David Robbins - The Fox Run

“There’s no telling what we’ll go up against,” Hickok said thoughtfully.

“And we can’t afford to come up short where it counts.” He walked over to a rack of automatics, the guns neatly arranged and freshly oiled and cleaned, although seldom used. Utilizing the automatics to hunt game would be a case of drastic overkill, and was frowned upon. There was a colossal collection of rifles and shotguns suitable for hunting and most other Family purposes. The automatics were reserved for special occasions.

“Let’s see,” Hickok studied the rack, running through the hardware.

“The AP-74, the FNC, the AR-180, the 27 A-1, the Uzi, and…” He reached for one of the guns. “Ahhh. Here it is. Should do nicely.”

“Which one did you pick?” Blade inquired, his view blocked by Hickok’s right shoulder.

Hickok swiveled, displaying his first choice. “This is a Commando Arms Carbine, fully automatic or semi-automatic capability, weight about eight pounds or so.” Hickok hefted the Carbine. “And about three feet in length. Uses 45-caliber ammo. This magazine holds ninety shots. A neat piece of firepower, if I do say so myself.” Hickok grinned, appreciating the weapon.

“Reminds me of one of those machine guns used back in what were called the Roaring Twenties,” Geronimo commented.

“A Thompson?” Hickok nodded. “Guess it does at that, pard, but we do have a Thompson reproduction around here, somewhere.” He began searching the racks.

“Who gets this Carbine?” Blade wanted to know. As if he had to ask.

Hickok tossed him the gun. “Three guesses. You’re the worst shot, so you should have the automatic. This way, if we’re attacked, just point it in the general direction of the attacker and press the trigger and keep it pulled.

You’re bound to hit something.”

Geronimo laughed.

“Thanks a lot,” Blade said to Hickok.

“Hey, pard, don’t blame yourself,” Hickok stated matter-of-factly. “We’ve each got special skills. I wouldn’t want to tangle with you one-on-one with knives, that’s for sure.”

“What about me?” Geronimo asked.

Hickok walked to another rack. “Way I figure it, we need to diversify our armament, try to accommodate as many possibilities as we can. We’ve got our automatic, so I think we should pick a shotgun next.”

“Why?” Geronimo questioned.

“For a combination of power and accuracy,” Hickok answered. “At close to medium range, a shotgun can tear apart anything that comes at you.

Here’s the one I want.” He picked one gun from the shotgun rack. “This is a Browning B-80 Automatic Shotgun. Twelve gauge, thirty-two inches long, about seven pounds. Easy to handle.”

“I haven’t used a shotgun too often,” Geronimo observed.

“Here, pard.” Hickok handed the Browning to Geronimo. “Don’t worry about it. You’re a good shot, and we’ll need the stopping power. We’ll use buckshot, double aught.”

“What’s that leave you?” Blade inquired, facing the rifle racks.

“You got it.” Hickok stepped in front of one case. “We’ll need a long gun for distance shooting.” He grabbed one of the rifles. “A Navy Arms Henry Carbine, 44-40 caliber. The accuracy you can achieve with this rifle is amazing. I prefer the lever action over a bolt job. Levers keep your fingers closer to the trigger, where they belong. This Henry is a reproduction of a gun that was used back in Wild Bill Hickok’s time.”

“I should have guessed,” Geronimo said.

Hickok ignored his friend. “Now to our handguns. I’ll stick with my Pythons. For you, Blade…” Hickok walked to one of a dozen cabinets containing the Family’s pistols and revolvers. He leaned his Henry against the wall and opened the cabinet. “This should do you just right.”

Blade recognized the style of gun. “Another automatic?”

“One of us should carry one. Or two. I reckon you’ll be keeping those Bowies at your hips?”

Blade nodded his head.

Hickok sighed. “Never could understand what you see in those big knives. No problem, though. You can wear two of these in shoulder holsters.”

“What are they?” Blade took one of the handguns from Hickok.

“It’s a Vega 45 Automatic, and it’s a lot like the Colt Automatic.”

“I’m surprised you don’t recommend the Colt,” Geronimo said.

“I’ve got mine.” Hickok patted his Pythons. “And I don’t want to be accused of bias. Besides, the Vegas have never been used and we have plenty of ammo. Do you like the stainless steel and checkered walnut?”

“It’s a pretty gun,” Blade admitted.

“Pretty?” Hickok snorted. “Women are pretty! Guns are a work of art!

When I look at a fine firearm, it’s like I’m looking at a Michelangelo or a Van Gogh.”

“And you were the one who called Joshua strange?” Geronimo was grinning from ear to ear. “You don’t have room to talk.”

“You know what I mean,” Hickok retorted.

“Okay,” Blade interjected. “I’ll carry two of these Vega Automatics in shoulder holsters.”

“Leaving me,” Geronimo stated. “I’d prefer something a bit more basic.”

“Let’s see,” Hickok said slowly, studying the cabinets and racks. “We’ve already got stoppin’ power, and we’ve got the Vega for Tarzan, which means we need something combining accuracy with versatility. Ever use an Arminius?” he asked Geronimo.

“No.”

“Real basic, like you want.” Hickok selected the revolver he was referring to. “We have two models, one in .357 Magnum, the other a .38 Special.

How many handguns you plan on packing?”

“One.”

Hickok shook his head. “Up to you, but you’d be smarter to take two.

What if it malfunctions?”

“I’ll still have the Browning,” Geronimo said. “Besides, you’re taking two Colts and Blade is taking along two Vegas. Mine will make five handguns the Family might never see again. I know we have plenty of guns, but why take more than we’ll really need? I’m taking other weapons for close range, so just one Arminius will do for me.”

“The .38 or the .357?” Hickok asked.

“The .357 Magnum,” Geronimo responded.

“There’s still hope for you yet, red man.” Hickok smiled.

“Which is more than I can say for you, white boy,” Geronimo rejoined.

Hickok handed the .357 Arminius to Geronimo. “That’s it for me. Pick whatever other weapons you want to take.”

They separated, walking to different sections, each preferring weapons from their particular specialty.

Hickok stood in front of the cabinet containing the small handguns, the derringers and other palm guns. He studied the selection and finally picked two. First, to wear strapped to his right wrist, he withdrew a Mitchell’s Derringer, a two-shot gun only five inches in length. The Mitchell’s used .38-caliber ammunition. He also grabbed a handgun to strap to his left leg, about three inches above the ankle. This gun was a four-shot C.O.P. .357 Magnum, five and a half inches long, double-action, with four barrels constructed of stainless steel. This baby, he reflected, would blow away anything at close range. It made for a dandy surprise package.

Blade eyed the section of the north wall containing the edged weapons, the swords, knives, stilettos, shivs, and others. He would take the two Bowies, and for a backup he chose two daggers, a matched pair, with razor-sharp blades and silver handles. One would be sheathed on his left forearm, the other to his right calf. A folding Buck knife, placed in his right pants pocket, completed his personal arsenal.

Geronimo was standing in front of a rack marked “Miscellaneous,” filled with an incredible array of unusual and varied weaponry. Most of it was Oriental: an ancient naginata and the later yari, both spears, the former with a curved blade, the latter employing a straight cutting edge; a pair of ton-fa; a bo, or hardwood staff; six pair of nunchaku, each consisting of two lengths of wood connected by chain or cord; and several sai. The rack also contained a section labeled “Early North American,” and it was this part that arrested Geronimo’s attention. Several Indian spears were secured in slotted grooves in the wood supporting the rack. Under the spears, positioned with the blades facing one another, patterned after an original Apache design but actually made in the 1900s, hung a pair of matching tomahawks, the versatile light axe used by many of the North American Indians. They were the only tomahawks the Family owned, although they did possess dozens of axes and hatchets. Ordinarily, Geronimo employed a hatchet in his daily activities, but this expedition to the Twin Cities was a special occasion, calling for a suspension of his reluctance to use the tomahawks. They were special, one of the few physical ties to a culture long gone, a way of life and a people Geronimo admired and revered and a time in which he fervently wished he had lived.