David Robbins: The Kalispell Run

The three men were huddled together several feet from the roaring fire, conversing in hushed tones, idly watching the blonde woman prepare their evening meal: rabbit stew. All three wore a tunic and cloak made from bearskin, stitched together using deer sinew. All of the men were filthy, their long hair and beards matted with sweat and grime, their bodies reeking from neglect and a devoted aversion to water and bathing. The tallest of the grubby trio was armed with a Glenfield Model 15 bolt-action rifle, snugly cradled in his brawny arms. The oldest carried an axe, and the youngest a crude spear consisting of a lengthy straight branch with the tip sharpened and hardened in the smoldering ashes of a fire.

“Can’t figure it out,” the youngest commented to his companions.

“Where could they all be?”

The tallest shook his head. “We’ve looked and looked. If they don’t show up in a week, we’ll go south.”

“Why south, Grant?” the oldest inquired.

Grant gazed at the stars filling the sky. “Winter comes in a couple of months. I’m tired of cold. I heard it’s warmer in the south.”

“What about her?” the youngest asked, jerking his left thumb in the direction of the woman.

“What do you think?” Grant replied. “We have some fun, and then we kill her, just like all the rest.”

“I’m looking forward to the fun,” the youngest admitted, licking his thick lips.

“Me too!” the eldest cackled.

The blonde woman provided a stark contrast to her bestial captors. She was lean and lithe, attired in skimpy, tattered rags. Her entire demeanor was marked by dignity and composure, despite her perilous predicament.

Although she was covered with cuts and scratches, and there was a large welt above her right eye, she bore the pain patiently and resolutely. As she stood to take the metal pot of stew to the men, her own stomach growling from her prolonged lack of nourishment, she steeled her mind, refusing to give the bastards the satisfaction of seeing her buckle.

“Move your ass, woman!” Grant contemptuously bellowed.

“Yeah, Sherry!” the oldest added. “We’re hungry! Give it to us.”

Sherry’s green eyes flashed. I’d love to give it to them, all right, she mentally told herself. Right in the groin! She crossed to them and held out the metal pot, taken from the ruined remains of a nearby building.

Grant lunged and grabbed the pot. He screeched as his fingers made contact with the scorching metal and he inadvertently dropped the pot.

The steaming contents spewed over the ground.

“Damn your hide, female!” Grant surged upward and gripped her by the flimsy fabric of her torn yellow blouse. “You made me drop the food! It was hot!”

“What did you expect, you congenital idiot?” Sherry retorted, forgetting herself. “It just came off the fire.”

Grant savagely backhanded Sherry across the face, knocking her to the grass at his feet. “Forget the food. The fun comes first.” He began to hitch his tunic up his legs.

“I hate to spoil your fun,” a voice intruded, “but I don’t think you want to meet your Maker with your dingus flapping in the wind.”

“Look!” the youngest of the trio blurted, pointing.

The newcomer stood on the other side of the fire, directly across from them. He was a blond man with a sweeping blond moustache, and he wore buckskins and moccasins. Strapped around his slim waist were a pair of pearl-handled revolvers.

Grant froze, momentarily stunned.

“Where are they?” the newcomer asked.

“Who?” Grant responded, perplexed, uncertain of his next move. He didn’t like the way the blond man’s hands hovered near those revolvers. A glint of light from the fire revealed the newcomer had a rifle hanging across his back, suspended from a rawhide cord slanted crosswise over his chest.

“I’m not in the mood for games, pard,” the newcomer warned icily.

“Where are they?”

“Who?” Grant replied, genuinely confused. He let his tunic drop. The Glenfield was in his left hand, and he toyed with the notion of shooting this stranger, but something in the newcomer’s manner deterred him.

“You’re Trolls,” the stranger stated. “The slime of the earth. Scum. Vermin…”

“Liar!” the youngest Troll screamed, throwing his right arm back, the one with the spear. “Liar!”

He never completed the throw.

Grant saw the newcomer’s hands flicker and the revolvers were in his hands, appearing faster than the eyes could follow. The two shots sounded as one, and the youngest Troll was flung backward, the rear of his head exploding blood and brains and hair in every direction.

Grant held his breath, afraid to move.

As miraculously as they were drawn, the revolvers were returned to their holsters.

“As I was saying,” the stranger continued, “you’re Trolls. If you’ve survived, then others have too. Where are they?”

“Survived?” the eldest Troll interrupted. “What do you mean?”

“Obviously, you weren’t here when some of my friends and I took on your buddies,” the newcomer explained. “Your buddies lost.”

“I don’t understand,” the graying Troll said, looking at Grant.

Grant did. “You mean you killed them all?” He couldn’t believe it.

“Not all,” the stranger reiterated. “You’ve survived…”

“But we weren’t here!” Grant declared.

“Case in point. Some of those who were here managed to escape, and I’m looking for them. Where are they?” The newcomer moved a step closer to the fire.

“I don’t know,” Grant admitted. “We’ve been looking for them too.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

“He’s telling the truth.” Sherry, still on the ground, spoke up.

The stranger glanced at Sherry. “You’re backing his play?”

Sherry shook her head. “No. I hate them as much as you…”

“Bet me!” the newcomer snapped, cutting Sherry off.

“…but I know they’re telling the truth,” she resumed in a subdued voice. “They’ve drug me all over creation looking for their missing clan ever since we came back here to Fox and discovered no one here.”

“How long have they had you?” the stranger inquired.

“Over two weeks,” Sherry replied, glaring up at Grant.

“Have they abused you?” the newcomer demanded, his tone harsh and grating.

Sherry attempted to answer, but the disgusting memories overwhelmed her, her eyes moistening at the corners, and she simply nodded.

“Figured as much.” The stranger stared at Grant and the other Troll. “If you don’t know where the rest went, you’re of no further use to me.”

“What do you plan to do?” Grant asked a shade nervously.

The buckskin-clad gunman glanced at Sherry. “Get out of the way. Don’t stand up! You’ll be in my line of fire. Roll to one side, away from them, and then stand,” he directed.

Sherry obeyed.

“Now,” the stranger said to the Trolls, “the next step is all yours. I’ll let you make the first move.”

“What if we just turn and walk away?” Grant offered hopefully.

“I’ll shoot you in the back,” the gunman promised.

Grant looked at his companion and nodded. The eldest Troll began to circle the fire to his left, hefting his axe. Grant walked to his right, gripping his rifle.

The newcomer remained immobile.

“You have a name?” Grant asked, his right hand inching toward the trigger on the Glenfield. There was already a round in the chamber.

“Hickok,” the buckskin-clad man replied.

“Well, Hickok,” Grant stated, trying to distract the gunman with conversation as he came around the fire, “I find it hard to believe most of my brother Trolls have been killed. What about our leader, Saxon? What happened to him?”