David Robbins - The Kalispell Run

“I just don’t like it!”

“I thought you wanted to get out of here,” Hickok said.

“I do,” Wally admitted.

“Then quit being such a wimp!”

“I’m not a wimp!” Wally argued. “I’ve tried to bust out, several times.

That’s the main reason I’m in here now. But at least I didn’t rely on miracles.”

“Miracles?”

“What else would you call it?” Wally gestured at their cell. “If you can get two of them to come inside the cell, not just the guy with the food bucket, and if they don’t notice you’ve moved the shit pail and Shane is now standin’ in front of it, and if they don’t think we’re actin’ a little too innocent for our own good, then maybe, just maybe, we can pull it off.”

“Piece of cake,” Hickok declared, checking their positions for the fiftieth time. He was standing nearest the door, leaning on the cell bars, his back to the hallway. The outside guard was about fifteen feet away, to the right. Shane stood ten feet into the cell, casually leaning against the wall. Hidden by his moccasined feet, positioned between his ankles and the wall, was the waste bucket, its handle raised directly above the pail.

Wally stood in the center of the cell, nervously wringing his hands.

“It won’t be long,” Shane said.

“Why didn’t we do it when they brought the morning meal?” Wally inquired. “Why wait until the evening feed?”

“They were prepared for trouble,” Hickok answered. “It was the first time they fed me, and they probably expected me to put up a fight of some kind. Since I didn’t, whoever comes now won’t be anticipating any problem.”

Wally anxiously stared at the waste pail. “I don’t know. A shit bucket against rifles!”

“Haven’t you ever heard the basic law of social relationships?” Hickok asked, grinning.

“What?” Wally absently responded, confused.

“If you can’t dazzle ’em with brilliance,” Hickok stated, “then baffle ’em with bullshit.”

“Do you…” Wally began, then froze.

The guards with the food were coming, their voices carrying down the hallway as they joked and laughed.

Hickok glanced outside.

The cell guard had straightened and was watching the approaching duo.

Here goes nothing! Hickok moved to the corner behind the cell door, trying to convey an attitude of total indifference to the proceedings around him.

Shane appeared completely relaxed, his hands in his pockets, humming quietly.

The kid is good, Hickok noted. Maybe I will sponsor him for Warrior status after we return to the Home.

Wally was a worried wreck, glancing at the waste pail and the cell door, the waste pail and the cell door, the waste pail and…

“Will you cut it out, pard,” Hickok whispered. “You’re driving me nuts!”

“I can’t help it,” Wally explained. “I’m a family man, not a trained fighter like you two.”

“Don’t you want to see your family again?” Hickok queried.

“Of course,” Wally affirmed, frowning. “If they’re still alive, that is.”

“There’s only one way you’ll find out,” Hickok said.

“No problem.” Wally visibly regained control of his nerves, sobered by thoughts of his loved ones.

“You’re a bit early,” the cell guard greeted the food bearers.

“There’s a card game tonight,” one of the newcomers, a hairy, burly specimen, replied.

“Yeah,” said the third Mole. “We want to make our rounds as fast as we can. They won’t hold the table for us.”

“I wish I could get off,” the cell guard complained bitterly. “Instead, I get these jerks.” He waved his right hand at the cell.

“Poor baby!” the burly Mole joked, and the food bearers laughed.

Hickok recalled Silvester mentioning an auction for any captured women, and now the guards were talking about a card game. What did they use for money? he wondered.

The trio of Moles appeared at the cell door. The burly Mole and the cell guard both carried rifles, while the Mole with the food bucket had a revolver strapped to his belt, slanted across his left hip.

“Have they been behaving themselves?” Burly Mole asked.

“Sure have,” the cell guard, a thin man with a pointed chin, answered.

“Even this one?” Burly Mole questioned, swinging his rifle barrel in Hickok’s direction.

“Even him.”

“I’m surprised,” Burly Mole said. “I heard he’s a real hardcase.” He glanced at the gunman. “Hey, you! How come you’re being such a good little boy?”

“Because,” Hickok replied, hoping he would sound convincing, “I don’t want anything to happen to my woman, and I figure if I give you any grief, you just might do something to her.”

Burly Mole smirked and whispered in the cell guard’s ear. They both laughed at whatever he said.

“All right! Don’t try any funny stuff!” Burly Mole ordered.

The cell guard unlocked the cell door, slowly swinging the iron bars open.

Hickok was now behind the open door.

The Mole holding the food bucket, a portly fellow with a perpetual grin, entered and walked toward Wally. “Here you go.” He held the food bucket out. “Take it.”

On cue, Shane chuckled. “You expect us to keep eating that miserable excuse for food?”

“If you don’t like it,” Portly Mole rejoined, “we can always let you starve to death.”

“At least I wouldn’t have to look at your ugly face every day,” Shane snapped.

Portly Mole looked at Burly Mole. “Looks like we’ve got a troublemaker here, Frank.”

“Do tell,” Frank stated ominously as he came into the cell.

The cell guard, Pointy Chin, stood in the doorway, covering the prisoners.

What a bunch of amateurs! Hickok, faking disinterest, toyed with the frayed hem on his buckskin shirt.

Frank passed Portly Mole and Wally and stopped, his rifle aimed at Shane’s midsection. “Now what were you saying?” he arrogantly demanded.

“I said,” Shane angrily responded, “you can take this shit and eat it yourselves! I’m not taking another bite!”

“Is that so?” Frank, grinning, turned slightly, winking at Portly Mole.

He reached for the food bucket with his left hand. “Pass that food to me.

We’re going to help our young friend change his mind.”

Portly Mole started to extend his arm, the food bucket dangling from his hand, its putrid contents steaming.

“Now!” Hickok shouted.

The cell exploded into action.

Wally lunged, grabbing Portly Mole’s arm and sweeping it backward, causing the food to fly from the bucket, the reeking mess catching the Mole in the face, covering his eyes and his nose and momentarily leaving him open and vulnerable. Before the startled Mole could react, Wally had the revolver in his hand. He brought the long barrel crashing down on Portly Mole’s head as the Mole tried to wipe the food from his eyes.

Frank, spinning to assist Portly Mole, detected a motion out of the corner of his right eye. He swiveled again, expecting Shane to be coming at him.

Instead, Shane had looped his right foot through the handle on the waste pail. As Frank began his swivel, Shane swept his foot back and up, instinctively judging the angle and the trajectory and praying he was right.

Frank was on the verge of completing his turn when the contents of the waste pail, a week’s worth of accumulated excrement, struck him in his enraged visage. He tried to duck under the filthy barrage, but the urine and the feces peppered his upper torso.

Shane, seizing the initiative, kicked with his left foot, striking Frank’s right knee.

There was a popping noise, and Frank cried out and stumbled, wildly striving to recover his lost balance.