David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

The Porns began to recover from their initial astonishment, some reaching for revolvers, others trying to get to their rifles stacked against the wall.

Hickok swiveled, firing twice, downing the two men to the right of Maggot’s chair.

A grizzled Porn on the left side of the table had cleared leather and was pointing a pistol in Hickok’s general direction.

The Winchester blew the top of his head off.

A bullet whined by Hickok’s right ear.

Hickok spun, snapping a shot at a man who had reached his rifle, catching the man in the head as he gripped his gun.

Another bullet buzzed by Hickok.

Where? He spotted Rat at the far end of the table, crouched behind it for cover, firing.

A burly Porn, one of those closest to the door, decided the best defense was a good offense. His rifle was out of reach, so he lowered his head and charged.

Hickok sidestepped, another slug missing him as he did. He emptied the Winchester, the sixth shot smacking into a Porn’s chest and flipping him over.

The burly Porn returned, grappling for Hickok, attempting to confine his arms.

Hickok dropped the Winchester and brought the C.O.P. up.

Rat popped out from under the table and quickly fired, the bullet catching the burly Porn in the left cheek as the Porn pivoted for a better position. The man clutched the side of his face, his eyes rolled, and he fell.

A tall Porn brought an automatic into play, the gun booming, the slug tearing a furrow along Hickok’s left side.

Hickok flinched, steadied his hand, and let the Porn have a bullet in the brain from the C.O.P.

Only two Porns remained. Rat cowered at the far end of the table, under cover. The final Porn, a young kid still in his teens, had turned to ice when the shooting erupted, fear immobilizing him, his right hand inches from the revolver he wore on his right hip.

Now, in the momentary lull, the kid came to life, his hand going for the revolver.

“Don’t do it!” Hickok tried to warn him.

No good.

The kid drew, the gun barely out of the holster when Hickok shot him in the right eye.

Hickok crouched, searching for Rat. Where was he? Still under the table? Cautiously, holding the C.O.P. in front of him, he bent and peered under the table, finding a maze of chair legs and table legs.

But no Rat.

Hickok stood and walked to his left, stepping over the bodies, puzzled.

The table and chairs were the only furniture in the room. Where could Rat be?

He reached the far end of the dining table, speedily placing the C.O.P.

on the wood and retrieving his Pythons. The instant the Colts were in his hands, the pearl handles snug in his palms, he felt renewed confidence surge through him.

Hickok glanced down at the floor, at the spot where Maggot’s body should be.

Only it wasn’t.

What the hell?

A faint scraping came from his left, and he whirled, the Colts cocked and ready.

In the corner of the room, hidden in shadow, twenty feet from the nearest torch, was a door.

So!

Hickok warily crossed to the door, noting it was open a crack.

Distinctly, from the other side of the door, sounded the click of a hammer being drawn back.

Hickok grinned.

Someone is in for a big surprise, he mentally noted. He blasted at the center of the door, four times in rapid succession.

The wood splintered as the slugs penetrated, and someone screamed and dropped to the floor.

Hickok stepped to the door and kicked it open with his right foot.

Maggot was lying on the floor, clutching his stomach, wheezing. A sawed-off shotgun was on the floor too, at his feet.

Hickok pushed the shotgun aside with his left foot.

The room was lit by a solitary torch, and at the opposite side was another door. Open.

No sign of Rat.

“So, ugly.” Hickok glared at Maggot. “We meet again.”

Maggot coughed, doubling over.

“I wouldn’t have thought a few more ounces would hurt that big tummy of yours,” Hickok spitefully remarked.

Maggot gazed up at Hickok, his eyes pools of malevolence.

“Yes, well,” Hickok said gruffly. “We’ve got some business to attend to.”

“You’ve killed me, you bastard!” Maggot croaked.

“Not yet, I haven’t,” Hickok replied. “Who knows? You could even live. I read about a man named Thomas Coleman Younger once. He was called Cole Younger, to those who knew him, and he was shot eleven times during the course of an aborted bank robbery. Eleven times! Imagine that!

And, the remarkable thing is, he lived to tell about it. So don’t play possum with me, you miserable cur. On your feet! Now!”

Maggot refused to budge.

Hickok leaned over and pressed the barrel of his left Colt against Maggot’s chin. “Make up your mind, blubber ass. I haven’t got all day.

Some of your pards might show up at any moment, and I can’t wait until you’re in the mood.” His voice lowered, harsh and grating. “It makes no nevermind to me which way you go out. I ain’t in a charitable mood, but if you want me to splatter your brains right here and now, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Maggot’s lips trembled as he forced his massive bulk to rise. He stood on his thick legs, weaving, blood oozing from his wounds.

“Good,” Hickok said. “Now we’re taking a stroll. You go first. Keep your hands on your gut. If you move them, I’ll add another asshole to your anatomy!”

Maggot complied, shuffling out to the corridor.

Hickok glanced in both directions before stepping into the hall.

Bear was at one end, nervously pacing. At the sight of Hickok, he smiled and ran up the hall.

“You did it!” Bear exclaimed, overjoyed, scarcely believing his eyes.

“You did it!”

“All except for Rat,” Hickok stated.

“Aww, don’t worry about him! He’s probably hiding in a closet right this minute. Without his boss, Rat ain’t any danger whatsoever.”

“What about the rest of his bodyguards?” Hickok jerked his right Colt toward Maggot.

“There’s only two or three others,” Bear cheerfully responded. “They ain’t likely to give you any trouble once word of this gets out.”

“And the Porns?”

“Here comes your answer.” Bear pointed.

Doors at both ends of the hall had opened and Porns were pouring into the corridor. Some carried clubs and knives and other weapons, but none possessed a firearm. They slowed as they approached, then stopped, their babble of voices silenced by the sight of their leader, their despised and feared head, barely able to stand on his own two feet.

“What the hell is going on?” a man asked.

“What was all the shooting about?” added a woman.

“Maggot ain’t the boss anymore!” Bear announced.

“Oh? Who the hell is?” another man snapped.

“He is!” Bear beamed and pointed at Hickok.

“No, I’m not,” Hickok said quietly.

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m not your new leader.”

“But you got to be!” Bear objected. “You’ve beaten Maggot! You’re our new head!”

“Are you, or aren’t you, mister?” a woman inquired.

Hickok moved forward and paused, staring at both groups of Porns.

“Listen to me! I’m not much good with words, but I’ve got some that need to be said.”

“I never disagree with a man holding two revolvers,” a young woman mentioned.

“I’m told many of you don’t care for this scumbag,” Hickok said, indicating Maggot.

“You got that right!” shouted a man.

“The bastard killed my son!” yelled another.

“And my daughter!” hollered a third.

“Then you shouldn’t be too upset when I tell you he’s resigning his post, effective immediately,” Hickok declared.

“What’d he mean by them big words?” one woman whispered to her male companion.