’m the one who gets you, and when I do, bitch, I’m going to make you pay for what you’ve done to me!”

Sherry, taking her cue from Hickok’s example, mocked Goldman by saying sarcastically, “Should I tremble now or later?”

Cindy and Tyson located the one they sought after the Family’s evening meal. Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone.

“What do we do?” Tyson queried his sister as they paused twenty yards from the four people resting under a pine tree.

“We don’t have any choice,” Cindy replied. “We have to tell him now.”

“But Plato, Jenny, and Joshua are with him,” Tyson objected. “Should we involve them?”

“They’re already involved,” Cindy declared, “whether they know it or not.”

“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” Tyson said apprehensively.

“Only one way to find out.” Cindy mentally calmed her jittery nerves and boldly walked toward the seated quartet. How would they take the news of Napoleon’s treachery? Would they even believe her? After all, she wasn’t a legitimate Family member. Tyson and she were orphans, taken into the fold and, in a sense, adopted. They had only been in the Home several months. Would the others believe them?