David L. Robbins - Endworld 02 - Thief River Falls Run

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THIEF RIVER FALLS

RUN

#2 in the Endworld series

DAVID ROBBINS

To Joshua,

for all the happiness

A LEISURE BOOK® June 1992 Published by Dorchester Publishing Co.,

Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that

this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to

the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any

payment for this "stripped book."

transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,

including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and

retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except

where permitted by law.

The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are

trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

Chapter One

The buckskin-clad gunman crouched and spun, his hands dropping to his

pearl-handled revolvers, one in a leather holster on each hip, his long

blond locks waving in the wind, his keen blue eyes scanning the field below

him, searching for the source of the noise he had just heard.

Someone had coughed.

A full moon illuminated the field, kept cleared of all brush, trees, and

other vegetation to prevent any foes, human or otherwise, from covertly

assaulting the thirty-acre plot called the Home by those who lived within

the encircling brick walls. The Family, as they designated themselves, took

extraordinary precautions to insure its safety: the twenty-foot-high walls

were topped with barbed wire and a rampart for patrolling purposes, a

wide moat was channeled around the base of the wall, within the

compound; and the entire Home was continually guarded by an elite corps

of skilled, thoroughly trained fighters known as Warriors.

"Hickok, did you hear that?" whispered a small, wiry man as he

scurried along the rampart in the gunman's direction.

"Sure did, pard," acknowledged Hickok, nodding.

The second man stopped at Hickok's side. "Came from the edge of the

field," he stated. His brown eyes studied the forest, dimly visible as a

looming dark mass, one hundred and fifty yards distant. "Near the trees.

We were fortunate the wind carried the sound this far. Any orders?"

Hickok mentally pondered the situation. Should they investigate the

cough now, or leave it until daylight? What would Blade do at a time like

this?

The Warriors were divided into four sections, or Triads, comprised of

three members each. Designated the Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Omega

Triads, they were entrusted with the defense of the Home and the

protection of the Family. While each Triad had an appointed head, all of

the Warriors were under the leadership of the Alpha Triad, and each of

the twelve Warriors was specifically responsible to Blade, the chief of

Alpha Triad and the commander of all Family Warriors.

Blast! Hickok thoughtfully stroked his blond mustache, debating on a

course of action. Blade was recuperating from an infection his body had

developed, a reaction to the dozens of cuts and slashes inflicted by a

deadly wolverine during their battle with the Trolls. He was probably

asleep at this late hour, dreaming of his beloved Jenny. Lucky him!

"Should we alert Geronimo?" the other man asked, running his right

hand through his black hair, relieved as the breeze picked up, cooling his

sweaty brow. The July night was warm and muggy. "Nope," Hickok

laconically responded. "Would take too long, Rikki. Geronimo is way over

on the east wall."

The Alpha Triad consisted of Blade, Geronimo, and Hickok. With Blade

recovering from the infection, another Warrior had volunteered to take his

place on guard duty. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the Beta Triad leader, clutched a

long black scabbard in his left hand. He pointed it at the distant woods.

"I'll go myself, if you like."

"I'm going," Hickok announced, making his decision. "Alone."

"I should go along." Rikki-Tikki-Tavi offered.

"I'm going alone," Hickok repeated, carefully moving along the rampart

until he was in the center of the western wall, directly above a closed

drawbridge.

Rikki followed on his heels. "Could be a trap," he said, voicing his

concern. "Could be some more scavengers," he noted, referring to an

attack by a roving band of marauders several years before, an assault the

Family successfully repelled.

"Could be," Hickok agreed, glancing down. Imbedded in the concrete at

his moccasined feet was a thick steel ring. Attached to the ring, coiled in a

large pile on the rampart, was a stout rope.

"You'll need a backup," Rikki contended.

"No, thanks," Hickok declined. He lifted the rope. At this one point, the

barbed wire was deliberately spaced to permit one person to pass over the

edge of the rampart.

"You don't know who or what is out there," Rikki stated, his tone

reflecting his annoyance.

"Doesn't matter," Hickok informed him.

"It's against standard Warrior procedure," Rikki added.

Hickok shrugged, peered over the top of the wall, and tossed the rope

down the wall.

"You're taking a needless risk." Rikki wouldn't let the matter drop. "You

could be killed."

Hickok paused in the act of climbing over the side. He stared into

Rikki's dark eyes. "I don't care, pard. I just don't care." He pushed off.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi knelt and watched his friend slowly lower himself to

the ground in front of the drawbridge. So! What Blade and Geronimo had

said about Hickok was true. With the death of the woman he loved, at the

hands of the Trolls, Hickok was displaying signs of outright recklessness

with regard to his personal safety. The Family's supreme gunman seemed

normal otherwise, but Blade believed Hickok was a simmering volcano

waiting for the right catalyst to trigger an eruption. Rikki vividly recalled

the tormented expression on Hickok's face when they had buried the

woman. Joan, her name had been, and rumor had it she was Hickok's first

true love.

Hickok reached the bare earth below the drawbridge and waved once to

Rikki before jogging across the field in the direction of the cough. He knew

he should present as small a target as possible to potential ambushers, but

his suppressed grief negated his extensive Warrior training and he ran

upright, exposed, almost hoping he would see the flash of a firearm and

feel the impact of a slug ripping through his body.

The wind increased, the natural elements working in his favor. The

breeze was blowing the sounds he made toward the Home, and away from

whoever was lurking in the forest at the end of the field.

A sudden thought brought Hickok up short. What if it were Trolls?

Many had escaped, and they'd want revenge on the Family. Involuntarily,

he gripped his revolvers, his cherished Colt Pythons.

Someone coughed again.

May the Spirit smile on me, Hickok prayed. He lowered his body,

running in a half-crouch, moving cautiously now, a grim smile on his face.

Whoever was out there was due west, a bit to his right. Please let it be

Trolls! He owed them. He owed them real bad.

Hickok slowed as he neared the trees, listening, his senses primed. The

leaves were rustling in the wind, some of the branches creaking and

rubbing against one another. Good. Perfect cover. He tensed, expecting a

shot, and darted into the woods, stopping behind the first large tree he

reached. Surely they had seen him coming. He leaned against the trunk,

waiting.

Nothing.

What was going on here?

The coughing abruptly started up, a veritable spasm, a series of

wheezing gasps and choking groans.

Sounds like the dude is sick, Hickok reasoned. He estimated the

distance at fifteen to twenty yards. The brush was thick, providing ample

concealment. He lowered his body to the earth and began crawling.

A twig snapped behind him.

Hickok froze. Blast his stupidity! He should have expected there would

be more than one. Had they seen him?

"Did you get a fix on that?" a gruff voice whispered.

Hickok twisted, craning his neck, confident he was hidden in the tall

grass.

There were three of them. Big men. Armed with rifles. Two to his left,

one to his right, the nearest ten yards away.

"I know I heard it," a second man replied in a hushed voice.

Were they talking about him? Hickok wondered.

The coughing started up again.

"There!" the first man exclaimed. All three wore green uniforms.

The three men stalked their prey, passing Hickok, intent on their

target.

What the blazes was going on here? They were after the cougher. Why?

Who were they? Even in the subdued light, Hickok could see they were

well dressed, their clothes appearing new and somehow different from the

homemade attire the Family wore. Each man held a polished rifle and

wore an automatic pistol strapped to his waist. Who are these guys?

Hickok asked himself.

Only one thing to do.

Hickok waited until they were a safe distance ahead, then pursued

them, crawling through the grass and skirting any bushes or trees in his

path. They were proceeding very deliberately, actually inching forward

now, and he easily kept them in sight.

The poor slob with the nasty cough wheezed once more.

Hickok saw the three men quickly rush ahead, beyond his vision. He

heard the commotion of a brief struggle, then a solid blow landing.

"Got you!" someone declared enthusiastically.

Hickok rose, keeping stooped over, and hastened forward until he

reached a tree about six yards from a small clearing. The men were

standing over another person, prone on the ground, grinning and smiling.

"You really gave us a run for our money," the gruff voice said. "I've got

to hand it to you."

"Answer him," snapped the tallest of the men, kicking the body in the

side, eliciting a moan from the unfortunate victim.

"Yeah, bitch!" teased the third man. "We can't hear you!"

Bitch? Hickok edged around the tree.

"Stand up, woman!" the gruff voice ordered. "I have some questions for

you!"

Hickok's view of the woman was blocked by the legs of the men. He

heard her sob and mumble something.

"Can't hear you, squaw," the gruff voice stated, "and I need to know

where the little one is."

Little one? Squaw?

"If you don't start talking," the tallest uniform snarled, "I'm going to

break your bones one by one." He brutally kicked the woman one more

time.

Enough was enough.

Hickok took two steps forward, his thumbs casually hooked in his

gunbelt.

"Stand up, damn you!" the gruff voice commanded.

"Excuse me, gentlemen…" Hickok said quietly.

The three men whirled, startled, momentarily off guard.

"… I reckon it's useless to point out how atrocious your manners are."

Hickok grinned at them.

The uniforms overcame their initial shock, bringing their rifles into

play.

"Waste him!" the gruff voice bellowed.

Hickok drew, his hands a blur, the Pythons out and leveled faster than

the eye could blink, held low, near his waist, the .357's booming and

bucking, his aim unerring.

The gruff voice clutched at his face as a bullet penetrated his forehead

and exploded through the back of his head.

The third uniform was caught in the right eye. He screamed while he

fell, his rifle clattering beside him.

As the Family's firearms expert and deadliest gunfighter, Hickok taught

firearms use and safety to novice Warriors and the small children.

Everyone in the Family was required to become familiar with guns; their

lives could depend on the knowledge. Most of them did not utilize firearms

in their daily activities, so they were asked to take annual refresher

courses. In a world where survival of the fittest was the cardinal rule, the

Family needed to be prepared for any eventuality, including a mass assault

on its Home. At the classes he conducted, Hickok stressed his fundamental

law of marksmanship. "Go for the head," he invariably told them.

"Anywhere else and they can still come at you. Get their brain and you put

them completely out of commission." He did allow several exceptions. "If

you don't have time to aim for the head and you're not a great shot," he

had instructed one class, "if the head shot is obstructed in some way, or

it's personal, then shoot anywhere you think will be effective." In all his

years as a Warrior, Hickok could count on the fingers of one hand the

number of times he had not gone for the head. Most of them were for

personal reasons.

Like now.

The tallest uniform had his rifle to his shoulder when the first shot

splintered his left knee. He shrieked and dropped his gun, staggering when

the second bullet burst his right kneecap, blood and bone spraying his leg.

His eyes focused on the blond gunman as he stumbled to the ground,

silently pleading to be spared.

"You shouldn't have kicked her, pard," Hickok stated sternly. "I noticed

you enjoy inflicting pain. How do you feel now, when the shoe is on the

other foot?"

"Please…" the man begged.

"Sorry, pard," Hickok said harshly, "but I can't abide people who like

hurting others. There's enough anguish in this warped world as it is."

"Please…" the tall uniform repeated.

Both Pythons blasted the man into eternity.

Hickok twirled his Colts and slid them into their respective holsters.

"Well, what have we here?" He knelt next to the woman, studying her.

She was lying on her left side, curled up, her arms held close to her

chest. Her clothes were finely crafted homemade buckskins, embroidered

on the back with a colorful representation of a rainbow. Luxuriant black

hair descended to the small of her back. Her eyes were closed, and she was

breathing heavily, almost gasping.

"You don't sound too good, sister," Hickok commented. He placed his

right hand on her forehead.

The woman was burning up.

"Take your filthy hand off her!" someone shouted in a high, thin voice.

The patter of feet running came from behind him.

Hickok twisted, his left Python already clear, the hammer drawn back,

his finger tightening on the trigger. Only his superb self-control enabled

him to turn the barrel aside at the last possible instant, the shot plowing

into the ground.

The young girl kept coming. An exact copy of the older woman, about

ten years of age, she furiously swung her tiny fists at the gunman as she

closed in, tears streaking her contorted face.

"Leave my mommy alone!" she yelled.

Hickok felt several of her blows land as he bolstered his left Colt and

grabbed for her wrists.

"Why won't you leave us alone?" the girl wailed.

Hickok was able to grip both her wrists. She fought on, a veritable

wildcat, tossing and kicking him in the legs.

"Whoa there, girl! Calm down! I'm not going to hurt you or your mom."

"Liar!" the girl disputed him. "You're just like the others! You want to

kill us!" She managed to place a particularly effective kick on his right

shin.

"Ouch! Will you cut it out? Stop for just a second."

The girl was slowing down, winded, her emotional momentum

exhausted.

"That's more like it." Hickok slowly stood, retaining his hold on her

wrists. His shin was throbbing. "I'm not going to hurt you," he reaffirmed.

Sniffling, the girl looked up at him. "How can I trust you?" she asked

weakly.

"Didn't I just kill the men who were after your mom and you?"

She stopped crying and glanced at the dead men. "I saw you do it," she

said softly.

Hickok flinched, wishing she hadn't. "So don't you think it means I'm

on your side?"

"Maybe," she reluctantly admitted. "Mom says we can't trust anyone,

though."

Hickok opted to change the subject and forestall another attack on his

shins. "Your mom seems to be sick."

The girl stared at her mother and nodded. "She is, mister. Has been for

weeks. We couldn't stop, though. She said the bad men would catch up

with us."

"If I release you," Hickok said, "will you promise not to kick me again?"

"Okay."

Hickok gingerly freed her hands. "I know some people who can help

your mother," he informed her.

"Where are they?" she questioned.

Hickok found himself admiring her frank and fearless attitude. "Over

there." He pointed at the Home, partially visible through the trees.

"We saw it earlier," the girl mentioned. "Mom said we couldn't get too

close because bad people might live there."

"Only good people live there," Hickok assured her. "My people. We're

called the Family. Some of our people are Healers. They can help your

mom."

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THIEFRIVERFALLSRUN#2intheEndworldseriesDAVIDROBBINSToJoshua,forallthehappinessALEISUREBOOK®June1992PublishedbyDorchesterPublishingCo.,Inc.276FifthAvenueNewYork,NYIfyoupurchasedthisbookwithoutacoveryoushouldbeawarethatthisbookisstolenproperty.Itwasreportedas"unsoldanddestroyed"tothepublisherandneithe...

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David L. Robbins - Endworld 02 - Thief River Falls Run

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