The trio of Moles appeared at the cell door. The burly Mole and the cell guard both carried rifles, while the Mole with the food bucket had a revolver strapped to his belt, slanted across his left hip.
“Have they been behaving themselves?” Burly Mole asked.
“Sure have,” the cell guard, a thin man with a pointed chin, answered.
“Even this one?” Burly Mole questioned, swinging his rifle barrel in Hickok’s direction.
“Even him.”
“I’m surprised,” Burly Mole said. “I heard he’s a real hardcase.” He glanced at the gunman. “Hey, you! How come you’re being such a good little boy?”
“Because,” Hickok replied, hoping he would sound convincing, “I don’t want anything to happen to my woman, and I figure if I give you any grief, you just might do something to her.”
Burly Mole smirked and whispered in the cell guard’s ear. They both laughed at whatever he said.
“All right! Don’t try any funny stuff!” Burly Mole ordered.
The cell guard unlocked the cell door, slowly swinging the iron bars open.
Hickok was now behind the open door.
The Mole holding the food bucket, a portly fellow with a perpetual grin, entered and walked toward Wally. “Here you go.” He held the food bucket out. “Take it.”
On cue, Shane chuckled. “You expect us to keep eating that miserable excuse for food?”
“If you don’t like it,” Portly Mole rejoined, “we can always let you starve to death.”
“At least I wouldn’t have to look at your ugly face every day,” Shane snapped.
Portly Mole looked at Burly Mole. “Looks like we’ve got a troublemaker here, Frank.”
“Do tell,” Frank stated ominously as he came into the cell.
The cell guard, Pointy Chin, stood in the doorway, covering the prisoners.
What a bunch of amateurs! Hickok, faking disinterest, toyed with the frayed hem on his buckskin shirt.
Frank passed Portly Mole and Wally and stopped, his rifle aimed at Shane’s midsection. “Now what were you saying?” he arrogantly demanded.
“I said,” Shane angrily responded, “you can take this shit and eat it yourselves! I’m not taking another bite!”
“Is that so?” Frank, grinning, turned slightly, winking at Portly Mole.
He reached for the food bucket with his left hand. “Pass that food to me.
We’re going to help our young friend change his mind.”
Portly Mole started to extend his arm, the food bucket dangling from his hand, its putrid contents steaming.
“Now!” Hickok shouted.
The cell exploded into action.
Wally lunged, grabbing Portly Mole’s arm and sweeping it backward, causing the food to fly from the bucket, the reeking mess catching the Mole in the face, covering his eyes and his nose and momentarily leaving him open and vulnerable. Before the startled Mole could react, Wally had the revolver in his hand. He brought the long barrel crashing down on Portly Mole’s head as the Mole tried to wipe the food from his eyes.
Frank, spinning to assist Portly Mole, detected a motion out of the corner of his right eye. He swiveled again, expecting Shane to be coming at him.
Instead, Shane had looped his right foot through the handle on the waste pail. As Frank began his swivel, Shane swept his foot back and up, instinctively judging the angle and the trajectory and praying he was right.
Frank was on the verge of completing his turn when the contents of the waste pail, a week’s worth of accumulated excrement, struck him in his enraged visage. He tried to duck under the filthy barrage, but the urine and the feces peppered his upper torso.
Shane, seizing the initiative, kicked with his left foot, striking Frank’s right knee.
There was a popping noise, and Frank cried out and stumbled, wildly striving to recover his lost balance.
Shane stepped in and grabbed the rifle, a Marlin 1894 lever action. He savagely slammed the stock again and again against the Mole’s head.
Simultaneously with the activity in the cell, Pointy Chin took a step inside, raising his rifle to his shoulder.
Hickok threw his entire weight against the cell door, propelling the heavy iron bars into the hapless guard and smashing him between the cell door and the fixed bars on one side.
Pointy Chin’s rifle dropped to the dirt floor as Hickok rammed him three more times for good measure.
Satisfied, the gunman stood back and allowed Pointy Chin to tumble to the floor. He gazed around the cell. The other two Moles were likewise down and out. Shane held the Marlin and Wally was armed with the revolver, a High Standard Double Action.
Hickok retrieved Pointy Chin’s rifle, a Winchester. “See?” he said to Wally. “Like I told you, it was a piece of cake.”
Wally was gaping at the fallen Moles, amazed at their good fortune.
“And you say you do this kind of thing a lot?”
“All the time,” Hickok confirmed, removing Pointy Chin’s shirt.
“I don’t see how you do it,” Wally stated. “I don’t think my nerves could take it.”
“You get used to it, pard,” Hickok said, shredding the shirt.
“So what’s our next move?” Shane asked. He walked to the cell door and looked both ways. The hallway, illuminated by candles at ten-yard intervals, was empty. “No sign of anyone,” he informed the others.
Hickok was staring thoughtfully at Wally. “You say the Moles have had you here about a year?” He began binding the Moles.
“Near as I can tell,” Wally replied. He knelt and searched Portly Mole for additional ammunition.
“Then you must be pretty familiar with the tunnels,” Hickok deduced, gagging the first of the Moles, Pointy Chin.
“I can get around okay,” Wally said, “but I don’t have the tunnels memorized, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’ll do,” Hickok stated. He started securing Portly Mole.
Wally glanced up. “What are you getting at?”
“Can you get us from here to Wolfe’s personal chambers?” Hickok inquired, moving to Frank, working quickly.
“To Wolfe’s per…” Wally quickly stood, shaking his head. “No way, Hickok! It’s suicide. We’d never make it. His private chambers are guarded all the time. Why the hell do you want to go there?”
“Two reasons,” Hickok explained, joining Shane at the door. “First, the varmint has my guns, and I aim to get them back…”
“Who cares about some measly guns?” Wally interrupted. “Are they worth dying for?”
“They’re my guns,” Hickok said coldly, “and the only way anybody is going to get them from me is by prying them from my lifeless fingers!”
“What’s the second reason?” Wally asked, hastily changing the subject.
“I came across a female type I’ve developed a real hankerin’ for,” Hickok admitted, “and I don’t reckon to leave her behind.” He led the way into the hallway.
Wally tapped Shane on the shoulder.
Shane glanced back.
“Has anyone ever told you,” Wally curiously inquired, “that your friend talks kind of weird?”
“Just about everybody,” Shane acknowledged, grinning. “It’s one of the things that makes Hickok… Hickok.” He followed on the heels of his mentor.
“I’m trying to escape from the Mole Mound,” Wally mumbled as he brought up the rear, “with a kid and a mental defective. How do I get myself into these things?”
They reached the first intersection and stopped.
“Still no Moles,” Hickok said, pleased. “Probably wouldn’t expect to find too many hanging around the cells anyway.” He looked at Wally. “The rest is up to you. Lead us to Wolfe’s chambers.”
“The tunnels will be full of Moles,” Wally objected. “We’ll never make it.”
“You’ll never get anywhere in this life with a negative attitude,” Hickok commented. “Besides, we’ll stick to the less-frequented tunnels. Stay in the shadows. There are hundreds of Moles in the Mound. Odds are, they don’t all know each other on sight. If we’re careful, we won’t even be noticed.”