“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 it 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!