David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

Although it was utilized almost exclusively by the Warriors, the other members of the Family were required to take periodic firing lessons, to familiarize themselves with the proper use of firearms in case the Home was ever the target of a mass assault.

His hands hanging loosely at his sides, the buckskin-clad gunman concentrated on the six small sticks, each six inches in height, stuck in the dirt fifteen yards distant.

They were Trolls.

Six lousy Trolls, he told himself. Six of the rotten bastards responsible for killing his dear Joan. And they had to pay! Their lives were forfeit.

Joan must be avenged!

His hands flew to his Colts, and the Pythons cleared leather simultaneously. The firing range rocked with the blasts of the six shots, and each of the sticks split at the middle as the slugs tore them in half.

“Piece of cake.”

He twirled the Colts backwards into their respective holsters. His wounds were healed, and he was back in top form. If he stayed on his toes, and avoided being injured in the Twin Cities, he would implement his plan after they returned to the Home. Some of the Trolls had escaped during the course of the battle in Fox. Some of Joan’s murderers were out there somewhere, free as a lark, unrepentant and unpunished.

They wouldn’t be for long!

“That was some shooting,” someone said behind him. “What they say about you is true, Hickok.”

Hickok turned, annoyed by the intrusion on his thoughts, on his plotting for revenge.

The newcomer was dressed in black pants and a black shirt, both worn and faded and patched in a half-dozen places. His hair and eyes were brown, his face youthful and full with large cheeks and bushy brows. He wore a revolver around his waist.

“Don’t I know you, boy?” Hickok asked, striving to recall the lad’s name.

It was on the tip of his tongue.

The youth reddened. “I’d appreciate it, Hickok, if you don’t call me boy.” He said the last word distastefully.

Hickok admired his pluck. “How would you like to be called?”

“Call me Shane.”

The name was familiar. Hickok’s favorite section of the library was the one filled with westerns. He remembered reading a book about a gunfighter named Shane, an outstanding novel dealing with life in the Old West, Hickok’s favorite period in history.

“I wasn’t aware we had anyone in the Family called Shane,” he told the youth.

Shane hooked his thumbs in his belt, appearing slightly embarrassed.

“Well, it’s not really Shane yet,” he said in explanation. “But it will be!” he hastily added. “My Naming is next week, and I intend to pick Shane.”

“Aren’t you Blake?” Hickok asked him. “Poe’s son?”

Shane nodded, frowning. “Yeah. But I don’t like to be called Blake.”

“Fair enough, pard.” Hickok extended his right hand and they shook.

The boy’s grip was firm and steady. “What can I do for you?”

“I heard you were leaving again,” Shane stated.

“Soon,” Hickok acknowledged.

“Then I’ll make this short,” Shane said. “I want to be a Warrior, like you. My father objects, and he refuses to sponsor me before the Elders. I know they’re in the process of picking three new Warriors for another Triad, and I want to be one of them.”

“So where do I fit in?” Hickok wanted to know.

“I want you to sponsor me,” Shane answered.

“Forget it.” Hickok began reloading the spent cartridges in his Pythons.

“What? Why?” Shane demanded defensively.

“Not my affair,” Hickok succinctly replied.

“How do you figure?” Shane’s disappointment was carved into his features.

“You just said your own father doesn’t want you to become a Warrior,” Hickok responded. “I’m not about to become involved in a family squabble. It’s none of my affair.”

“Yes it is,” Shane asserted.

“Oh? How?”

“I’ve wanted to be a Warrior since I can remember. I’m not much good at building things, and farming bores me to tears. But I just know I’m cut out to be a Warrior, and I can prove it if I’m just given the chance,” Shane said eagerly.

“You still haven’t told me how I fit into all this,” Hickok pointed out.

“It’s simple.” Shane stared into Hickok’s eyes. “You’re my hero.”

Hickok, taken aback, laughed. “I’m what?”

“In school,” Shane began, “we were taught the value of having heroes, of looking up to someone who does something you want to do very well. Face it. You have a reputation as one of the best Warriors in our Family, as one of the better Warriors the Family has ever had.”

“I do not.” It was Hickok’s turn to feel a twinge of embarrassment.

“I’m not buttering you up,” Shane stated. “Oh, Blade and Rikki and Geronimo and the rest are good Warriors, but it’s you the Family talks about the most. Didn’t you know that?”

“Sure didn’t,” Hickok replied.

“Well,” Shane continued, “when I decided to become a Warrior, I naturally looked around to see which of the Warriors I would most like to emulate. Guess who I selected?” He smiled.

Hickok’s Colts were reloaded, his hands resting on the grips. “I’m flattered, Shane. I truly am. But I still won’t sponsor you for the new Triad.”

“Why? What’s wrong with me?” Shane’s tone was plaintive.

“How do I know you can handle being a Warrior?”

“Who sponsored you?” Shane suddenly changed the subject.

“Blade’s father,” Hickok answered, recollecting his Naming. “My father had already passed on.”

“And how did Blade’s father know you could handle being a Warrior?”

Shane threw Hickok’s own words back at him.

The gunman inadvertently grinned. “He trusted me.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Shane testily inquired.

Hickok started walking toward the western portion of the Home, Shane at his side. “I don’t know you. How can I trust you?”

Shane fell silent for a moment, thinking.

“Don’t take it personal, pard,” Hickok advised him.

“What if I could do something to earn your trust?” Shane eagerly asked.

“Like what?”

“You tell me.”

Hickok watched a hawk circle over a nearby field. “I can’t think of a way, offhand.”

“Try harder!”

“You sure are pushy for such a… young person,” Hickok commented.

Shane grabbed Hickok’s right arm. “Don’t you realize how important this is to me? They don’t pick new Warriors ever day, you know. I may not get another chance for years! You’ve got to help me!”

Hickok smiled at his aspiring protege. “I’ll try and come up with something.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“You won’t regret it!” Shane was bubbling with enthusiasm. “I have a good head on my shoulders. I take orders real well. And I’m almost as good a marksman as you.”

The last comment brought Hickok up short. “You think so, do you?”

“I know so,” Shane stated confidently.

Hickok glanced around and spotted a dead tree thirty yards away. A pair of withered limbs hung at waist level on the right side of the trunk.

“You see those branches on that dead tree?” He pointed.

Shane followed the direction his arm indicated. “Yep. You want me to hit them?”

“Tell you what we’ll do,” Hickok said. “I’ll count to three. When I hit three, we’ll both draw and fire. You take the top branch, I’ll take the bottom. Okay with you?”

Shane’s hefty frame coiled as he tensed, his right hand dangling above his revolver, an Abilene Single Action in .44 Magnum. “I’m ready when you are.”

“That’s a big gun you’ve got there, pard,” Hickok observed. “You sure you can handle it?”