Twin Cities Run

Chapter Five

In the southeast corner of the Home, far from the Blocks and the cabins and the other areas where the Family normally congregated, was a section devoted to an exclusive purpose: the Family firing range. The children were taught to stay away from this area unless accompanied by an adult.

Although it was utilized almost exclusively by the Warriors, the other members of the Family were required to take periodic firing lessons, to familiarize themselves with the proper use of firearms in case the Home was ever the target of a mass assault.

His hands hanging loosely at his sides, the buckskin-clad gunman concentrated on the six small sticks, each six inches in height, stuck in the dirt fifteen yards distant.

They were Trolls.

Six lousy Trolls, he told himself. Six of the rotten bastards responsible for killing his dear Joan. And they had to pay! Their lives were forfeit.

Joan must be avenged!

His hands flew to his Colts, and the Pythons cleared leather simultaneously. The firing range rocked with the blasts of the six shots, and each of the sticks split at the middle as the slugs tore them in half.

“Piece of cake.”

He twirled the Colts backwards into their respective holsters. His wounds were healed, and he was back in top form. If he stayed on his toes, and avoided being injured in the Twin Cities, he would implement his plan after they returned to the Home. Some of the Trolls had escaped during the course of the battle in Fox. Some of Joan’s murderers were out there somewhere, free as a lark, unrepentant and unpunished.

They wouldn’t be for long!

“That was some shooting,” someone said behind him. “What they say about you is true, Hickok.”

Hickok turned, annoyed by the intrusion on his thoughts, on his plotting for revenge.

The newcomer was dressed in black pants and a black shirt, both worn and faded and patched in a half-dozen places. His hair and eyes were brown, his face youthful and full with large cheeks and bushy brows. He wore a revolver around his waist.

“Don’t I know you, boy?” Hickok asked, striving to recall the lad’s name.

It was on the tip of his tongue.

The youth reddened. “I’d appreciate it, Hickok, if you don’t call me boy.” He said the last word distastefully.

Hickok admired his pluck. “How would you like to be called?”

“Call me Shane.”

The name was familiar. Hickok’s favorite section of the library was the one filled with westerns. He remembered reading a book about a gunfighter named Shane, an outstanding novel dealing with life in the Old West, Hickok’s favorite period in history.

“I wasn’t aware we had anyone in the Family called Shane,” he told the youth.

Shane hooked his thumbs in his belt, appearing slightly embarrassed.

“Well, it’s not really Shane yet,” he said in explanation. “But it will be!” he hastily added. “My Naming is next week, and I intend to pick Shane.”

“Aren’t you Blake?” Hickok asked him. “Poe’s son?”

Shane nodded, frowning. “Yeah. But I don’t like to be called Blake.”

“Fair enough, pard.” Hickok extended his right hand and they shook.

The boy’s grip was firm and steady. “What can I do for you?”

“I heard you were leaving again,” Shane stated.

“Soon,” Hickok acknowledged.

“Then I’ll make this short,” Shane said. “I want to be a Warrior, like you. My father objects, and he refuses to sponsor me before the Elders. I know they’re in the process of picking three new Warriors for another Triad, and I want to be one of them.”

“So where do I fit in?” Hickok wanted to know.

“I want you to sponsor me,” Shane answered.

“Forget it.” Hickok began reloading the spent cartridges in his Pythons.

“What? Why?” Shane demanded defensively.

“Not my affair,” Hickok succinctly replied.

“How do you figure?” Shane’s disappointment was carved into his features.

“You just said your own father doesn’t want you to become a Warrior,” Hickok responded. “I’m not about to become involved in a family squabble. It’s none of my affair.”

“Yes it is,” Shane asserted.

“Oh? How?”

“I’ve wanted to be a Warrior since I can remember. I’m not much good at building things, and farming bores me to tears. But I just know I’m cut out to be a Warrior, and I can prove it if I’m just given the chance,” Shane said eagerly.

“You still haven’t told me how I fit into all this,” Hickok pointed out.

“It’s simple.” Shane stared into Hickok’s eyes. “You’re my hero.”

Hickok, taken aback, laughed. “I’m what?”

“In school,” Shane began, “we were taught the value of having heroes, of looking up to someone who does something you want to do very well. Face it. You have a reputation as one of the best Warriors in our Family, as one of the better Warriors the Family has ever had.”

“I do not.” It was Hickok’s turn to feel a twinge of embarrassment.

“I’m not buttering you up,” Shane stated. “Oh, Blade and Rikki and Geronimo and the rest are good Warriors, but it’s you the Family talks about the most. Didn’t you know that?”

“Sure didn’t,” Hickok replied.

“Well,” Shane continued, “when I decided to become a Warrior, I naturally looked around to see which of the Warriors I would most like to emulate. Guess who I selected?” He smiled.

Hickok’s Colts were reloaded, his hands resting on the grips. “I’m flattered, Shane. I truly am. But I still won’t sponsor you for the new Triad.”

“Why? What’s wrong with me?” Shane’s tone was plaintive.

“How do I know you can handle being a Warrior?”

“Who sponsored you?” Shane suddenly changed the subject.

“Blade’s father,” Hickok answered, recollecting his Naming. “My father had already passed on.”

“And how did Blade’s father know you could handle being a Warrior?”

Shane threw Hickok’s own words back at him.

The gunman inadvertently grinned. “He trusted me.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Shane testily inquired.

Hickok started walking toward the western portion of the Home, Shane at his side. “I don’t know you. How can I trust you?”

Shane fell silent for a moment, thinking.

“Don’t take it personal, pard,” Hickok advised him.

“What if I could do something to earn your trust?” Shane eagerly asked.

“Like what?”

“You tell me.”

Hickok watched a hawk circle over a nearby field. “I can’t think of a way, offhand.”

“Try harder!”

“You sure are pushy for such a… young person,” Hickok commented.

Shane grabbed Hickok’s right arm. “Don’t you realize how important this is to me? They don’t pick new Warriors ever day, you know. I may not get another chance for years! You’ve got to help me!”

Hickok smiled at his aspiring protege. “I’ll try and come up with something.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“You won’t regret it!” Shane was bubbling with enthusiasm. “I have a good head on my shoulders. I take orders real well. And I’m almost as good a marksman as you.”

The last comment brought Hickok up short. “You think so, do you?”

“I know so,” Shane stated confidently.

Hickok glanced around and spotted a dead tree thirty yards away. A pair of withered limbs hung at waist level on the right side of the trunk.

“You see those branches on that dead tree?” He pointed.

Shane followed the direction his arm indicated. “Yep. You want me to hit them?”

“Tell you what we’ll do,” Hickok said. “I’ll count to three. When I hit three, we’ll both draw and fire. You take the top branch, I’ll take the bottom. Okay with you?”

Shane’s hefty frame coiled as he tensed, his right hand dangling above his revolver, an Abilene Single Action in .44 Magnum. “I’m ready when you are.”

“That’s a big gun you’ve got there, pard,” Hickok observed. “You sure you can handle it?”

“Just do the counting,” Shane replied, nervously flexing his right hand.

The dead tree was northwest of their position.

Smiling, pleased his ruse was working, Hickok let his hands drop to his side. “Okay, pard. Get ready.”

“I was born ready!”

“One…” Hickok counted.

Shane froze, every muscle immobile, focused on the tree.

“Two…” Hickok wondered if the youth would fall for it. If he did, Shane could forget being a Warrior.

“Three!” Hickok yelled, pretending to draw his Pythons.

Shane’s hand was a streak as he whipped out the Abilene and cocked the hammer. His finger was tightening on the trigger when he abruptly stopped and glanced at Hickok.

The Warrior was standing quietly, waiting.

“You didn’t draw!” Shane declared. “You didn’t even draw!”

“And you didn’t shoot,” Hickok mentioned. “Why not?”

Shane looked at his revolver, then replaced it in its holster. “You almost had me!” He breathed a sigh of relief.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play innocent with me!” Shane barked. “The whole thing was a test, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?”

Shane slapped his right thigh and laughed. “You’re good. You are really good!”

“Am I?” Hickok asked quietly.

“You know as well as I do,” Shane said, “that shooting inside the Home is only permitted on the firing range. Even the Warriors must follow this rule. The only exception is when the Home is under attack.”

“Is that all?” Hickok queried.

“No, it isn’t,” Shane replied. “That dead tree is between us and the Blocks, where most of the Family is likely to be. If one of us had missed the tree, our bullet might have struck one of the Family.”

“I’m impressed,” Hickok admitted.

“Then it was a test?”

“Of course.”

Shane stared from the tree to Hickok and back again. “But what if I had fired?”

“I would have stopped you,” Hickok informed him.

“Oh? How?”

Hickok pointed at the Abilene. “Draw and fire at the tree.”

“What?” Shane asked doubtfully.

“Draw as fast as you can,” Hickok instructed him, “and try to shoot before I stop you.”

“Nobody is that fast,” Shane stated. “You’ll never be able to stop me.”

“Draw.”

Shane instantly obeyed, his hand dipping and bringing the gun up as he had hundreds of times in practice. The revolver was almost level when something caused the gun to abruptly jerk downward.

Hickok’s right hand was on the Abilene, his palm pressing on the hammer, preventing Shane from firing.

Shane, astonished, gaped at the Warrior. “I can’t believe it! I thought I was fast on the draw.”

“You are,” Hickok verified, releasing the Abilene and resuming his course toward the Blocks and the SEAL.

“But you beat me!” Shane protested.

“You’re fast,” Hickok repeated, “but being fast isn’t enough.”

“What more is there?” Shane asked, sliding the Abilene into its holster on his right hip.

“Quick.”

“Quick? I don’t understand,” Shane frankly admitted.

“How can I explain it to you?” Hickok thought a moment. “Would you say a fly is fast?”

“A fly?”

“Yeah, pard, a fly. When it’s buzzing around your head and you’re trying to swat it, but you keep missing. Would you say that fly is fast?”

Hickok glanced at the youth.

“I guess so,” Shane said. “Flys can be hard to hit, hard to catch, sometimes.”

“So imagine this same fast fly makes the fatal mistake of flying too close to a bullfrog sitting on the bank of a pond,” Hickok elaborated. “The bullfrog snags the fly in its mouth and swallows it. What does that make the bullfrog?”

“Faster than the fly.” Shane beamed.

“No.”

“No?”

Hickok shook his head and stared at Shane. “It makes the bullfrog quick. The fly may be fast, but the bullfrog is quick, and quick will win out over fast almost every time. You think about it.”

“I will,” Shane pledged.

They walked in silence for several minutes. The line of cabins in the center of the Home, the cabins used by the married couples and their families, came into view.

“So will you sponsor me, or not?” Shane spoke up.

“Let’s say I’ll give it serious consideration,” Hickok replied.

Shane could barely contain his excitement. “You will? You really will?”

“A man should always keep his word,” Hickok said solemnly. “And I do my best to keep mine. I’ll think about sponsoring you on the way to the Twin Cities, and I’ll give you my answer after I get back.”

“Oh,” Shane responded, frowning.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s just…” Shane hesitated, reluctant to complete the sentence.

“Spit it out, hombre,” Hickok urged him.

“How do I know you’ll even make it back?” Shane blurted out. “Couldn’t you speak to the Elders before you leave?”

“Not enough time,” Hickok told him. “Don’t you worry. I’m coming back. There’s something I’ve got to tend to, and nothing is going to stop me.”

“What is it?” Shane innocently asked.

“It’s personal,” Hickok growled.

“Oh,” Shane said meekly, and then, to hastily change the subject, he added, “I was real sorry to hear about Joan.”

Hickok’s jaw muscles visibly tightened.

Shane, failing to notice Hickok’s reaction, continued. “She was a nice person. Did you know I knew her?”

“What?” Hickok stopped and grabbed Shane’s left wrist. “Are you making this up to impress me?”

“I wouldn’t do that!” Shane retorted, hurt. “I really knew her. You see, I wanted to meet you, but I was a bit too shy to just walk up to you and introduce myself. Everyone was saying that Joan and you were… very close, and…” Shane stopped and glanced at his left wrist. “Are you trying to break it?”

Hickok self-consciously removed his hand.

“Anyway,” Shane resumed, “like I was saying, I decided to ask Joan if she thought you would mind if I asked you a personal favor. She was so friendly and understanding…”

Hickok’s mouth was a tight, tense line.

“…and she told me to go ahead, march right up to you and tell you what was on my mind. She said you’d admire me for having the guts to do it.” Shane’s voice lowered, assuming a sad tone. “But before I could follow her advice, the Trolls attacked the Home. She was one of their prisoners. I couldn’t believe it when they said she was dead. I came to her funeral, but I don’t think you noticed. It’s taken me until now to muster up the courage to come see you.” Shane looked up and saw Hickok’s grim expression. “I’m sorry! Have I offended you?”

“No,” Hickok muttered.

“I shouldn’t of mentioned Joan,” Shane realized. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s not that,” Hickok assured him, heading for the SEAL.

“Then what…?” Shane asked, perplexed.

“It’s the Trolls,” Hickok revealed.

“The Trolls? I don’t understand.”

Hickok sighed. “We killed a lot of the bastards…”

“I heard you killed forty or fifty all by yourself.” Shane interrupted.

“A slight exaggeration,” Hickok stated.

“I also heard some of them got away,” Shane commented.

“That’s true,” Hickok said, his voice barely audible, low and mean. “A couple of dozen, at least.”

“For what they did to Joan,” Shane remarked, “they don’t deserve to live.”

“They won’t,” Hickok vowed.

Shane thoughtfully studied the glowering gunman. What did Hickok mean by that last statement? Was he planning to retaliate against the Trolls still alive? How? No one knew where the Trolls had fled after the battle in Fox. Shane recalled Hickok saying he had “something I’ve got to tend to” after he returned from the Twin Cities. Was that it? Hickok was going after the Trolls!

“Listen, pard.” Hickok faced Shane, smiling now. “Look me up after I get back. If you convince me you’re worthy, I’ll sponsor you. Fair enough?”

Shane, torn between disappointment and budding optimism, nodded.

“I’ve got to get my gear,” Hickok announced, and walked off.

Shane watched the Warrior leave. Worthy? How in the world could he prove he was worthy? An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he was momentarily stunned by the brilliance of his inspiration. It was fantastic!

If Hickok needed proof he was worthy, he would provide the proof, he would have it waiting for the gunman when Hickok returned. Shane grinned. If his deduction was correct, and Hickok intended to go after the Trolls, the Warrior would need to know where the Trolls were based, where their new headquarters was located. And wouldn’t Hickok be impressed, Shane reasoned, if he had the information, and maybe a few bear-hide tunics too, when Hickok arrived after his trip to the Twin Cities!

Shane abruptly became aware of Hickok waving at him.

“Adios, pard!” Hickok yelled. “You keep practicing.”

“You keep your head down!” Shane replied.

“You’ll see me again,” Hickok promised. “Next stop, the Twin Cities!”