David Robbins - The Kalispell Run

“Release it, damn you!”

A third time Napoleon struck, kicking Rikki-Tikki-Tavi in the abdomen.

It was no good! He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t hold on to the katana.

Napoleon savagely wrenched the sword free and tossed it aside.

Tears poured from Rikki’s eyes, his nose was running, and he experienced an urge to vomit.

What was it?

“Thought you were going to kill me, huh?” Napoleon clasped his hands together and brutally struck Rikki on the back of his head.

Rikki collapsed on the grass at Napoleon’s feet.

“Guess who’s going to be the one doing the killing now?” Napoleon crowed.

Rikki gagged as the foreign substance continued to sear his respiratory system.

“I’ll teach you! I’ll teach all of you!” Napoleon, in a frenzy, pounded on Rikki’s contorted body. Finally, he straightened and raised his arms over his head. “It won’t be that easy, Plato!” he shouted toward the Home.

Rikki was straining to control his bodily functions, mentally forcing the fingers of his right hand to form a fist.

“I’ll be back, you son of a bitch!” Napoleon vowed, kicking the fallen Warrior in the right side. “The Family hasn’t heard the last of me! I’ll find some allies, maybe the Watchers, and I’ll return and reduce the Home to rubble and enslave all of you. You’ll see!”

His lungs were focal points of agony.

“No, you won’t see,” Napoleon corrected himself. “Because you won’t be around when I return. You’ll have been long gone!” he gloated.

My right hand! Must discipline my right hand! Rikki’s mind strained, channeling his energy and strength into his right arm and hand.

Napoleon slowly drew his revolver, relishing the outcome of their confrontation. “I never did like you, Rikki. You were like all the rest. You failed to recognize my natural ability. I’ll prove once and for all that I’m a master of men.”

Rikki formed his right hand into a tiger claw, tensing his fingers.

Napoleon glared at Rikki’s panting form. “Don’t worry, Rikki. You won’t die from that stuff you’ve inhaled. It’s called tear gas. I found a carton of these cylinders in the armory. Didn’t know if it’d still function after all these years. Surprise! Surprise! Although you don’t look like you’re too happy about it!” Napoleon laughed, cackling at his own joke.

It was not working! His fingers were too limp!

Napoleon crouched and jammed his left hand under Rikki’s chin. “Do you need some air, poor boy? Let me help you.” He forcefully pulled on the chin, snapping Rikki’s mouth closed and rattling his teeth. Chuckling, he elevated Rikki’s face until he could see the water-filled eyes.

Was it his imagination, or were the effects of the green fluid beginning to diminish?

“Can’t see a thing, can you?” Napoleon facetiously inquired. “Pity. I wanted you to see what’s coming, but I can’t afford to dally. Plato might have sent other Warriors to cover you.”

Rikki composed his racing thoughts, directing his mind to envision Napoleon’s position.

“So I guess we should get this over with.” Napoleon cocked his revolver.

Rikki perceived Napoleon was squatting directly in front of him.

Napoleon’s left hand was opening his mouth, so Napoleon’s face couldn’t be too far above his own. But where was Napoleon’s right hand? He had to know where it was…

The barrel of the revolver was rammed into his open mouth.

“Have any last requests?” Napoleon ridiculed him.

Rikki formed his right hand into the proper shape for a snake stab.

“I only wish it were Plato or Blade or Hickok,” Napoleon said. “Still, you’ll do. You’ll serve as an example. The others will know I’m not to be trifled with!” He knew he should pull the trigger, but he hesitated, savoring the feeling of power Rikki’s helplessness aroused in him.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was ready, but he needed the revolver barrel out of his mouth first. He tried opening his eyes, but the itching sensation was too great.

“Give my regards to the other side,” Napoleon nonchalantly commented.

Rikki made his move. He deliberately gagged and choked, making motions as if he were about to puke, to regurgitate all over the revolver barrel and Napoleon.

“What the…!” Napoleon hastily extracted the barrel and drew his right hand away from Rikki’s mouth, disgusted at the prospect of any vomit touching his person.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi surged upward, his right hand a striking snake as it swept up and in, the calloused, compact fingers aimed at Napoleon’s throat.

For an instant, Rikki thought he had missed.

Then his fingers gouged into Napoleon’s neck, shattering the windpipe and driving in up to the knuckles.

The revolver discharged, blasting near Rikki’s left ear.

Now it was Napoleon’s turn to gasp and wheeze, to choke and struggle.

He dropped the revolver and grabbed Rikki’s right wrist with both hands, frantically striving to remove Rikki’s fingers from his throat.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, still blinded by the tear gas, grappled with the madman. His right hand, covered with a sticky liquid, was yanked from Napoleon’s neck.

Napoleon made a protracted gurgling sound, and Rikki felt something splatter on his face.

Had he missed a killing blow?

Rikki, uncertain of Napoleon’s position, tried to gauge the exact location of Napoleon’s face.

What was he doing?

Rikki’s body was lying on top of Napoleon’s bulky form, covering it at an angle. He received the impression Napoleon was reaching for something, was stretching to the right.

But why? Was he in his death throes? Had he finally expired?

Napoleon, puffing and gagging, reached whatever he was after. His body suddenly coiled under Rikki’s, and Rikki was staggered by a jarring blow to the left side of his head.

Napoleon had the revolver!

Wobbly, his head throbbing, the tear gas continuing to ravage his system, Rikki lunged wildly, grasping for Napoleon’s gun arm. His left hand contacted Napoleon’s right elbow, and he held on for dear life, forcing the arm to the grass, hoping he could prevent Napoleon from firing.

The revolver boomed again, and the slug tore a furrow in Rikki’s left side.

Rikki twisted, attempting to place his body on the other side of Napoleon, to present as small a target as possible.

The revolver fired a third time, missing.

Rikki abruptly found himself cheek to cheek with his adversary, and he instantly drove his right hand, with the first two fingers extended and stiff, into Napoleon’s face, aiming for an eye. Instead, his blow struck a glancing miss off Napoleon’s eyebrow.

For the fourth time, Napoleon tried to shoot Rikki.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was rocked by intense pain at the base of his neck, and he knew he’d been hit, knew he was losing consciousness, and realized he had better make his next strike count, because he wouldn’t get another chance.

Napoleon began bucking in an effort to dislodge his foe.

Rikki, adrift in a murky sea of darkness, a whirlpool of vertigo, drew his right hand back as far as he could, then plunged it forward.

The blackness engulfed him.

“You call this an escape plan?” Wally demanded.

“You have any better ideas?” the gunman countered.

“Well, no,” Wally admitted, “but you can bet I wouldn’t come up with something as dipsy as this!”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it!” Wally exclaimed, shaking his head. “It’s crazy!

That’s what’s wrong with it!”

“Keep your voice down!” Hickok directed. “You’ll make the guard suspicious.”