The Kalispell Run

Chapter Eleven

“Hickok! Wake up!”

The urgent voice was besieging his pounding head, assaulting his sluggish, returning senses with a nagging insistency. “Hold the fort!” he said, his lips and tongue feeling thick and awkward. “Not so loud.”

“Wake up, damn you!”

The gunman slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on the ground, his head cradled in Sherry’s lap. The sun was high in the sky. “My aching head!” he muttered. What hit me? A two-ton meteorite?”

“Goldman,” Sherry answered, smiling. “Thank God you’re alive! I was beginning to think you’d never come around.”

“How long have I been out?” Hickok asked her.

“You were out almost a full day,” Sherry answered.

“What?” Hickok abruptly sat up and promptly regretted the motion as another searing pain lanced his head.

“He knocked you out yesterday afternoon,” Sherry explained, “about this same time.”

“Goldman did this to me?” Hickok gingerly rubbed a nasty bump on his right temple.

“Sure did,” Sherry confirmed. “He hit you, remember? And said he wanted to learn if you could do without breathing?”

“I vaguely recall it,” Hickok said, struggling to clarify his fuzzy memory.

“I couldn’t believe what you did next.” Sherry grinned. “Why did you do it?”

“What did I do?”

“You looked at him and said you could do as well without breathing as he was able to do without any brains,” Sherry replied.

“And that’s when he slugged me?” Hickok asked.

“Sure did. As hard as he possibly could. I thought you were dead,” she stated, concern reflected in her green eyes.

“This noggin of mine is as hard as granite,” Hickok boasted.

“Lucky for you,” Sherry mentioned. She reached out and gently stroked his injured temple. “It must hurt like crazy.”

“That’s an understatement,” Hickok muttered. “Looks like I owe Goldman,” he growled.

“First the Trolls, now Goldman.” Sherry frowned. “You’re real keen on revenge, aren’t you?”

Hickok simply nodded, flinching as he did so, squinting at her.

“Did you ever hear of forgive and forget?” Sherry asked him.

“I have a friend,” Hickok told her. “Name of Joshua. Old Josh is real big on the forgiveness stick. He’s always trying to convince me to forgive my enemies, to love them as I would have them love me. Nice ideal, but I wouldn’t be sitting here right now if I’d followed his advice. To answer your question, nope, I ain’t much for forgiveness. I prefer to do it to them before they do it to me, and if they do it to me first and leave me alive, I aim to ensure they never do it to anybody else again. Savvy?”

“What?”

“Do you understand?” Hickok inquired.

“Unfortunately, all too well,” Sherry responded.

Hickok opted to redirect their conversation. “Where the blazes are we, anyway?” For the first time he glanced around.

“We’re at the Mound,” Sherry informed him.

Hickok’s eyes widened in disbelief.

They were at the northern edge of a huge clearing, surrounded by a dozen Moles standing ten yards away. The clearing itself was several hundred yards in circumference and dominated by a massive structure in the center of the clearing, a gigantic mound.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Sherry queried him.

“Incredible,” Hickok acknowledged.

The Mound was at least seventy feet high and one hundred wide, constructed of a dark, heavy clay, packed into a tight, cohesive, sturdy dome. Windows dotted the outer surface, and entrance was gained through doorways imbedded in the base of the Mound at thirty foot intervals.

“How…?” Hickok began, glancing at Sherry.

“Silvester told me a little while you were out,” Sherry said. “The Moles have been working on this thing since the war. They get their clay from near the Upper Red Lake, about three miles south of here. Remember that man Silvester told us about, the one named Carter? Well, he started the whole thing when he came out here to escape the nuclear exchange.

Apparently, Carter and his followers didn’t have the material needed to build a genuine shelter, so they improvised by digging some tunnels and piling tons of dirt and clay on top of the tunnels for protection and insulation. The Moles have been expanding it ever since.”

“Speaking of Silvester,” Hickok said, glancing around, “where is our klutzy pard?”

“Goldman and Silvester went into the Mound this morning,” Sherry revealed. “Goldman said they were going to bring a man here to check us out.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“Beats me.” Sherry shrugged. She gazed at the Mound and pointed.

“Look! Here they come now.”

Hickok spotted them. There were a number of Moles, primarily women, outside the Mound. Some were tending to children, others hanging clothes on ropes tied between two poles, and still others idly engaged in animated discussion. Except for the presence of armed guards ringing the Mound, the scene was tranquil and pleasant.

Almost reminds me of the Home, Hickok mentally noted.

Goldman, Silvester, and another Mole were approaching, still one hundred yards distant.

“How did I get here?” Hickok asked Sherry.

“A pair of Moles carried you,” Sherry replied.

Carried? Had they found his backups? Hickok pretended to pat dust from his buckskins as he felt for the Mitchell’s Derringer under his right sleeve and the C.O.P. under his pants, above his left ankle. Both were still there. Thank the Spirit!

“You preening for Goldman?” Sherry asked innocently.

“Anyone ever tell you,” Hickok rejoined, “you have a warped sense of humor.”

“Just everybody.” She grinned.

“How did they carry me?” Hickok asked her.

“What?” Sherry seemed surprised by the question.

“I’m curious,” Hickok stated. “How?”

“One of them grabbed you by the armpits, the other by the knees, and they brought you here. Why?”

“Never mind.” Hickok kept his eyes on the trio heading their way.

“Listen up. We don’t have much time. If we get separated, I’ll come for you as soon as I can.”

“What can you do against so many?” Sherry asked doubtfully.

“You let me worry about that,” Hickok answered. “Just have faith. I’m going to get us out of this mess, and Shane too, if they haven’t killed him yet.”

“I have faith in you,” Sherry declared affectionately. “I’ll be waiting.”

Hickok smiled at her, noting the lovely contours of her features and admiring her strength and courage. She was some woman! If they managed to get out of this mess in one piece, he resolved to indulge in some heavy courting. His thoughts strayed to Bertha, awaiting his return to the Twin Cities, and he frowned. What in the blazes was he going to do about her? He knew she liked him; she flagrantly displayed her fondness for the whole world to see! But how did he feel about her? He cared for her, sure, but more as a close friend than a lover. Would Bertha understand if he became attached to Sherry? Knowing Bertha, she’d probably beat Sherry to a pulp.

“Is something the matter?” Sherry inquired.

“No. Why?”

“You look upset,” she said.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Hickok promised. Yep. The only way to confront Bertha would be with complete honesty. Lay all his cards on the table, and pray she understood.

“You never did tell me much about where you come from,” Sherry commented ruefully.

“Don’t worry,” Hickok said. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

“I will?” she asked hopefully.

“You can count on it,” Hickok vowed.

Sherry smiled. “That bump on the head has done you some good.”

“If he likes it so much,” someone sarcastically interjected, “I can put another one there, real easy.”

Hickok stood and turned, facing Goldman, Silvester, and the third Mole, a thin man dressed in clean clothes, a brown shirt, and blue pants and carrying a black-leather bag similar to the type used by the Family Healers.

“I’d like to see you try.” Hickok glared at Goldman.

Goldman took a menacing step forward. “Don’t think I wouldn’t love to cram this Winchester down your arrogant throat, but I have other orders.”

“Don’t let that stop you,” Hickok goaded him.

The skinny Mole walked up to Hickok and extended his right hand, smiling. “My name is Watson. I’m pleased to meet you.”

Hickok took the proffered hand and shook. “The name is Hickok.”

“I know.” Watson nodded. “Silvester told me about you and the charming lady you’re with.”

“You’re a bit out of place here, aren’t you?” Hickok commented.

“I don’t follow you,” Watson stated.

“You act almost human.”

Watson laughed. “Let’s just say I don’t necessarily appreciate the rougher element in our cloistered society.”

“You must read a lot,” Hickok reasoned.

“How did you know?”

“I’m psychic.”

“Really?” Watson took the claim seriously.

“No.”

Watson glanced at Sherry, uncertain whether to accept Hickok’s statements at face value. She was grinning from ear to ear. “I’m something of a physician,” he informed them. “I must check you over before you can enter the Mound.”

“How come?” Sherry inquired.

Watson placed his black bag on the ground and opened a worn flap.

“Some time ago,” he explained as he sorted the contents, “a prisoner entered the Mound and was sentenced to a tunnel crew. Unknown to us, he carried a new type of virus, a particularly deadly viral organism. We lost four dozen before the contagion stopped as mysteriously as it spread. Shortly thereafter, Wolfe decided all prisoners would be checked before they entered the Mound. That’s why I’m here.”

“Where did you learn to be a physician?” Sherry questioned, watching as he extracted a stethoscope.

“From my father,” Watson replied. “He taught me what he could. He learned from his father, a member of the original Carter group.”

“You any good?” Hickok bluntly demanded.

“I do my best,” Watson said. He fidgeted, hesitating.

“Get on with it!” Goldman ordered.

“I’m afraid,” Watson said, somewhat embarrassed, “you will need to remove your clothes.”

“What?” Hickok snapped.

“Right out here in the open?” Sherry asked. “You can’t be serious!”

“I am sorry,” Watson apologized.

“With all these men watching?” Sherry stressed her objection to the requirement.

“You’re not hiding anything I won’t see eventually,” Goldman declared.

“Strip.”

Hickok moved in front of Sherry, protectively placing his body between the Moles and his newfound romantic interest. “No way,” he said, looking directly at Goldman, challenging him.

Goldman aimed the Winchester at Hickok’s chest. “You’ll do as you’re told!”

“What about your orders?” Hickok defied him. “You think your boss is going to like it if you blow me away before he has a chance to interrogate us?”

Goldman paused, lowering the rifle. “Think you know everything, don’t you, smart ass? I was told you’re to be checked, and you will be whether you like it or not!” He nodded at the encircling guards and they began closing in.

Hickok tensed. What should he do? If they stripped, the Moles would find his hideouts and he would lose his edge. If he drew the Derringer, he might be able to catch them off guard, break free, and reach the nearby forest. But if they did escape, it would minimize their chances of rescuing Shane. He had only seconds to decide.

“I have a solution,” Watson proposed.

“Who cares?” Goldman snapped impatiently.

“Would you prefer it if I tell it to Wolfe?” Watson countered.

Goldman glanced at Watson, chewing on his lower lip, debating. “No,” he said finally. “You’re one of his favorites. He might become angry, and I wouldn’t want that.”

“I bet you wouldn’t.” Watson beamed, relishing his verbal victory.

Hickok noted the friction between the two and filed it for future reference.

“So what’s your bright idea?” Goldman asked in an annoyed tone.

“See those bushes?” Watson pointed at a thick stand of tall bushes fifteen yards away, at the perimeter of the forest.

“Yeah. So?”

“So I take one of them over there at a time. They undress, I examine them, and they put their clothes back on. This way, we avoid bloodshed.”

Goldman snickered. “What a dumb idea!”

“Why?” Watson patiently inquired.

“What’s to stop them from taking off once they’re in the bushes?” Goldman demanded.

Watson frowned and sighed. “With the guards so close? How far do you think they would get? Besides,” he added, “I doubt one of them would run if you keep the other one here.”

Goldman stroked his hairy chin. “I guess you’re right. Go ahead. But you’re responsible.”

“Fine.” Watson faced Hickok and Sherry. “Which one of you wants to be first?”

“I’ll go,” Hickok volunteered. He smiled reassuringly at Sherry and followed Watson to the forest. They found a small open space in the center of the bushes, wide enough to accommodate two people and shielded from prying eyes in the clearing. “Turn your back,” Hickok directed.

Watson’s eyebrows raised, but he complied with the request.

Hickok quickly removed his clothes and the backups, hiding them in the pile of buckskins at his feet. “You can examine me now.”

Watson performed his examination in silence. As he replaced his instruments in the black bag, he glanced at Hickok. “I wish everyone in the Mound was as healthy as you are. There’s no evidence of malnutrition, a common malady these days. Except for a few bumps and bruises, and a lot of scars, you’re one of the fittest specimens I’ve ever seen.”

“You think I’m fit?” Hickok motioned for the physician to turn around.

“You should see a friend of mine named Blade. He has so many muscles, he makes me look like a ninety-eight-pound weakling.”

Watson, absently staring at the vegetation, shook his head. “I wish everyone here would follow the dietary advice and hygienics guidelines I’ve established. It would drastically reduce many of our health problems.”

Hickok, his eyes on Watson’s back, dressed, reattaching the Derringer and the C.O.P. and their respective holsters and leather straps. Satisfied the hideouts were safely concealed, he patted Watson on the right shoulder. “I’m ready.”

“Funny. I didn’t take you for the bashful type,” the Mole observed as they moved through the bushes to the clearing.

Hickok declined to comment, wondering if Watson’s suspicions were aroused.

Goldman was visibly relieved when they appeared. “Okay,” he barked at Sherry. “Get it over with.”

Hickok winked and grinned at Sherry as he passed her.

“Take a good look around,” Goldman gloated as Hickok stopped near Silvester. “It’s the last daylight you’re ever going to see!”