The Kalispell Run

by David Robbins

  Wally was a worried wreck, glancing at the waste pail and the cell door, the waste pail and the cell door, the waste pail and…

  “Will you cut it out, pard,” Hickok whispered. “You’re driving me nuts!”

  “I can’t help it,” Wally explained. “I’m a family man, not a trained fighter like you two.”

  “Don’t you want to see your family again?” Hickok queried.

  “Of course,” Wally affirmed, frowning. “If they’re still alive, that is.”

  “There’s only one way you’ll find out,” Hickok said.

  “No problem.” Wally visibly regained control of his nerves, sobered by thoughts of his loved ones.

  “You’re a bit early,” the cell guard greeted the food bearers.

  “There’s a card game tonight,” one of the newcomers, a hairy, burly specimen, replied.

  “Yeah,” said the third Mole. “We want to make our rounds as fast as we can. They won’t hold the table for us.”

  “I wish I could get off,” the cell guard complained bitterly. “Instead, I get these jerks.” He waved his right hand at the cell.

  “Poor baby!” the burly Mole joked, and the food bearers laughed.

  Hickok recalled Silvester mentioning an auction for any captured women, and now the guards were talking about a card game. What did they use for money? he wondered.

  The trio of Moles appeared at the cell door. The burly Mole and the cell guard both carried rifles, while the Mole with the food bucket had a revolver strapped to his belt, slanted across his left hip.

  “Have they been behaving themselves?” Burly Mole asked.

  “Sure have,” the cell guard, a thin man with a pointed chin, answered.

  “Even this one?” Burly Mole questioned, swinging his rifle barrel in Hickok’s direction.

  “Even him.”

  “I’m surprised,” Burly Mole said. “I heard he’s a real hardcase.” He glanced at the gunman. “Hey, you! How come you’re being such a good little boy?”

  “Because,” Hickok replied, hoping he would sound convincing, “I don’t want anything to happen to my woman, and I figure if I give you any grief, you just might do something to her.”

  Burly Mole smirked and whispered in the cell guard’s ear. They both laughed at whatever he said.

  “All right! Don’t try any funny stuff!” Burly Mole ordered.

  The cell guard unlocked the cell door, slowly swinging the iron bars open.

  Hickok was now behind the open door.

  The Mole holding the food bucket, a portly fellow with a perpetual grin, entered and walked toward Wally. “Here you go.” He held the food bucket out. “Take it.”

  On cue, Shane chuckled. “You expect us to keep eating that miserable excuse for food?”

  “If you don’t like it,” Portly Mole rejoined, “we can always let you starve to death.”

  “At least I wouldn’t have to look at your ugly face every day,” Shane snapped.

  Portly Mole looked at Burly Mole. “Looks like we’ve got a troublemaker here, Frank.”

  “Do tell,” Frank stated ominously as he came into the cell.

  The cell guard, Pointy Chin, stood in the doorway, covering the prisoners.

  What a bunch of amateurs! Hickok, faking disinterest, toyed with the frayed hem on his buckskin shirt.

  Frank passed Portly Mole and Wally and stopped, his rifle aimed at Shane’s midsection. “Now what were you saying?” he arrogantly demanded.

  “I said,” Shane angrily responded, “you can take this shit and eat it yourselves! I’m not taking another bite!”

  “Is that so?” Frank, grinning, turned slightly, winking at Portly Mole.

  He reached for the food bucket with his left hand. “Pass that food to me.

  We’re going to help our young friend change his mind.”

  Portly Mole started to extend his arm, the food bucket dangling from his hand, its putrid contents steaming.

  “Now!” Hickok shouted.

  The cell exploded into action.

  Wally lunged, grabbing Portly Mole’s arm and sweeping it backward, causing the food to fly from the bucket, the reeking mess catching the Mole in the face, covering his eyes and his nose and momentarily leaving him open and vulnerable. Before the startled Mole could react, Wally had the revolver in his hand. He brought the long barrel crashing down on Portly Mole’s head as the Mole tried to wipe the food from his eyes.

  Frank, spinning to assist Portly Mole, detected a motion out of the corner of his right eye. He swiveled again, expecting Shane to be coming at him.

  Instead, Shane had looped his right foot through the handle on the waste pail. As Frank began his swivel, Shane swept his foot back and up, instinctively judging the angle and the trajectory and praying he was right.

  Frank was on the verge of completing his turn when the contents of the waste pail, a week’s worth of accumulated excrement, struck him in his enraged visage. He tried to duck under the filthy barrage, but the urine and the feces peppered his upper torso.

  Shane, seizing the initiative, kicked with his left foot, striking Frank’s right knee.

  There was a popping noise, and Frank cried out and stumbled, wildly striving to recover his lost balance.

  Shane stepped in and grabbed the rifle, a Marlin 1894 lever action. He savagely slammed the stock again and again against the Mole’s head.

  Simultaneously with the activity in the cell, Pointy Chin took a step inside, raising his rifle to his shoulder.

  Hickok threw his entire weight against the cell door, propelling the heavy iron bars into the hapless guard and smashing him between the cell door and the fixed bars on one side.

  Pointy Chin’s rifle dropped to the dirt floor as Hickok rammed him three more times for good measure.

  Satisfied, the gunman stood back and allowed Pointy Chin to tumble to the floor. He gazed around the cell. The other two Moles were likewise down and out. Shane held the Marlin and Wally was armed with the revolver, a High Standard Double Action.

  Hickok retrieved Pointy Chin’s rifle, a Winchester. “See?” he said to Wally. “Like I told you, it was a piece of cake.”

  Wally was gaping at the fallen Moles, amazed at their good fortune.

  “And you say you do this kind of thing a lot?”

  “All the time,” Hickok confirmed, removing Pointy Chin’s shirt.

  “I don’t see how you do it,” Wally stated. “I don’t think my nerves could take it.”

  “You get used to it, pard,” Hickok said, shredding the shirt.

  “So what’s our next move?” Shane asked. He walked to the cell door and looked both ways. The hallway, illuminated by candles at ten-yard intervals, was empty. “No sign of anyone,” he informed the others.

  Hickok was staring thoughtfully at Wally. “You say the Moles have had you here about a year?” He began binding the Moles.

  “Near as I can tell,” Wally replied. He knelt and searched Portly Mole for additional ammunition.

  “Then you must be pretty familiar with the tunnels,” Hickok deduced, gagging the first of the Moles, Pointy Chin.

  “I can get around okay,” Wally said, “but I don’t have the tunnels memorized, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It’ll do,” Hickok stated. He started securing Portly Mole.

  Wally glanced up. “What are you getting at?”

  “Can you get us from here to Wolfe’s personal chambers?” Hickok inquired, moving to Frank, working quickly.

  “To Wolfe’s per…” Wally quickly stood, shaking his head. “No way, Hickok! It’s suicide. We’d never make it. His private chambers are guarded all the time. Why the hell do you want to go there?”

  “Two reasons,” Hickok explained, joining Shane at the door. “First, the varmint has my guns, and I aim to get them back…”

  “Who cares about some measly guns?” Wally interrupted. “Are they worth dying for?”

  “They’re my guns,” Hickok said coldly, “and
the only way anybody is going to get them from me is by prying them from my lifeless fingers!”

  “What’s the second reason?” Wally asked, hastily changing the subject.

  “I came across a female type I’ve developed a real hankerin’ for,” Hickok admitted, “and I don’t reckon to leave her behind.” He led the way into the hallway.

  Wally tapped Shane on the shoulder.

  Shane glanced back.

  “Has anyone ever told you,” Wally curiously inquired, “that your friend talks kind of weird?”

  “Just about everybody,” Shane acknowledged, grinning. “It’s one of the things that makes Hickok… Hickok.” He followed on the heels of his mentor.

  “I’m trying to escape from the Mole Mound,” Wally mumbled as he brought up the rear, “with a kid and a mental defective. How do I get myself into these things?”

  They reached the first intersection and stopped.

  “Still no Moles,” Hickok said, pleased. “Probably wouldn’t expect to find too many hanging around the cells anyway.” He looked at Wally. “The rest is up to you. Lead us to Wolfe’s chambers.”

  “The tunnels will be full of Moles,” Wally objected. “We’ll never make it.”

  “You’ll never get anywhere in this life with a negative attitude,” Hickok commented. “Besides, we’ll stick to the less-frequented tunnels. Stay in the shadows. There are hundreds of Moles in the Mound. Odds are, they don’t all know each other on sight. If we’re careful, we won’t even be noticed.”

  “You hope,” Wally muttered.

  “We’re wasting time. Move it out,” Hickok ordered, gesturing with the Winchester.

  Wally, grumbling under his breath, reluctantly led them to the left.

  They traversed tunnel after tunnel, always avoiding those tunnels filled with traffic where possible. Where they couldn’t avoid them, they bluffed their way through, walking in the darker areas and smiling at everyone they passed. Several times Wally became lost and they were forced to retrace their steps. Hours passed.

  “Can’t we take a break?” Wally asked at one point. “My feet are killing me?”

  “And what do you think the Moles will do if they find us?” Hickok reminded him.

  Wally kept walking.

  More time elapsed.

  Shane, now behind the other two, was reflecting on his recent actions and dreading his homecoming. His father might tan his hide from one end of the Home to the other; if not physically, then at least verbally. Plato might censure him in front of the assembled Family for his blatant stupidity. Hickok would likely never consent to sponsor him to become a Warrior. His girlfriend, Jane, would undoubtedly drop him for someone else. And all because he wanted to make an impression.

  He’d made an impression, all right.

  As a first-class jackass!

  Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!

  Shane frowned, recalling his motives. He wanted to become a Warrior because he was bored with the dull routine of Family life. Excitement!

  That’s what he craved. Excitement and adventure, lured by the illusion of a Warrior’s glamorous life. Maybe, he realized, his motives were all wrong.

  Maybe the reason Hickok, Blade, Geronimo, and the rest made such outstanding Warriors was because they were devoted to protecting the Family and safeguarding the Home. They cared about each and every Family member. Look at Hickok! The gunman had traveled all those miles, through hostile territory, just to rescue him from his own foolishness. Why didn’t Hickok just let him reap the results of his own stupidity? Because the gunfighter cared. Hickok would have done the same for any Family member because the family came first, his own life second. He put the welfare of the Family above his own safety.

  That, Shane decided, was what made the difference.

  Caring.

  To qualify as a Warrior, you had to sincerely care.

  Which only left one question.

  Did he?

  “Guard,” Wally whispered, terminating Shane’s reverie.

  They were in a narrow tunnel with sparse lighting. A single Mole, armed with a rifle, was casually strolling toward them.

  Shane hugged the shadows, trying to be inconspicuous.

  “Good evening,” the Mole greeted them as he passed.

  “Howdy, pard,” Hickok, from habit, replied.

  The Mole stopped and turned, puzzled. “What did you just say?”

  “Blast!” Hickok exclaimed. He whirled and bashed the unprepared Mole on the forehead with the Winchester stock twice in rapid succession.

  The Mole staggered against the wall, then slid soundlessly to the floor.

  Wally was watching the incident, grinning.

  “You have something to say?” Hickok demanded, annoyed at his own carelessness.

  “Nothing at all,” Wally said.

  “I did it so you’d have a rifle too,” Hickok fibbed.

  “Uh-huh.” Wally nodded, picking the Mole’s weapon up from the floor.

  He resumed their trek, glancing over his right shoulder at Hickok.

  “Nothing at all,” he repeated.

  The tunnels seemed endless.

  “How much farther?” Shane inquired after a while.

  “It shouldn’t be too much longer,” Wally answered. “We should reach a major intersection, and that’s when the hard…”

  Without warning, the tunnel curved sharply and branched at the junction of five other tunnels. The volume of traffic was considerably heavier as the Moles hurried about their business.

  Wally motioned for them to back away from the intersection until they were out of sight. “Wolfe’s private chambers are down the hall to the right.

  He’s the only one who lives along that tunnel and there will be guards.”

  “How many?” Hickok asked.

  “Beats me.” Wally shrugged.

  “Okay. Here’s what we’ll do.” Hickok detailed his plan, took their rifles, and marched them to the intersection, their arms in the air. They turned to the right and discovered a well-lit tunnel leading to a huge wooden door.

  A pair of guards were on duty.

  Evidently, Hickok mused, Wolfe isn’t expecting a revolution.

  The taller of the two guards noticed them first. “Hey. What do we have here?”

  “Hold it right there!” Hickok barked at Shane and Wally.

  “What is this?” the tall Mole demanded.

  “Is Wolfe here?” Hickok asked.

  “He’s in,” the guard replied. “Why…?”

  “I was ordered to bring these two here. Wolfe wants to see them right away,” Hickok said, fabricating a reason for their presence.

  “I wasn’t told anything about this,” the tall guard stated suspiciously.

  “You wait right here while I check with Wolfe.” He reached for the door handle, then paused, staring at Hickok’s buckskins. “Wait a minute! Those clothes! I heard about you! You’re the…”

  Hickok was on him before the Mole could move, the barrel of the Winchester pressed against the man’s right ear. “One word,” Hickok warned, “and I’ll splatter your brains all over the door. The same goes for your friend!”

  The second guard, like the tall one, was armed with a pistol. His left hand hovered above his holster.

  “Don’t do it!” the tall Mole urged. “He’ll kill me!”

  Hickok waited until the smaller guard relaxed his hand, then tossed the other rifles to Wally and Shane. “Cover them,” he directed.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Wally queried nervously.

  “Hold the door until I get back,” Hickok said over his shoulder as he slowly opened the door and eased inside.

  Wally, covering the guards, glanced at Shane. The youth was facing the intersection, twenty yards distant. “You say you have others like him at this Home of yours?”

  “We have other Warriors, yes,” Shane answered.

  Wally shook his head. “I’m surprised your Family has lasted as long as it has.”

  Hickok,
closing the door behind him, overheard Wally’s comments and smiled. As he released the handle, a glimmer of reflected candlelight caught his attention. He glanced down, to his left.

  The Navy Arms Henry Carbine was leaning against the wall.

  Eureka! He exchanged the Winchester he was carrying for his Henry, happily cradling the Carbine in his arms. Now all he needed was his Pythons and Sherry and he’d be a happy man.

  The antechamber he was in, about five square yards in size, was littered with Wolfe’s clothing and personal effects.

  The man is a lousy housekeeper, Hickok noted as he crossed to another door on the far side of the antechamber.

  Voices.

  Hickok levered a round into the chamber and cautiously cracked the door.

  “…want you willingly, but I’ll take you by force if need be.” It was Wolfe speaking.

  “You just try it and I’ll bite your nose off!”

  Hickok grinned. Sherry was as feisty as ever!

  The spacious room beyond was decorated with plunder from the Moles’ many raids. Plush furniture and fixtures were positioned in random fashion. The center of the room was dominated by a pair of king-size beds placed side by side, both covered with immaculate purple blankets.

  What’s with all this purple, Hickok wondered? He vaguely remembered reading in the Family school about the practice of ancient royalty adorning themselves with the color purple. Why, he couldn’t recall.

  Personally, he didn’t think the color was so hot. Give him a blue or a green any day.

  Wolfe was reclining on the bed, propped up on four large pillows.

  “Come, my dear. It’s useless to resist.”

  Sherry was standing at the foot of the bed, her back to Hickok. Her entire bearing was one of sheer defiance. “You don’t hear very well, do you? There’s no way you’re going to get me in this bed with you!”

  Wolfe, smiling like a giant cat preparing to pounce on its helpless prey, reached overhead and pulled on a rope hanging from the ceiling.

  From his vantage point, Hickok was unable to see what the rope was attached to, but he did spot his cherished Colts, still strapped to Wolfe’s lean waist.

  A door at the other end of the room suddenly opened and Goldman entered. He crossed to the bed and bowed. “Your orders, sir?”