David Robbins - The Kalispell Run

Shane stepped in and grabbed the rifle, a Marlin 1894 lever action. He savagely slammed the stock again and again against the Mole’s head.

Simultaneously with the activity in the cell, Pointy Chin took a step inside, raising his rifle to his shoulder.

Hickok threw his entire weight against the cell door, propelling the heavy iron bars into the hapless guard and smashing him between the cell door and the fixed bars on one side.

Pointy Chin’s rifle dropped to the dirt floor as Hickok rammed him three more times for good measure.

Satisfied, the gunman stood back and allowed Pointy Chin to tumble to the floor. He gazed around the cell. The other two Moles were likewise down and out. Shane held the Marlin and Wally was armed with the revolver, a High Standard Double Action.

Hickok retrieved Pointy Chin’s rifle, a Winchester. “See?” he said to Wally. “Like I told you, it was a piece of cake.”

Wally was gaping at the fallen Moles, amazed at their good fortune.

“And you say you do this kind of thing a lot?”

“All the time,” Hickok confirmed, removing Pointy Chin’s shirt.

“I don’t see how you do it,” Wally stated. “I don’t think my nerves could take it.”

“You get used to it, pard,” Hickok said, shredding the shirt.

“So what’s our next move?” Shane asked. He walked to the cell door and looked both ways. The hallway, illuminated by candles at ten-yard intervals, was empty. “No sign of anyone,” he informed the others.

Hickok was staring thoughtfully at Wally. “You say the Moles have had you here about a year?” He began binding the Moles.

“Near as I can tell,” Wally replied. He knelt and searched Portly Mole for additional ammunition.

“Then you must be pretty familiar with the tunnels,” Hickok deduced, gagging the first of the Moles, Pointy Chin.

“I can get around okay,” Wally said, “but I don’t have the tunnels memorized, if that’s what you mean.”

“It’ll do,” Hickok stated. He started securing Portly Mole.

Wally glanced up. “What are you getting at?”

“Can you get us from here to Wolfe’s personal chambers?” Hickok inquired, moving to Frank, working quickly.

“To Wolfe’s per…” Wally quickly stood, shaking his head. “No way, Hickok! It’s suicide. We’d never make it. His private chambers are guarded all the time. Why the hell do you want to go there?”

“Two reasons,” Hickok explained, joining Shane at the door. “First, the varmint has my guns, and I aim to get them back…”

“Who cares about some measly guns?” Wally interrupted. “Are they worth dying for?”

“They’re my guns,” Hickok said coldly, “and the only way anybody is going to get them from me is by prying them from my lifeless fingers!”

“What’s the second reason?” Wally asked, hastily changing the subject.

“I came across a female type I’ve developed a real hankerin’ for,” Hickok admitted, “and I don’t reckon to leave her behind.” He led the way into the hallway.

Wally tapped Shane on the shoulder.

Shane glanced back.

“Has anyone ever told you,” Wally curiously inquired, “that your friend talks kind of weird?”

“Just about everybody,” Shane acknowledged, grinning. “It’s one of the things that makes Hickok… Hickok.” He followed on the heels of his mentor.

“I’m trying to escape from the Mole Mound,” Wally mumbled as he brought up the rear, “with a kid and a mental defective. How do I get myself into these things?”

They reached the first intersection and stopped.

“Still no Moles,” Hickok said, pleased. “Probably wouldn’t expect to find too many hanging around the cells anyway.” He looked at Wally. “The rest is up to you. Lead us to Wolfe’s chambers.”

“The tunnels will be full of Moles,” Wally objected. “We’ll never make it.”

“You’ll never get anywhere in this life with a negative attitude,” Hickok commented. “Besides, we’ll stick to the less-frequented tunnels. Stay in the shadows. There are hundreds of Moles in the Mound. Odds are, they don’t all know each other on sight. If we’re careful, we won’t even be noticed.”

“You hope,” Wally muttered.

“We’re wasting time. Move it out,” Hickok ordered, gesturing with the Winchester.

Wally, grumbling under his breath, reluctantly led them to the left.

They traversed tunnel after tunnel, always avoiding those tunnels filled with traffic where possible. Where they couldn’t avoid them, they bluffed their way through, walking in the darker areas and smiling at everyone they passed. Several times Wally became lost and they were forced to retrace their steps. Hours passed.

“Can’t we take a break?” Wally asked at one point. “My feet are killing me?”

“And what do you think the Moles will do if they find us?” Hickok reminded him.

Wally kept walking.

More time elapsed.

Shane, now behind the other two, was reflecting on his recent actions and dreading his homecoming. His father might tan his hide from one end of the Home to the other; if not physically, then at least verbally. Plato might censure him in front of the assembled Family for his blatant stupidity. Hickok would likely never consent to sponsor him to become a Warrior. His girlfriend, Jane, would undoubtedly drop him for someone else. And all because he wanted to make an impression.

He’d made an impression, all right.

As a first-class jackass!

Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!

Shane frowned, recalling his motives. He wanted to become a Warrior because he was bored with the dull routine of Family life. Excitement!

That’s what he craved. Excitement and adventure, lured by the illusion of a Warrior’s glamorous life. Maybe, he realized, his motives were all wrong.

Maybe the reason Hickok, Blade, Geronimo, and the rest made such outstanding Warriors was because they were devoted to protecting the Family and safeguarding the Home. They cared about each and every Family member. Look at Hickok! The gunman had traveled all those miles, through hostile territory, just to rescue him from his own foolishness. Why didn’t Hickok just let him reap the results of his own stupidity? Because the gunfighter cared. Hickok would have done the same for any Family member because the family came first, his own life second. He put the welfare of the Family above his own safety.

That, Shane decided, was what made the difference.

Caring.

To qualify as a Warrior, you had to sincerely care.

Which only left one question.

Did he?

“Guard,” Wally whispered, terminating Shane’s reverie.

They were in a narrow tunnel with sparse lighting. A single Mole, armed with a rifle, was casually strolling toward them.

Shane hugged the shadows, trying to be inconspicuous.

“Good evening,” the Mole greeted them as he passed.

“Howdy, pard,” Hickok, from habit, replied.

The Mole stopped and turned, puzzled. “What did you just say?”

“Blast!” Hickok exclaimed. He whirled and bashed the unprepared Mole on the forehead with the Winchester stock twice in rapid succession.

The Mole staggered against the wall, then slid soundlessly to the floor.

Wally was watching the incident, grinning.

“You have something to say?” Hickok demanded, annoyed at his own carelessness.

“Nothing at all,” Wally said.

“I did it so you’d have a rifle too,” Hickok fibbed.

“Uh-huh.” Wally nodded, picking the Mole’s weapon up from the floor.

He resumed their trek, glancing over his right shoulder at Hickok.

“Nothing at all,” he repeated.

The tunnels seemed endless.

“How much farther?” Shane inquired after a while.