David Robbins: Thief River Falls Run

Were they talking about him? Hickok wondered.

The coughing started up again.

“There!” the first man exclaimed. All three wore green uniforms.

The three men stalked their prey, passing Hickok, intent on their target.

What the blazes was going on here? They were after the cougher. Why?

Who were they? Even in the subdued light, Hickok could see they were well dressed, their clothes appearing new and somehow different from the homemade attire the Family wore. Each man held a polished rifle and wore an automatic pistol strapped to his waist. Who are these guys?

Hickok asked himself.

Only one thing to do.

Hickok waited until they were a safe distance ahead, then pursued them, crawling through the grass and skirting any bushes or trees in his path. They were proceeding very deliberately, actually inching forward now, and he easily kept them in sight.

The poor slob with the nasty cough wheezed once more.

Hickok saw the three men quickly rush ahead, beyond his vision. He heard the commotion of a brief struggle, then a solid blow landing.

“Got you!” someone declared enthusiastically.

Hickok rose, keeping stooped over, and hastened forward until he reached a tree about six yards from a small clearing. The men were standing over another person, prone on the ground, grinning and smiling.

“You really gave us a run for our money,” the gruff voice said. “I’ve got to hand it to you.”

“Answer him,” snapped the tallest of the men, kicking the body in the side, eliciting a moan from the unfortunate victim.

“Yeah, bitch!” teased the third man. “We can’t hear you!”

Bitch? Hickok edged around the tree.

“Stand up, woman!” the gruff voice ordered. “I have some questions for you!”

Hickok’s view of the woman was blocked by the legs of the men. He heard her sob and mumble something.

“Can’t hear you, squaw,” the gruff voice stated, “and I need to know where the little one is.”

Little one? Squaw?

“If you don’t start talking,” the tallest uniform snarled, “I’m going to break your bones one by one.” He brutally kicked the woman one more time.

Enough was enough.

Hickok took two steps forward, his thumbs casually hooked in his gunbelt.

“Stand up, damn you!” the gruff voice commanded.

“Excuse me, gentlemen…” Hickok said quietly.

The three men whirled, startled, momentarily off guard.

“…I reckon it’s useless to point out how atrocious your manners are.”

Hickok grinned at them.

The uniforms overcame their initial shock, bringing their rifles into play.

“Waste him!” the gruff voice bellowed.

Hickok drew, his hands a blur, the Pythons out and leveled faster than the eye could blink, held low, near his waist, the .357’s booming and bucking, his aim unerring.

The gruff voice clutched at his face as a bullet penetrated his forehead and exploded through the back of his head.

The third uniform was caught in the right eye. He screamed while he fell, his rifle clattering beside him.

As the Family’s firearms expert and deadliest gunfighter, Hickok taught firearms use and safety to novice Warriors and the small children.

Everyone in the Family was required to become familiar with guns; their lives could depend on the knowledge. Most of them did not utilize firearms in their daily activities, so they were asked to take annual refresher courses. In a world where survival of the fittest was the cardinal rule, the Family needed to be prepared for any eventuality, including a mass assault on its Home. At the classes he conducted, Hickok stressed his fundamental law of marksmanship. “Go for the head,” he invariably told them.

“Anywhere else and they can still come at you. Get their brain and you put them completely out of commission.” He did allow several exceptions. “If you don’t have time to aim for the head and you’re not a great shot,” he had instructed one class, “if the head shot is obstructed in some way, or it’s personal, then shoot anywhere you think will be effective.” In all his years as a Warrior, Hickok could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had not gone for the head. Most of them were for personal reasons.

Like now.

The tallest uniform had his rifle to his shoulder when the first shot splintered his left knee. He shrieked and dropped his gun, staggering when the second bullet burst his right kneecap, blood and bone spraying his leg.

His eyes focused on the blond gunman as he stumbled to the ground, silently pleading to be spared.

“You shouldn’t have kicked her, pard,” Hickok stated sternly. “I noticed you enjoy inflicting pain. How do you feel now, when the shoe is on the other foot?”

“Please…” the man begged.

“Sorry, pard,” Hickok said harshly, “but I can’t abide people who like hurting others. There’s enough anguish in this warped world as it is.”

“Please…” the tall uniform repeated.

Both Pythons blasted the man into eternity.

Hickok twirled his Colts and slid them into their respective holsters.

“Well, what have we here?” He knelt next to the woman, studying her.

She was lying on her left side, curled up, her arms held close to her chest. Her clothes were finely crafted homemade buckskins, embroidered on the back with a colorful representation of a rainbow. Luxuriant black hair descended to the small of her back. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing heavily, almost gasping.

“You don’t sound too good, sister,” Hickok commented. He placed his right hand on her forehead.

The woman was burning up.

“Take your filthy hand off her!” someone shouted in a high, thin voice.

The patter of feet running came from behind him.

Hickok twisted, his left Python already clear, the hammer drawn back, his finger tightening on the trigger. Only his superb self-control enabled him to turn the barrel aside at the last possible instant, the shot plowing into the ground.

The young girl kept coming. An exact copy of the older woman, about ten years of age, she furiously swung her tiny fists at the gunman as she closed in, tears streaking her contorted face.

“Leave my mommy alone!” she yelled.

Hickok felt several of her blows land as he bolstered his left Colt and grabbed for her wrists.

“Why won’t you leave us alone?” the girl wailed.

Hickok was able to grip both her wrists. She fought on, a veritable wildcat, tossing and kicking him in the legs.

“Whoa there, girl! Calm down! I’m not going to hurt you or your mom.”

“Liar!” the girl disputed him. “You’re just like the others! You want to kill us!” She managed to place a particularly effective kick on his right shin.

“Ouch! Will you cut it out? Stop for just a second.”

The girl was slowing down, winded, her emotional momentum exhausted.

“That’s more like it.” Hickok slowly stood, retaining his hold on her wrists. His shin was throbbing. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he reaffirmed.

Sniffling, the girl looked up at him. “How can I trust you?” she asked weakly.

“Didn’t I just kill the men who were after your mom and you?”

She stopped crying and glanced at the dead men. “I saw you do it,” she said softly.

Hickok flinched, wishing she hadn’t. “So don’t you think it means I’m on your side?”

“Maybe,” she reluctantly admitted. “Mom says we can’t trust anyone, though.”

Hickok opted to change the subject and forestall another attack on his shins. “Your mom seems to be sick.”

The girl stared at her mother and nodded. “She is, mister. Has been for weeks. We couldn’t stop, though. She said the bad men would catch up with us.”