The Kalispell Run

Chapter Seven

Silvester the Mole was grabbed from behind, wrenched around, and compelled to appreciate the craftsmanship of a Henry barrel from a distance of two inches.

“You know, pard,” Hickok rudely informed him, “I get the distinct impression you are jerking me around by my G-string, and I’m here to tell you it’s a decidedly unhealthy practice.”

Silvester’s eyes widened in abject terror. “Wh… Wh… What do you mean?” he fearfully stammered.

Hickok swept his right hand in an arc. “We’ve been waltzing around this forest for a day and a half looking for this Mound of yours. You said it was in this area. By my reckoning, we’re over fifty miles southeast of Fox. So where the blazes is the Mound?”

“I’m… I’m not sure,” Silvester mumbled.

Hickok stared into the Mole’s eyes. “Are you tryin’ to stall me, pard?”

“No, sir,” Silvester promptly replied.

“Then explain to me why you can’t find where you live,” Hickok gruffly demanded.

“I’m not much good in the woods,” Silvester replied sheepishly.

“You can say that again,” Hickok agreed. “I can’t afford these delays!”

he snapped. “I need to find Shane and return to my Home.”

“Maybe we should spread out?” Sherry suggested. They were standing in the sunlit center of a small clearing in the forest.

“No way,” Hickok disagreed. “The way my luck’s been running, you’d get lost and I’d lose more time findin’ you. It took us two days to reach this part of the country, and now we’ve wasted all this time looking for this jerk’s Mound. I’m here to tell you,” he said, glaring at the Mole, “I’m beginning to get a mite ticked off!”

“I know it’s around here somewhere!” Silvester stated.

“From what I’ve seen of you,” the gunman commented, “you’re a lousy fighter, a rotten tracker, and about as useful in the woods as a fish out of water. So why did this Wolfe send you to check on Fox?”

“Two reasons,” Silvester said.

“I’m listening.”

“First, if anyone was still living there, we could raid it,” the Mole said.

“Raid it? You mean to tell me you raid other communities and towns?”

Hickok queried him.

“How else could we get by?” Silvester said, protesting Hickok’s angry tone.

“You could grow your own crops and hunt your game, for starters,” the Warrior proposed.

“No one knows how to do that stuff,” Silvester retorted. “Oh, we grow some food, but not much. Mostly, we take what we want.”

“You’re no better than the scavengers,” Hickok muttered.

Silvester, embarrassed, stared at the ground. “It ain’t my idea, you know,” he said. “It’s just the way we do things.”

“You’re no better than the Trolls even!” Hickok rebuffed him. “They made slaves of all the women they found, and killed any men they encountered. What do you do with the people in the places you raid?”

Silvester mumbled a few words, unintelligible to the other two.

“Speak up,” Hickok ordered. “We can’t hear you.”

“We… we…” Silvester began in a low voice. “We make slaves of the men.”

“And the women?” Hickok pressed him.

“They’re auctioned off to the highest bidder,” Silvester explained.

“Sounds like the kind of place I’d want to avoid like the plague,” Sherry noted.

Hickok grabbed Silvester by the front of his gray shirt. “I was right. You’re no better than the Trolls!” He stopped, struck by a thought. “I’m surprised the Moles and the Trolls didn’t run into each other long before this. Too bad you didn’t! You could have killed each other off and made the world a better place in which to live.”

“The Trolls are too far north of us,” Silvester mentioned. “Or, at least they were too far north. We don’t usually send out patrols to the north. We send them south.”

“Why?” Hickok asked.

“Because a lot of people still live south of us, on the other side of the lakes.”

“What lakes?” Sherry inquired.

“The Upper Red Lake and the Lower Red Lake. On the other side of the lakes are some towns with people still in them,” Silvester responded.

“There are a lot of people in the Bemidji area,” he added.

“And the Trolls seldom conducted their pillage and plunder tactics to the south,” Hickok said thoughtfully. “So that explains it.”

“There’s just too much forest between Fox and the Mound,” Silvester threw in. “Too many wild animals, and the mutant monsters.”

“The mutant monsters?” Hickok repeated.

“Yeah. You must know about them. The things with all the pus. They’ll eat you alive if they catch you.” Silvester shuddered at the prospect.

“We call them mutates,” Hickok revealed.

“What are you talking about?” Sherry questioned them.

“You don’t know?” Hickok replied.

“Nope. What kind of animal is it?”

Hickok studied her closely. “You mean to tell me you don’t have mutates in Canada?”

“Doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard of,” Sherry confirmed.

“But that’s impossible,” Hickok declared. “Mutates are all over the place around these parts.”

“That’s right,” Silvester concurred. “They’re ugly things! All brown, and smelly, and dripping pus from their bodies.”

“They’ll attack you the moment they see you,” Hickok elaborated.

“That one isn’t attacking,” Sherry said calmly, and pointed to their right.

Hickok spun, bringing up the Henry, hoping she was joking.

She wasn’t.

The mutate, a former badger, was crouched at the edge of the clearing, glaring at them, wheezing and drooling. Mounds of slimy pus covered its nostrils and coated its ears. It was at least three feet long and weighed in the vicinity of thirty pounds.

“Kill it!” Silvester screamed, panic-stricken.

The mutate’s beady eyes focused on the Mole, it snarled and charged.

Five yards separated the monstrosity from its intended meal.

Hickok levered the Henry as fast as he could, firing one shot after another. Two, three, four times, the 44-40 slugs ripping into the mutate and spraying pus and a greenish fluid in every direction.

On the fifth shot the mutate slowed, growling and hissing, and stumbled.

Hickok planted the sixth shot between the beady eyes.

A gaping hole blossomed in the mutate’s forehead and the badger collapsed in a heap at Silvester’s feet, only inches from his toes.

Silvester was gawking at the mutate in petrified terror, unable to move.

Hickok warily approached the mutate and peered at its body, ensuring the thing was truly dead.

It was.

Hickok sighed and glanced at Sherry. “The next time a mutate tries to eat us for lunch,” he quipped, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t be quite so nonchalant about the whole deal.”

“I had no idea,” she blurted, gaping at the mutate. “I’d never seen one before.”

Silvester was trying to speak, but only muted, choking sounds emanated from his throat.

“Mutate got your tongue?” Hickok cracked, grinning at the sight of Silvester’s pale complexion and perspiring brow.

“Th… tha… than… thanks,” the Mole managed to croak, “for saving my life.”

“I couldn’t let you die, pard,” Hickok told him. “Not before you show me where the Mound is, anyway.”

Silvester smiled weakly and began weaving.

“You okay?” Hickok asked.

Silvester nodded twice. “Thanks, again,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“Piece of cake,” Hickok stated. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Silvester nodded again, then fainted, toppling over backward onto the grass.

“The Moles must be a bunch of wimps,” Hickok opined.

“Poor baby!” Sherry commented, walking to Silvester and lightly slapping his cheeks. “Come on, handsome. Snap out of it!”

Silvester slowly roused to a sitting position.

“Are you still dizzy?” Sherry inquired solicitously.

“I’m fine,” he replied. “Really. Give me a second to catch my breath.”

“I still can’t see why you were sent to Fox,” Hickok mentioned. “You’re lucky to still be in one piece.” He abruptly remembered their conversation before the mutate appeared. “Say, you never told us the second reason Wolfe sent you to Fox.”

“Because of my sister,” Silvester responded, still catching his breath.

“Your sister? What’s she got to do with it?” Hickok queried.

“Wolfe wants my sister, Gloria. She doesn’t want him. So, he decided to get even with her by sending me out with Doug…”

“Doug is the one I shot?” Hickok interrupted.

“Yes. Wolfe figured Gloria would change her mind about sleeping with him. He thought she would give in to save me, to prevent me from leaving the Mound.” Silvester sadly shook his head. “He doesn’t know my sister very well. She thinks I’m a creep and could care less what happens to me.”

“I see your family is real strong on love and loyalty,” Hickok sarcastically commented.

“I wish we were,” Silvester said longingly. He gazed at the Warrior. “I owe you for saving my life.”

“Piece of cake. It was no big deal.”

“It was to me,” Silvester disagreed. “No one has ever saved my life before.”

“Silvester,” Sherry caught his attention. “What do you do at this Mound? What are you good at?”

“I empty the pails,” Silvester replied forlornly.

“The pails?” Sherry’s brow creased. “What pails?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Silvester rudely announced, and rose to his feet. “We better be going.”

Hickok went to speak, to order the Mole to answer, when Sherry caught his eye and shook her head. The gunman shrugged and followed the Mole.

Silvester entered the forest and forged ahead. They were fifteen yards from the clearing when they intersected a wide, fequently used trail.

“I think I know this!” Silvester exclaimed, delighted at the discovery. He glanced both ways, grinning. “I do know it! It’s one of ours!”

“So how far to the Mound?” Hickok questioned him.

“Just a few miles,” Silvester answered happily. He pointed to the south.

“Not far.”

“It better not be,” Hickok warned ominously.

“Silvester,” Sherry spoke up from the rear, “would you answer some questions for me?”

“If I can,” the Mole promised.

“Who built the Mound? What’s it like?” Sherry inquired.

Silvester looked over his right shoulder at Sherry and tripped on a protruding root. He managed to regain his balance before he fell on his face.

“Keep your eyes on the trail,” Hickok advised. “What a klutz!”

Silvester resumed walking. “My parents told me,” he responded to Sherry’s query, “the Mound was built by a man named Carter a long, long time ago.”

“Why?” Sherry asked.

“It was right before the big war,” Silvester said, sorting his facts, striving to recall the stories he’d been told. “Carter and some others were sure the war was going to break out. They felt they didn’t have much time, so they packed up their families and things and hiked to the Red Lake Wildlife Management Area,” Silvester said slowly, uncertain if he had remembered the correct name.

“That’s what we’re in now?” Sherry guessed.

“Right. It was real far from everything and Carter thought the bombs would miss it. He was pretty smart,” Silvester said appreciatively.

“How did he build the Mound?” Sherry probed curiously.

“He started digging,” Silvester replied.

“Digging?”

“You’ll see!” Silvester stated. “Of course, the Mound has been added to a lot since Carter first began it,” he added.

“Enough talk,” Hickok directed. “We’re getting close to this Mound and they may have guards or patrols.”

“We do have guards,” Silvester informed him, “but we don’t have many patrols. Just some scouts who go out from time to time. Not many people come to this area. It’s too far out of the way.”

“You can say that again,” Hickok retorted. He stopped and gazed ahead. “Hold it, Silvester.”

The Mole paused and looked back. “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong? Are you mad at me?”

“Don’t pee your pants!” Hickok grinned. “I want you to get behind me and stay there.” He strolled past the Mole and touched the Henry barrel against Silvester’s chin. “And remember, if you make one little peep, do anything to give us away, you’ll be the first one I send to the worlds on high.”

“The what?”

“Just do as I tell you.” Hickok said jerking his thumb backward.

“Yes, sir,” Silvester replied, meekly complying.

Hickok warily took the lead, listening for any unusual sounds, searching for any unnatural movement, his finger on the trigger of the Henry. If they were close to the Mound, even a few miles distant, silence was called for.

He wanted to approach the Mound undetected and study the layout before he made his move. Was Shane still alive? The fool kid! What a stupid stunt! And all to impress him! Unbelievable. Until Shane had told him, he had had no idea the younger Family members considered him a hero. A hero! Him? They wouldn’t say that if they knew him better. Maybe it was the exciting allure of becoming a Warrior. Maybe that accounted for the hero worship. If they only knew what being a Warrior was really like! Your life was on the line every day. You never knew when the next threat would appear.

Hickok rounded a curve in the trail.

Who could blame the younger ones? he reflected. Look at the life they lived. Raised in the sheltered environment of the Home, they attended the Family school, were indoctrinated with Family teachings, lived a quiet existence as a Carpenter, or Tiller of the soil, or a Healer, or Weaver, or whatever, married another Family member, settled into one of the cabins in the center of the thirty-acre compound, and devoted their lives to having children, to raising another generation, to perpetuating the cycle decade after decade. Tranquil. Quaint. Pleasant even.

But utterly boring!

Wasn’t that the reason, Hickok asked himself, he had become a Warrior? Dissatisfaction with the dull, repetitive routine, the same thing day after day after day after day? Maybe, Hickok reasoned, he shouldn’t be so hard on Shane when he found him. After all, the youth merely felt the same way Hickok had felt at his age.

Ironic, Hickok noted, he should be rescuing a younger version of himself, a youth who was longing for action and excitement at a time when he, Hickok, was becoming slightly weary of the constant fighting and killing. How many men had he killed in recent months? He’d lost count.

Trolls. Watchers. Porns. All of them, it was true, were trying to kill him.

But did that justify the killing? Hickok shook his head, clearing his mind.

It wouldn’t do for a Warrior to entertain such thoughts. That blasted Joshua was having an affect on…

Hickok abruptly stopped, motioning for the others to halt.

The woods ended, and the trail crossed a wide field and re-entered the forest on the other side.

No good, Hickok noted. They’d be exposed, vulnerable. Should they go around the field? It would take longer, but be safer.

“What’s wrong?” Sherry whispered.

“I don’t like it,” Hickok replied softly.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Silvester said. “We’re still a long ways from the Mound.”

Hickok glanced at him. “You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Terrific.” Hickok scanned the field for signs of life. The weeds and brush were waist high, and there were few hiding places. Near the center of the field were some huge boulders and rocks. The trail passed between them.

“Oh, go ahead,” Sherry goaded him. “Well make it.”

Despite his better judgment, Hickok nodded and started across. He saw a field mouse scamper from their path, and a rabbit bounded away to their right. Nothing out of the ordinary, though. That was a good sign.

The trio reached the section littered with the rocks and boulders and Hickok followed the trail between two of the larger ones. He hoped rescuing Shane would be a relatively easy task. Break into this Mound, bust out again with Shane, and head for their Home. One, two, three. That was the ideal scenario, the way he wanted the events to unfold.

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!”