David Robbins: Thief River Falls Run

The buckskin-clad gunman crouched and spun, his hands dropping to his pearl-handled revolvers, one in a leather holster on each hip, his long blond locks waving in the wind, his keen blue eyes scanning the field below him, searching for the source of the noise he had just heard.

Someone had coughed.

A full moon illuminated the field, kept cleared of all brush, trees, and other vegetation to prevent any foes, human or otherwise, from covertly assaulting the thirty-acre plot called the Home by those who lived within the encircling brick walls. The Family, as they designated themselves, took extraordinary precautions to insure its safety: the twenty-foot-high walls were topped with barbed wire and a rampart for patrolling purposes, a wide moat was channeled around the base of the wall, within the compound; and the entire Home was continually guarded by an elite corps of skilled, thoroughly trained fighters known as Warriors.

“Hickok, did you hear that?” whispered a small, wiry man as he scurried along the rampart in the gunman’s direction.

“Sure did, pard,” acknowledged Hickok, nodding.

The second man stopped at Hickok’s side. “Came from the edge of the field,” he stated. His brown eyes studied the forest, dimly visible as a looming dark mass, one hundred and fifty yards distant. “Near the trees.

We were fortunate the wind carried the sound this far. Any orders?”

Hickok mentally pondered the situation. Should they investigate the cough now, or leave it until daylight? What would Blade do at a time like this?

The Warriors were divided into four sections, or Triads, comprised of three members each. Designated the Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Omega Triads, they were entrusted with the defense of the Home and the protection of the Family. While each Triad had an appointed head, all of the Warriors were under the leadership of the Alpha Triad, and each of the twelve Warriors was specifically responsible to Blade, the chief of Alpha Triad and the commander of all Family Warriors.

Blast! Hickok thoughtfully stroked his blond mustache, debating on a course of action. Blade was recuperating from an infection his body had developed, a reaction to the dozens of cuts and slashes inflicted by a deadly wolverine during their battle with the Trolls. He was probably asleep at this late hour, dreaming of his beloved Jenny. Lucky him!

“Should we alert Geronimo?” the other man asked, running his right hand through his black hair, relieved as the breeze picked up, cooling his sweaty brow. The July night was warm and muggy. “Nope,” Hickok laconically responded. “Would take too long, Rikki. Geronimo is way over on the east wall.”

The Alpha Triad consisted of Blade, Geronimo, and Hickok. With Blade recovering from the infection, another Warrior had volunteered to take his place on guard duty. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the Beta Triad leader, clutched a long black scabbard in his left hand. He pointed it at the distant woods.

“I’ll go myself, if you like.”

“I’m going,” Hickok announced, making his decision. “Alone.”

“I should go along.” Rikki-Tikki-Tavi offered.

“I’m going alone,” Hickok repeated, carefully moving along the rampart until he was in the center of the western wall, directly above a closed drawbridge.

Rikki followed on his heels. “Could be a trap,” he said, voicing his concern. “Could be some more scavengers,” he noted, referring to an attack by a roving band of marauders several years before, an assault the Family successfully repelled.

“Could be,” Hickok agreed, glancing down. Imbedded in the concrete at his moccasined feet was a thick steel ring. Attached to the ring, coiled in a large pile on the rampart, was a stout rope.

“You’ll need a backup,” Rikki contended.

“No, thanks,” Hickok declined. He lifted the rope. At this one point, the barbed wire was deliberately spaced to permit one person to pass over the edge of the rampart.

“You don’t know who or what is out there,” Rikki stated, his tone reflecting his annoyance.

“Doesn’t matter,” Hickok informed him.

“It’s against standard Warrior procedure,” Rikki added.

Hickok shrugged, peered over the top of the wall, and tossed the rope down the wall.

“You’re taking a needless risk.” Rikki wouldn’t let the matter drop. “You could be killed.”

Hickok paused in the act of climbing over the side. He stared into Rikki’s dark eyes. “I don’t care, pard. I just don’t care.” He pushed off.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi knelt and watched his friend slowly lower himself to the ground in front of the drawbridge. So! What Blade and Geronimo had said about Hickok was true. With the death of the woman he loved, at the hands of the Trolls, Hickok was displaying signs of outright recklessness with regard to his personal safety. The Family’s supreme gunman seemed normal otherwise, but Blade believed Hickok was a simmering volcano waiting for the right catalyst to trigger an eruption. Rikki vividly recalled the tormented expression on Hickok’s face when they had buried the woman. Joan, her name had been, and rumor had it she was Hickok’s first true love.

Hickok reached the bare earth below the drawbridge and waved once to Rikki before jogging across the field in the direction of the cough. He knew he should present as small a target as possible to potential ambushers, but his suppressed grief negated his extensive Warrior training and he ran upright, exposed, almost hoping he would see the flash of a firearm and feel the impact of a slug ripping through his body.

The wind increased, the natural elements working in his favor. The breeze was blowing the sounds he made toward the Home, and away from whoever was lurking in the forest at the end of the field.

A sudden thought brought Hickok up short. What if it were Trolls?

Many had escaped, and they’d want revenge on the Family. Involuntarily, he gripped his revolvers, his cherished Colt Pythons.

Someone coughed again.

May the Spirit smile on me, Hickok prayed. He lowered his body, running in a half-crouch, moving cautiously now, a grim smile on his face.

Whoever was out there was due west, a bit to his right. Please let it be Trolls! He owed them. He owed them real bad.

Hickok slowed as he neared the trees, listening, his senses primed. The leaves were rustling in the wind, some of the branches creaking and rubbing against one another. Good. Perfect cover. He tensed, expecting a shot, and darted into the woods, stopping behind the first large tree he reached. Surely they had seen him coming. He leaned against the trunk, waiting.

Nothing.

What was going on here?

The coughing abruptly started up, a veritable spasm, a series of wheezing gasps and choking groans.

Sounds like the dude is sick, Hickok reasoned. He estimated the distance at fifteen to twenty yards. The brush was thick, providing ample concealment. He lowered his body to the earth and began crawling.

A twig snapped behind him.

Hickok froze. Blast his stupidity! He should have expected there would be more than one. Had they seen him?

“Did you get a fix on that?” a gruff voice whispered.

Hickok twisted, craning his neck, confident he was hidden in the tall grass.

There were three of them. Big men. Armed with rifles. Two to his left, one to his right, the nearest ten yards away.

“I know I heard it,” a second man replied in a hushed voice.