David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

“Just do the counting,” Shane replied, nervously flexing his right hand.

The dead tree was northwest of their position.

Smiling, pleased his ruse was working, Hickok let his hands drop to his side. “Okay, pard. Get ready.”

“I was born ready!”

“One…” Hickok counted.

Shane froze, every muscle immobile, focused on the tree.

“Two…” Hickok wondered if the youth would fall for it. If he did, Shane could forget being a Warrior.

“Three!” Hickok yelled, pretending to draw his Pythons.

Shane’s hand was a streak as he whipped out the Abilene and cocked the hammer. His finger was tightening on the trigger when he abruptly stopped and glanced at Hickok.

The Warrior was standing quietly, waiting.

“You didn’t draw!” Shane declared. “You didn’t even draw!”

“And you didn’t shoot,” Hickok mentioned. “Why not?”

Shane looked at his revolver, then replaced it in its holster. “You almost had me!” He breathed a sigh of relief.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play innocent with me!” Shane barked. “The whole thing was a test, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?”

Shane slapped his right thigh and laughed. “You’re good. You are really good!”

“Am I?” Hickok asked quietly.

“You know as well as I do,” Shane said, “that shooting inside the Home is only permitted on the firing range. Even the Warriors must follow this rule. The only exception is when the Home is under attack.”

“Is that all?” Hickok queried.

“No, it isn’t,” Shane replied. “That dead tree is between us and the Blocks, where most of the Family is likely to be. If one of us had missed the tree, our bullet might have struck one of the Family.”

“I’m impressed,” Hickok admitted.

“Then it was a test?”

“Of course.”

Shane stared from the tree to Hickok and back again. “But what if I had fired?”

“I would have stopped you,” Hickok informed him.

“Oh? How?”

Hickok pointed at the Abilene. “Draw and fire at the tree.”

“What?” Shane asked doubtfully.

“Draw as fast as you can,” Hickok instructed him, “and try to shoot before I stop you.”

“Nobody is that fast,” Shane stated. “You’ll never be able to stop me.”

“Draw.”

Shane instantly obeyed, his hand dipping and bringing the gun up as he had hundreds of times in practice. The revolver was almost level when something caused the gun to abruptly jerk downward.

Hickok’s right hand was on the Abilene, his palm pressing on the hammer, preventing Shane from firing.

Shane, astonished, gaped at the Warrior. “I can’t believe it! I thought I was fast on the draw.”

“You are,” Hickok verified, releasing the Abilene and resuming his course toward the Blocks and the SEAL.

“But you beat me!” Shane protested.

“You’re fast,” Hickok repeated, “but being fast isn’t enough.”

“What more is there?” Shane asked, sliding the Abilene into its holster on his right hip.

“Quick.”

“Quick? I don’t understand,” Shane frankly admitted.

“How can I explain it to you?” Hickok thought a moment. “Would you say a fly is fast?”

“A fly?”

“Yeah, pard, a fly. When it’s buzzing around your head and you’re trying to swat it, but you keep missing. Would you say that fly is fast?”

Hickok glanced at the youth.

“I guess so,” Shane said. “Flys can be hard to hit, hard to catch, sometimes.”

“So imagine this same fast fly makes the fatal mistake of flying too close to a bullfrog sitting on the bank of a pond,” Hickok elaborated. “The bullfrog snags the fly in its mouth and swallows it. What does that make the bullfrog?”

“Faster than the fly.” Shane beamed.

“No.”

“No?”

Hickok shook his head and stared at Shane. “It makes the bullfrog quick. The fly may be fast, but the bullfrog is quick, and quick will win out over fast almost every time. You think about it.”

“I will,” Shane pledged.

They walked in silence for several minutes. The line of cabins in the center of the Home, the cabins used by the married couples and their families, came into view.

“So will you sponsor me, or not?” Shane spoke up.

“Let’s say I’ll give it serious consideration,” Hickok replied.

Shane could barely contain his excitement. “You will? You really will?”

“A man should always keep his word,” Hickok said solemnly. “And I do my best to keep mine. I’ll think about sponsoring you on the way to the Twin Cities, and I’ll give you my answer after I get back.”

“Oh,” Shane responded, frowning.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s just…” Shane hesitated, reluctant to complete the sentence.

“Spit it out, hombre,” Hickok urged him.

“How do I know you’ll even make it back?” Shane blurted out. “Couldn’t you speak to the Elders before you leave?”

“Not enough time,” Hickok told him. “Don’t you worry. I’m coming back. There’s something I’ve got to tend to, and nothing is going to stop me.”

“What is it?” Shane innocently asked.

“It’s personal,” Hickok growled.

“Oh,” Shane said meekly, and then, to hastily change the subject, he added, “I was real sorry to hear about Joan.”

Hickok’s jaw muscles visibly tightened.

Shane, failing to notice Hickok’s reaction, continued. “She was a nice person. Did you know I knew her?”

“What?” Hickok stopped and grabbed Shane’s left wrist. “Are you making this up to impress me?”

“I wouldn’t do that!” Shane retorted, hurt. “I really knew her. You see, I wanted to meet you, but I was a bit too shy to just walk up to you and introduce myself. Everyone was saying that Joan and you were… very close, and…” Shane stopped and glanced at his left wrist. “Are you trying to break it?”

Hickok self-consciously removed his hand.

“Anyway,” Shane resumed, “like I was saying, I decided to ask Joan if she thought you would mind if I asked you a personal favor. She was so friendly and understanding…”

Hickok’s mouth was a tight, tense line.

“…and she told me to go ahead, march right up to you and tell you what was on my mind. She said you’d admire me for having the guts to do it.” Shane’s voice lowered, assuming a sad tone. “But before I could follow her advice, the Trolls attacked the Home. She was one of their prisoners. I couldn’t believe it when they said she was dead. I came to her funeral, but I don’t think you noticed. It’s taken me until now to muster up the courage to come see you.” Shane looked up and saw Hickok’s grim expression. “I’m sorry! Have I offended you?”

“No,” Hickok muttered.

“I shouldn’t of mentioned Joan,” Shane realized. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s not that,” Hickok assured him, heading for the SEAL.

“Then what…?” Shane asked, perplexed.

“It’s the Trolls,” Hickok revealed.

“The Trolls? I don’t understand.”

Hickok sighed. “We killed a lot of the bastards…”

“I heard you killed forty or fifty all by yourself.” Shane interrupted.

“A slight exaggeration,” Hickok stated.

“I also heard some of them got away,” Shane commented.

“That’s true,” Hickok said, his voice barely audible, low and mean. “A couple of dozen, at least.”

“For what they did to Joan,” Shane remarked, “they don’t deserve to live.”

“They won’t,” Hickok vowed.

Shane thoughtfully studied the glowering gunman. What did Hickok mean by that last statement? Was he planning to retaliate against the Trolls still alive? How? No one knew where the Trolls had fled after the battle in Fox. Shane recalled Hickok saying he had “something I’ve got to tend to” after he returned from the Twin Cities. Was that it? Hickok was going after the Trolls!