Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was ready, but he needed the revolver barrel out of his mouth first. He tried opening his eyes, but the itching sensation was too great.
“Give my regards to the other side,” Napoleon nonchalantly commented.
Rikki made his move. He deliberately gagged and choked, making motions as if he were about to puke, to regurgitate all over the revolver barrel and Napoleon.
“What the…!” Napoleon hastily extracted the barrel and drew his right hand away from Rikki’s mouth, disgusted at the prospect of any vomit touching his person.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi surged upward, his right hand a striking snake as it swept up and in, the calloused, compact fingers aimed at Napoleon’s throat.
For an instant, Rikki thought he had missed.
Then his fingers gouged into Napoleon’s neck, shattering the windpipe and driving in up to the knuckles.
The revolver discharged, blasting near Rikki’s left ear.
Now it was Napoleon’s turn to gasp and wheeze, to choke and struggle.
He dropped the revolver and grabbed Rikki’s right wrist with both hands, frantically striving to remove Rikki’s fingers from his throat.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, still blinded by the tear gas, grappled with the madman. His right hand, covered with a sticky liquid, was yanked from Napoleon’s neck.
Napoleon made a protracted gurgling sound, and Rikki felt something splatter on his face.
Had he missed a killing blow?
Rikki, uncertain of Napoleon’s position, tried to gauge the exact location of Napoleon’s face.
What was he doing?
Rikki’s body was lying on top of Napoleon’s bulky form, covering it at an angle. He received the impression Napoleon was reaching for something, was stretching to the right.
But why? Was he in his death throes? Had he finally expired?
Napoleon, puffing and gagging, reached whatever he was after. His body suddenly coiled under Rikki’s, and Rikki was staggered by a jarring blow to the left side of his head.
Napoleon had the revolver!
Wobbly, his head throbbing, the tear gas continuing to ravage his system, Rikki lunged wildly, grasping for Napoleon’s gun arm. His left hand contacted Napoleon’s right elbow, and he held on for dear life, forcing the arm to the grass, hoping he could prevent Napoleon from firing.
The revolver boomed again, and the slug tore a furrow in Rikki’s left side.
Rikki twisted, attempting to place his body on the other side of Napoleon, to present as small a target as possible.
The revolver fired a third time, missing.
Rikki abruptly found himself cheek to cheek with his adversary, and he instantly drove his right hand, with the first two fingers extended and stiff, into Napoleon’s face, aiming for an eye. Instead, his blow struck a glancing miss off Napoleon’s eyebrow.
For the fourth time, Napoleon tried to shoot Rikki.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was rocked by intense pain at the base of his neck, and he knew he’d been hit, knew he was losing consciousness, and realized he had better make his next strike count, because he wouldn’t get another chance.
Napoleon began bucking in an effort to dislodge his foe.
Rikki, adrift in a murky sea of darkness, a whirlpool of vertigo, drew his right hand back as far as he could, then plunged it forward.
The blackness engulfed him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You call this an escape plan?” Wally demanded.
“You have any better ideas?” the gunman countered.
“Well, no,” Wally admitted, “but you can bet I wouldn’t come up with something as dipsy as this!”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with it!” Wally exclaimed, shaking his head. “It’s crazy!
That’s what’s wrong with it!”
“Keep your voice down!” Hickok directed. “You’ll make the guard suspicious.”
“I just don’t like it!”
“I thought you wanted to get out of here,” Hickok said.
“I do,” Wally admitted.
“Then quit being such a wimp!”
“I’m not a wimp!” Wally argued. “I’ve tried to bust out, several times.
That’s the main reason I’m in here now. But at least I didn’t rely on miracles.”
“Miracles?”
“What else would you call it?” Wally gestured at their cell. “If you can get two of them to come inside the cell, not just the guy with the food bucket, and if they don’t notice you’ve moved the shit pail and Shane is now standin’ in front of it, and if they don’t think we’re actin’ a little too innocent for our own good, then maybe, just maybe, we can pull it off.”
“Piece of cake,” Hickok declared, checking their positions for the fiftieth time. He was standing nearest the door, leaning on the cell bars, his back to the hallway. The outside guard was about fifteen feet away, to the right. Shane stood ten feet into the cell, casually leaning against the wall. Hidden by his moccasined feet, positioned between his ankles and the wall, was the waste bucket, its handle raised directly above the pail.
Wally stood in the center of the cell, nervously wringing his hands.
“It won’t be long,” Shane said.
“Why didn’t we do it when they brought the morning meal?” Wally inquired. “Why wait until the evening feed?”
“They were prepared for trouble,” Hickok answered. “It was the first time they fed me, and they probably expected me to put up a fight of some kind. Since I didn’t, whoever comes now won’t be anticipating any problem.”
Wally anxiously stared at the waste pail. “I don’t know. A shit bucket against rifles!”
“Haven’t you ever heard the basic law of social relationships?” Hickok asked, grinning.
“What?” Wally absently responded, confused.
“If you can’t dazzle ’em with brilliance,” Hickok stated, “then baffle ’em with bullshit.”
“Do you…” Wally began, then froze.
The guards with the food were coming, their voices carrying down the hallway as they joked and laughed.
Hickok glanced outside.
The cell guard had straightened and was watching the approaching duo.
Here goes nothing! Hickok moved to the corner behind the cell door, trying to convey an attitude of total indifference to the proceedings around him.
Shane appeared completely relaxed, his hands in his pockets, humming quietly.
The kid is good, Hickok noted. Maybe I will sponsor him for Warrior status after we return to the Home.
Wally was a worried wreck, glancing at the waste pail and the cell door, the waste pail and the cell door, the waste pail and…
“Will you cut it out, pard,” Hickok whispered. “You’re driving me nuts!”
“I can’t help it,” Wally explained. “I’m a family man, not a trained fighter like you two.”
“Don’t you want to see your family again?” Hickok queried.
“Of course,” Wally affirmed, frowning. “If they’re still alive, that is.”
“There’s only one way you’ll find out,” Hickok said.
“No problem.” Wally visibly regained control of his nerves, sobered by thoughts of his loved ones.
“You’re a bit early,” the cell guard greeted the food bearers.
“There’s a card game tonight,” one of the newcomers, a hairy, burly specimen, replied.
“Yeah,” said the third Mole. “We want to make our rounds as fast as we can. They won’t hold the table for us.”
“I wish I could get off,” the cell guard complained bitterly. “Instead, I get these jerks.” He waved his right hand at the cell.
“Poor baby!” the burly Mole joked, and the food bearers laughed.
Hickok recalled Silvester mentioning an auction for any captured women, and now the guards were talking about a card game. What did they use for money? he wondered.