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?”