Rooms and larger chambers opened off the tunnels periodically. Some seemed to be public meeting places; others were apparently private domiciles. Children played in the tunnels, giggling and contented. Older Moles stared curiously at the newcomers as they marched to meet Wolfe.
Whatever he might think of their aggressive tactics and the sheer stupidity of living underground when there was abundant sunlight and fresh air up above, Hickok had to admit their system worked for them. As old Plato might say, the Moles had a viable social order, even if it was basically parasitical. He wondered how Plato was faring, whether the senility was continuing to debilitate the beloved Family Leader.
They reached a major intersection, four tunnels meeting at one point, and stopped. Huge wooden beams supported the arched roof.
“This way,” Goldman announced, and led them to the right.
“How much farther is it?” Sherry complained. “I could use some rest.”
“Not much farther,” Goldman replied. He turned, grinning. “In fact, we’re here.”
Their forward path was completely blocked by a ponderous wooden wall. In the center of the wall, flanked by six armed Moles, was a door.
Watson glanced at Hickok and Sherry. “Whatever you do,” he said, his voice low, “don’t antagonize Wolfe. He may let you live.”
“You got it backward, pard,” Hickok stated.
“Hickok, please!” Sherry pleaded. “Don’t pull another lame-brained stunt like you did with Goldman.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” the gunman remarked.
Goldman addressed one of the door guards, and the guard promptly opened the door and stood to one side, at attention.
Goldman motioned at the doorway. “After you,” he directed.
Watson went first, followed by Hickok and Sherry. Silvester nervously hung back, reluctant to enter, until Goldman grabbed him by the right arm and shoved him through the doorway.
“Incredible!” Sherry exclaimed as they entered.
The chamber was immense, the walls, floor, and ceiling all constructed of smooth stone and mortar. A skylight fitted into the top of a vaulted roof served to adequately illuminate the audience room.
“Took us about two years to build this,” Watson said to Sherry. “We found an abandoned quarry with a lime deposit, and mixed the lime with sand from a former highway-construction site. The water needed to achieve the bonding blend was easy to acquire.” He proudly surveyed the chamber. “Yes, the mortar was easy compared to the arduous task of carting tons of stone here. We salvaged the skylight from a building in Bemidji.”
Hickok estimated four dozen Moles occupied the audience room, most of them congregated at the foot of a series of cement stairs leading up to a circular dais. The exact middle of the dais was occupied by an enormous purple chair. But it was the man seated on the chair, scanning the chamber like a great, grim bird of prey, who drew Hickok’s gaze.
Wolfe.
The Mole leader was exceptionally tall, a giant of a man, but as abnormally thin as he was tall. An unruly mane of red hair crowned a craggy countenance, resembling, more than anything else, the visage of a mighty eagle. His eyes were an intense blue hue, ever in motion, conveying the impression he saw everything going on around him. He wore clean clothes, both a purple shirt and purple slacks, and polished black leather boots. Strapped to his waist were a pair of pearl-handled revolvers, and leaning against the purple chair was a heavy-caliber rifle.
Hickok suppressed an impulse to charge up the steps and seize the revolvers and the rifle, his Pythons and the Henry. Well, at least he knew where to find them when the time came.
All eyes were on the prisoners as Goldman marched them to the base of the stairs. He bowed and smiled. “I have brought the new captives, as ordered.”
“And they have been checked?” This question, spoken directly to Watson, came in an eerie, sibilant tone, remarkable in its uncanny projection and resonance.
Watson dutifully bowed. “They have, sir, and I can safely report they are clean.”
“They better be.”
“Your orders, sir?” Goldman requested.
Wolfe shot a stony stare at Goldman. “When I am ready.”
Goldman bowed and averted his eyes.
“These are yours?” Wolfe looked at Hickok and patted the revolver on his right hip.
“You bet your ass,” Hickok arrogantly replied, and Sherry abruptly groaned.
“I want to thank you,” Wolfe said, ignoring the barb. “It isn’t often we find weapons in such superb condition, of such excellent… caliber.” The Mole leader snickered at his own joke.
“Enjoy ’em while you got ‘em,” Hickok advised. “You won’t have them for long.”
“Oh?” Wolfe’s eyebrows arched upward. “Is that a fact?”
“It sure is,” Hickok vowed. “The last son of a bitch who took my guns wound up as rat food. I don’t like it when someone takes my guns,” he added, speaking slowly, deliberately.
“You’re scaring me to death,” Wolfe commented drolly.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Hickok promised. He climbed the first step, then froze as guards materialized, ringing him, their weapons trained on his chest.
“No hasty moves, please,” Wolfe directed. “My men might decide you pose a threat, and one of them might shoot before I could stop him. I wouldn’t want that to happen. We have a lot to discuss.”
“There’s only one thing we have to talk about,” Hickok disagreed.
“Indeed? And what is that?”
“I’m looking for a pard of mine, a kid wearing black clothes. I’m told he’s here and I want him.”
Wolfe, frowning, stood. “Goldman told me about your mouth, but I still can’t believe anyone could be so inane.” He walked to the edge of the dais and glared at Hickok. “No one talks to me the way you just did!” he growled. “No one!”
“Maybe you’re hard of hearing,” Hickok stated. “Want me to do it again?”
A deathly silence descended on the audience chamber as the assembled Moles awaited Wolfe’s reaction to Hickok’s taunt.
The Mole leader studied the gunman from head to toe. “You have courage, I’ll grant you that. A remarkable lack of intellect, but courage.
Just like the youth you seek. Very well!” He glanced at Goldman. “He wants to see his friend so much, we’ll let him. Take him to the cells!”
“And the woman?” Goldman inquired.
Wolfe’s blue eyes rested on Sherry’s voluptuous body. “I see she is not without certain… talents,” he announced, mentally undressing her. “I claim her for mine!”
“As you wish, sir,” Goldman said, bowing, disguising his disappointment. He’d hoped Sherry would be offered on the public auction block, but among the special privileges enjoyed by the Mole leader was the prerogative of first rights to any new female.
Hickok quickly caught Sherry’s eye and smiled reassuringly. “Hang in there,” he urged her. “I’m coming for you soon.”
Sherry bravely returned his smile and reached for his hand, but a guard grabbed her and spun her around.
Hickok leaped, diving from the first step, catching the guard across the lower legs and knocking him to the stone floor. He rolled past the guard and jumped to his feet, taking Sherry’s hand in his. “Keep the faith, gorgeous!” he said, winking.
The stock of Goldman’s Winchester slammed into Hickok’s head from behind.
The Warrior dropped to his knees, weaving.
“Bastard!” Sherry angrily shouted, lunging at Goldman and clawing at his eyes. Her nails tore into the soft flesh above his left eye and ripped a chunk away, blood flowing from the wound and covering the eye as, enraged, he shoved her aside.
Goldman cursed and backed off as five of the guards swarmed on Sherry and wrestled her to the floor.