It wasn’t what he got.
As. Hickok passed between the two large boulders, something scraped above him and he idly glanced upward, not expecting trouble.
A lean Mole with a net was perched on the boulder above his head.
Hickok crouched and ducked as the Mole dropped the net. He swept the Henry up and fired, the 44-40 blasting, the noise deafening in the narrow confines between the boulders. The slug struck the Mole in the forehead and propelled him backward, out of sight.
“Hickok!” Sherry screamed as the first net missed him.
Hickok heard the swish of the descending net before it enveloped him and knew there was another Mole on top of the other boulder, he tried to dodge, to no avail. The heavy net, comprised of knotted rope, cord, and nylon, draped over his shoulders and pinned his arms to his sides.
Blast!
The Glenfield boomed and the Mole on top of the second boulder shrieked and pitched from view.
Good for Sherry, Hickok mentally elated as he struggled against the net.
The damn thing was clinging to him like a bear to honey. He couldn’t shake it off, and he was unable to reach his Pythons and bring them into play.
Moles swarmed from everywhere. Silvester was leaning against one of the boulders, his face a frozen mask.
Sherry aimed the Glenfield as several Moles closed on her. She shot, hitting a husky Mole in the left shoulder and spinning him around. Before she could shoot again, two Moles pounced on her and bore her to the ground, kicking and fighting. They succeeded in wresting the rifle from her grip and restraining her as each man grasped one of her arms in a sturdy hold.
Hickok glanced around.
Six Moles faced him, three on either side, each with a firearm pointed in his general direction. There wasn’t sufficient space for all of them to crowd between the two large boulders, but they were able to cover him effectively with their weapons.
“Slip your rifle through one of the holes in the net,” one of the Moles ordered, a tall, bearded man with sandy hair and green eyes. “Do it slowly! One false move and we’ll blow you away!”
“I sure can’t say much for your hospitality.” Hickok grinned. He complied, slowly feeding the Henry through an opening in the net.
One of the Moles took possession of the rifle.
“Now the short guns,” the same Mole directed. “Same as before. Nice and easy, pal!”
One of the other Moles reached over and eased the slack on the net.
Hickok carefully drew his right Colt and passed it through the net. The Mole with his Henry took the Python.
“Now the other shot gun!” commanded Sandy Hair.
Hickok reluctantly obeyed, realizing his refusal meant instant death.
“Good! Now stand still like a good little boy and we’ll have you out of there in a jiffy.”
Hickok pondered his next move. The Moles had his Henry and the Colts, but they were unaware he carried two backup pieces: a Mitchell’s Derringer strapped to his right wrist, under his buckskin sleeve, and a four-shot C.O.P. in .357 caliber tied to his left leg above the ankle. Should he make a move after the net was lifted over his head? Sherry was being firmly held by the pair of goons, and they were outnumbered four times over.
Nope.
He would have to wait.
The net was pulled off him and he smiled at the Moles.
“You find something funny about all this?” Sandy Hair demanded.
“I was just thinking about how good a job you guys did hiding behind these boulders and rocks,” Hickok commented. “It was real professional, pard.”
“That surprises you?” asked their apparent leader.
“Relieves me,” Hickok replied.
Sandy Hair was puzzled. “What do you mean, it relieves you?”
Hickok nodded at Silvester, still plastered against the boulder. “Well, if Wimpy here was any indication, I figured all the Moles must be miserable cowards who couldn’t find their butts in broad daylight.”
Sandy Hair walked up to Hickok and smirked. “Is that what you thought?”
“Yep.”
Sandy Hair was holding a Winchester, and he savagely rammed the barrel into Hickok’s stomach, doubling the gunman over.
“Leave him alone!” Sherry yelled.
Silvester finally came to life. “Goldman,” he said to the sandy-haired Mole, “it’s good to see you again.”
Goldman ignored both the entreaty and the greeting and hauled Hickok erect by the front of his buckskin shirt. “I can tell you’re a real smart mouth,” Goldman snapped. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll wish you never learned to talk!”
Hickok, resisting an intense pain in his abdomen, managed to force a smile. “There is one thing I wish, pard,” he stated.
“Oh?” Goldman took the bait. “What’s that?”
Hickok snickered, anticipating the reaction he would get and proceeding anyway. Submitting meekly was not his style. “I wish you would do something about your breath! It’s enough to gag a skunk!”
There was the flashing gleam of the Winchester barrel, a moment before it collided with the gunman’s head.
Hickok sagged and dropped to his knees.
Goldman cocked the Winchester and aimed it at Hickok’s heart. “If breath bothers you so much,” he growled, “let’s see how well you do without yours!”
Chapter Eight
Her name was Cindy, and she was happier than she could ever recall being. She was standing on a small rise in the northeast corner of her new home, the Home occupied by the group known as the Family. The Home was a thirty-acre compound located in northwestern Minnesota, near Lake Bronson State Park. From her vantage point, Cindy could view most of the compound. She could plainly see the encircling brick wall, twenty feet high and topped with barbed wire. Portions of the moat were also visible, the stream entering the property under the northwest corner of the wall. It branched due east and due south and reformed at the southeast corner before flowing under the outer wall. The moat, thanks to the huge trench the builder of the Home had dug, was an effective second line of defense in case of a concerted enemy assault.
Cindy caught a glimpse of the drawbridge in the center of the western wall, the only means of entry and the solitary exit. A few of the concrete blocks were partially discernible, the reinforced structures the Family utilized for various purposes. There were six of them, arranged in a triangular formation in the western section of the Home. A Block was the southern point of the triangle, and was the Family armory. One hundred yards northwest was B Block, used as the sleeping facility for unwed Family members. Another one hundred yards further northwest was C
Block, the infirmary. D Block was one hundred yards east of C Block, and was utilized as the carpentry and construction shop. The same distance east of D Block and E Block, the library stocked with hundreds of thousands of books by Kurt Carpenter, the Family’s revered Founder, himself. Southwest of E Block was the Block used for preserving and preparing the Family food and storing its agricultural supplies, F Block.
Finally, another hundred yards southwest of F Block, A Block completed the formation.
The central area of the compound was devoted to the cabins inhabited by the married couples and their children. In the remainder of the Home, in the eastern sector, the fields were cultivated for agricultural purposes or, like the rise on which Cindy stood, preserved in pristine splendor.
Cindy contentedly watched a flight of birds winging their way westward. She walked to a felled tree, a mighty oak toppled by age and the fury of the elements, and sat with her back against the trunk, facing the eastern wall. The moat, a watery ribbon lazily meandering along the base of the eastern wall, was in full view.
Funny, she wondered, that the Founder didn’t position the moat outside the wall. Why put it inside? She imagined the surprise any attacker would feel after scaling the outer wall only to find another obstacle ahead. If a hostile force did manage to breech the brick wall, the time i
t would require them to cross the moat would enable the defenders to rake them with devastating gunfire. Kurt Carpenter certainly knew what he was doing.
Cindy relaxed, enjoying the morning sun on her face.
She considered herself the luckiest woman alive. Thank God Alpha Triad had found her and her brother Tyson and brought them to live at the Home! Blade, Geronimo, and Hickok had been on their way to the Troll headquarters, located in the town of Fox, when the Warriors had run into the ambush Cindy’s father had planned, mistakenly believing the Warriors might be Trolls. Cindy laughed at the memory, her blue eyes twinkling and her brown hair bobbing. Her father, Clyde, an elderly farmer, had wanted revenge on the Trolls for the abduction of his wife.
Cindy’s youthful features clouded. Now they were both gone. Her mother had been taken by the Trolls and never heard from again, not even after the Warriors had defeated the Trolls. And unfortunately, during the battle, Clyde had been killed.
Cindy’s eyes filled with tears. Why did her father have to die? It wasn’t fair! The poor man had tried so hard to be a good parent. All those years of wandering the landscape, living from hand to mouth, her father did the best he could to provide them with all the things they needed, especially love. If only Clyde were alive today! After all the scrounging, the scraping to stay alive, he would have, been delighted at the conditions in the Home.
Here, life was so peaceful, so wonderful. There wasn’t someone trying to murder you every other day. You didn’t have to constantly be alert for the wild animals, or the pus horrors, or any scavengers. You could enjoy life!
How long had she been here now? Around three months! And she had loved every minute of it.
But what about Tyson? She was worried about him. He displayed a disturbing tendency toward restlessness. On the surface, he conveyed the impression of being happy. She, though, knew her brother better than anyone, and she suspected something was troubling him. But he refused to confide in her, which was highly unusual.
Cindy gazed at the flowing water in the moat. How could anyone in their right mind be dissatisfied here? You were protected from attack, you ate regularly and well, and your clothing was the proper fit and clean. She looked at her brown blouse and green pants, both provided by Jenny, Blade’s fiancee. The people here, the members of the Family, were so nice, so receptive to strangers. Outside, it was a different story. You never knew whom you could trust. The survival of the fittest was the rule of the day.
What could…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of several people approaching the rise, coming from the west.
Who could it be? Not many Family members came out this far on a regular basis. Joshua did, sometimes, to worship. And Rikki too, to do whatever he did. Could it be one of them?
Cindy twisted and glanced over her right shoulder.
Three men crested the top of the rise and paused, scanning their surroundings.
Cindy recognized them.
Gamma Triad, consisting of three Warriors.
Napoleon was the leader of Gamma Triad. He was in the lead, his balding head glistening with sweat.
Cindy was about to greet them, to announce her presence, when her intuition stopped her. There was something about the manner in which Napoleon carefully glanced in every direction, something furtive in the way he appeared slightly nervous, causing her to freeze with her mouth partly open.
“There’s no one else here,” Napoleon informed the other two men, and walked nearer to the fallen tree. He was wearing his customary garb, consisting of an old Air Force uniform with the holes patched and the seams resewn. Napoleon had added a personal touch, bright silver buttons and a red sash around his stocky waist.
Cindy crouched lower behind the tree. The three men were on the other side of the trunk, unaware she was so close.
“The sentry on the west wall can see us,” commented the second man, a tall Warrior with light, closely cropped hair and sparkling blue eyes. He wore buckskin pants and a brown shirt, the shirt pieced together from several discarded pillowcases. Strapped to his waist was a long broadsword.
“So what if he does, Spartacus?” Napoleon said. “He’ll assume we’re conducting a training session, or holding a private meeting. It’s not against Family rules to have private meetings,” he added bitterly. “Yet.”
“I just don’t like it,” Spartacus stated.
“Where else can we talk?” Napoleon asked harshly. “There are very few places in the entire Home where a person can go to be truly alone. It’s just another of the many reasons I detest this place!”
Cindy eased her body to a prone position.
“We know how you feel,” the third Warrior threw in, his tone conveying a slight impatience. “We’ve listened to you often enough.”
Napoleon glared at the third member of Gamma Triad. “If I didn’t know better, Seiko,” he said icily, “I’d swear you’d lost your enthusiasm for our little enterprise.” His right hand drifted to the revolver he wore on his right hip.
Seiko laughed. He was one of the half-dozen Family members with an Oriental lineage. His complete wardrobe—his shirt, pants, and even his shoes—was black, fabricated from a soft, yet durable, material. He did not appear to be bearing any weaponry. “Yon know I could care less about your little enterprise,” Seiko said to Napoleon.
“Ahhh, yes.” Napoleon smiled sardonically. “You have loftier motives. You simply want Rikki dead.”
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi dead? What was going on here? Cindy knew she would be in serious trouble if they caught her. Why did Seiko want Rikki dead?
Rikk-Tikki-Tavi was the head of Beta Triad, and in Blade’s absence he was also the chief of all the Warriors. Cindy liked Rikki. He was friendly and supportive to everyone he met, and well liked by the entire Family. Well, almost the entire Family. Rikki took his name from a creature called a mongoose in one of the books in the library. Strange name, but she had asked him about it once and he had told her it was fitting for his role as a guardian of the Home and the Family. He had suggested she read the book. She never had.
The Gamma Triad was another story. Cindy hardly knew them.
Napoleon was courteous, but distant, although she did observe him on several occasions conversing with her brother Tyson.
Spartacus was an unknown entity. She’d seen him plenty of times as he went about his business, and once he had even said hello to her. Beyond that, he was a virtual stranger.
Seiko she knew only by reputation. He was one of the better martial artists in the Family, almost as skilled as Rikki. Nine years ago, so the story went, Rikki and Seiko had fought in a friendly contest to see who would have the honor of owning the only genuine katana the Family possessed. The katana was one of the many unusual weapons Kurt Carpenter had stocked in the Family armory. In addition to hundreds of firearms, and the ammunition to go with them, Carpenter had included weapons from around the world in the collection.
“I don’t want Rikki dead,” Seiko was saying.
“No,” Napoleon replied. “You just want the katana, and the only way you will get your hands on it is if Rikki is dead.”
Seiko crossed his arms and stared thoughtfully at the ground. “It is unfortunate, but true,” he said regretfully. “I wish there was another way, but there isn’t. The Elders bestowed the katana on Rikki after our bout.
They ignored my protests. They disregarded the fact he won by a fluke.
And to this day, they refuse to permit another match. Plato insists the matter was decided years ago, but it wasn’t! I should have won! I was shamed before the whole Family! Honor dictates a rematch.”
“You will get your chance to claim the katana,” Napoleon promised.
“All well and good,” Spartacus interjected. “Seiko is in this for his dignity, and gets the stupid sword…”
“The katana is not merely a stupid sword!” Seiko angrily countered. “In the Code of Bushido, the katana is an extension of the samurai, as essential to the samurai as the a
ir you breathe is to your very life.”
“Give me a break!” Spartacus mocked Seiko. “You’re about as much a samurai as I am a gladiator. It’s just a concept you picked up from one of the books in the library.”
Seiko took a step toward Spartacus, his face clouded in anger. “You are mistaken! I am samurai!”
“Grow up!” Spartacus cracked.
Seiko crouched, his legs bent, his stance firm, and raised his hands to chest level, his fingers formed into rigid claws. “I am samurai!” he stressed menacingly.
Spartacus gripped the hilt of his broadsword. “If it’s a fight you’re looking for…”
Napoleon stepped between the two. “Both of you, stop it! We are allies, remember? We have more important considerations than your petty squabbles.”
“No one insults the way of the samauri,” Seiko said, glaring at Spartacus.
Napoleon smiled broadly. “No one is insulting you. Spartacus meant no offense. You know very few Family members take the way of the samauri as seriously as you do, or give it the respect it is due. Don’t take his comments personally.”
“You’re too touchy,” Spartacus stated, grinning at Seiko. “How long have we been together? Don’t you know me by now?”
Seiko relaxed and straightened. “You are right. I apologize for my behavior.”
“There you go again,” Spartacus pointed out. “Relax! You take life too damn seriously!”
“I know no other way,” Seiko replied.
“Well, now that that’s settled,” Napoleon sighed, “maybe we can get to why we came here today.”
“Before we do that,” Spartacus interrupted, “I still have something I need to get off my chest.”
“What is it?” Napoleon asked.
“Seiko is in this for the katana,” Spartacus noted. “You want to be Family Leader. But what’s in this for me? For years now, you’ve been trying to win us over, to persuade us to join you. At one time, I even thought of turning you in to Plato as a power-monger. But I kept my mouth shut. We’re a Triad, after all, and we should stick together through thick and thin. So you’ve finally won Seiko over, but I’m still not completely convinced. What’s in this for me?”
The Kalispell Run Page 7