Erik’s anger blazed and in that first explosive moment when the rage took hold, he forgot caution, dismounted and ran towards the girl on the riverbank, calling her name with a catch in his voice. She turned her head slowly, just a little and he looked into her glazed, pain-wracked eyes. Erik swore in his native Danish as he whipped out his Bowie knife and lifted the blade towards the thongs binding her wrists.
A rifle shot cracked and the knife spun from his hand, falling to the ground at the base of the sapling, one half of the brass hilt shot away. He snatched his numbed hand back and then instinctively dropped it towards his gunbelt as he spun around. The rifle fired again and the lead slammed into his holstered Colt. Erik staggered under the impact and fell to one knee.
Then Garrett and Bodine stepped out of the brush, the outlaw boss holding a smoking rifle in his hands. Erik started to lunge up and Garrett punched a bullet into the ground at his feet. But it only stopped the Viking momentarily. Then he continued his rush forward with a wild, choked yell, clawed hands reaching out for Bodine.
The big hunter grinned and drew his Bowie knife. He slashed at Erik’s hands and the blade sliced open the flesh on the back of Erik’s right hand. He ignored the pain, though he snatched the hand back swiftly, ducked under the next slash of the blade and drove the point of his shoulder into Bodine’s midriff.
The force of his charge carried the big hunter backwards and Erik hammered at his body, caught the knife hand and butted the top of his head into Bodine’s face. The blood spurted from the hunter’s nose and he cursed wildly, fighting to get his knife hand free. Erik snapped a knee up into his groin and Bodine gagged, his knees buckling. The Viking worked on his knife hand, trying to get the blade free.
Garrett stepped in and swung the rifle butt. But Erik was in too close to Bodine and the outlaw couldn’t hit him properly. The butt skidded off his head and Erik fell to one knee, dazed. He put down his bleeding hand to steady himself against the ground and Bodine stomped on it. As Erik reared back, yelling, Garrett swung the rifle butt up and caught him across the side of the head. He was stretched out on the riverbank near the sapling where the half-conscious girl watched, her face weary with the pain of the torture she had suffered.
Bodine walked forward and kicked Erik in the side several times, the last driving boot rolling him into the edge of the river. Then he stooped, grabbed the Viking’s shirt and heaved him up onto the bank. He yanked out the six-gun and flung it into the brush. He twisted his fingers in Erik’s hair and slammed his face into the ground. As he straightened, breathing hard, eyes mad with a lust to kill, he saw Garrett ripping the concho-studded band from Erik’s leather hat.
Garrett tore the conchos from the band, turning each over and examining it intently. His face brightened when he came to the fourth one; an oval with a series of diamonds around the border.
“Here it is,” he exclaimed. “Directions how to locate the Matador loot.” He grinned at Bodine. “Well, he’s all yours now, Hank. What you gonna do with him?”
Bodine wiped blood from his nostrils as he looked down at the moaning, battered Viking.
“I got somethin’ special in mind for this sidewinder. Which is why I killed that buffler first thing this mornin’ and skinned it. Watch him while I get the hide, Matt.”
When Bodine returned, dragging the bloody, reeking hide that flopped about on its own folds, Erik was sitting up on the mound, holding his head in his hands, trying to clear it. Matt Garrett kept him covered with the rifle. Erik lifted his face when Bodine came back and he watched as the hunter unfolded the buffalo hide with the hair side uppermost.
The Viking’s eyes travelled to the Indian girl and she turned her head painfully a little so that she could see what Bodine was doing. She gave a small cry and said something in Paiute. Blue Dove struggled at the bonds on her wrists but the movements only made the wounds bleed more.
“Easy, Blue Dove,” the Viking called, starting to get up but falling back as Garrett’s rifle barrel poked him roughly in the chest. “What is it?”
“Shut up, Vikin’,” snarled Bodine, straightening and sneering as he wiped bloody hands on his trousers. “Get on your feet and come over here.”
Erik hesitated but the rifle barrel dug into his side and the blade foresight ripped at his armpit. He stumbled to his feet looking at the bleeding Indian girl all the time. Then he set his dangerous gaze on Bodine.
“Now that you have me, would you allow the girl to go?” he asked, but without hope.
Bodine’s grin widened.
“Not yet a spell, mister. Lie down on that nice soft buffler hide.”
“What?” asked the Viking, startled. Then Bodine kicked him behind the knees. His legs folded and he fell forward.
“Clip him,” Bodine snapped and Erik threw up an arm instinctively as Garrett’s rifle butt swung at his head. It smashed his guard aside and clipped him on top of the head. He fell back, his eyes rolling.
Bodine knelt swiftly, whistling softly and happily through his teeth as he swiftly rolled the thick buffalo hide around the Viking. He walked into the brush and returned with strips of rawhide. He tied them around the human bundle every few inches until it resembled a large papoose carrier. The thick hair of the hide almost covered Erik’s face and he groaned as he came out of his daze.
But then the world spun wildly as Bodine kicked the bundle and rolled it into the water at the river’s edge. Erik gulped and gagged as he was submerged. He bobbed to the surface but Bodine stood beside the bundle now and shoved down with all his weight. Erik was thrust underwater again and he tried to kick and struggle but was totally helpless. He could barely move his toes and fingers.
Then he broke surface and he retched as he gasped for air.
He caught a glimpse of Bodine’s snarling face and the hunter shoved him under the water again and held the bundle down.
Erik was drowning; on the verge of losing consciousness. Bodine finally eased up the pressure and hauled the dripping, soaking bundle out onto the bank. Panting and straining, the buffalo hunter got the bundle away from the river and manhandled it into the sunlight, spinning it and letting it fall roughly so that the back of Erik’s head struck the ground.
The Indian girl’s cries had faded now and she was sobbing quietly, straining to see what Bodine was doing.
The big hunter straightened, finally satisfied with the position of the bundle of hide and its human cargo. He had turned the cocoon so that Erik was parallel with the riverbank. The Viking had only to turn his head to see Blue Dove as she struggled weakly at the sapling, writhing, moaning and muttering in her own language.
Bodine was panting but he was still grinning. He knelt and twisted his fingers in Erik’s hair, forcing his head around so that he looked directly at the girl.
“Take a good look, Viking,” Bodine gasped. “Take one helluva good look because that’s the best condition you’re gonna see her in.”
He hit Erik in the mouth and stood up, towering above the helpless man.
“Let her go, damn you, Bodine,” he yelled. “Do what you like to me. She’s served her purpose. You got me, now you can let her go.”
Bodine shook his head.
“Aw, no, you’re wrong, Vikin’. She ain’t served her purpose yet. She’s gonna do a lot of things for me—and you—yet. You’re gonna die a hundred times over lyin’ there all helpless like that, while me and Garrett have us a little fun. It’s gonna be quite a while before that Injun gal’s out of her misery, Vikin’. And it’s gonna be even longer before you’re out of yours.” He knelt again, twisted up a handful of Erik’s hair and glared down into his face. “You dunno yet what’s gonna happen to you, do you? See, this hide’s fresh and it’s been soaked well in the river. And it’s bound up with strips of rawhide, which is also wet. Now when the sun begins to dry that rawhide it’s gonna start to shrink and contract. The buffler skin’ll begin to go iron-hard, too, but first it’ll mould itself to your body, so that as the rawhide tightens, i
t’ll crush in on you like it’s some kind of vice, snappin’ your bones one by one. Oh, yeah: I forgot the ants. They’ll come in their thousands, after the meat and fat on the outside of the hide, but they’ll get inside, too, and they’ll find livin’ meat and they’ll start to feed on you. Likely your eyes and inside your nostrils’ll go first as that’s nice and tender for the ants, juicy, I guess you could say.” He laughed and patted Erik almost affectionately on the blood-streaked face as he stood up. “Yeah, you’ll take a long, long time to die, Vikin’, and all the time you’ll be rememberin’ what happened to the Injun gal. Wouldn’t be surprised if it drives you right out of your head.”
He stood up, still grinning and began to undo the heavy buckled belt around his middle. Then he walked slowly across towards the naked girl, drawing the heavy leather band through his fingers.
He was whistling softly between his teeth. Erik struggled insanely but could barely move a muscle.
Ten – Tejano
Fargo put his mount up alongside Yancey’s as they started through the brush and reached out to grab the Enforcer’s arm, slowing him. Richards, following, swore as he had to swerve his horse abruptly.
“River ain’t far ahead,” the old buffalo hunter told Yancey. “There’s some places along the bank would make fine ambushes.”
Yancey nodded. “All right, Smoky. You lead on. Slow and easy. But follow that trail; don’t veer away from it yet a spell.”
The hunter edged his mount past Yancey and led the way along the trail through the brush. The three riders had their rifles out and were alert for trouble.
But they reached the riverbank without incident and knew that there would be no ambush for them.
They saw the girl first, naked, bloody, abused, sprawled half-in and half-out of the river, the signs of brutality plain on her tortured body. Fargo was first to dismount and he ran to Blue Dove, pulling her out of the water and wincing at her injuries.
“She’s dead,” he said and then froze, seeing the roll of buffalo hide and the constricting bands of rawhide.
It had been placed in the sun, at the edge of the brush, and had not been apparent to Yancey and Richards; their attention had been on the girl.
Fargo leapt to his feet and ran towards the hide bundle, his Bowie knife flashing into his hand. Yancey spun in that direction, spotted the hide and then saw the back of Erik’s head protruding from the end. The straw-colored hair was matted with blood and dirt. Yancey leapt down and ran to join Fargo as the hunter knelt and began to saw at the hardening rawhide. Erik appeared to be unconscious, his face congested, showing bruises and cuts. The hide was barely damp—and iron hard.
“His gizzard’ll be squashed out of his ears if we don’t get him out mighty fast,” panted Fargo, sawing and hacking at the tough rawhide. “Been here a few hours looks like. It’s constricted considerable—”
Yancey had his own hunting knife out and he hacked at the rawhide, pushing the blade under the strands and using an upward pressure. He cut through one and moved to the next. Fargo changed his method so that he, too, was cutting with upwards pressure and the strands began to snap one by one. When they were all cut, they grabbed the edge of the hide and lifted. It resisted their efforts, like sheet steel.
“Get down here and lend a hand, damn it,” Yancey yelled at Richards who was still sitting his horse.
The sheriff dismounted unhurriedly and walked across, still holding his rifle. He rammed the barrel in under the flap that the other two were straining to hold and levered. The hide opened and started to split. It folded outwards along the crack with a splintering sound. Yancey and Fargo used their boots along the break to kick it away, making an opening for Richards’ rifle barrel. Then, all three straining together, they peeled away another foot or so. After that, they had to roll Erik over so they could work on the rest of the hide. He was breathing slowly, his face still bloated, with mouth open and eyes closed.
It took their combined efforts to remove the hardened buffalo hide, bit by bit, though the inner layers were still wet and not so hard. Finally they were able to lift the young Viking out and they laid him on the grass.
His flesh had been compressed and wrinkled and deeply marked by the shrinking hide, but there were no bones broken. He was trying to move his bloodless arms and hands but moaned aloud at the pain it caused him. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared unseeingly at the three men gathered around him.
“Erik?” Yancey said quietly, touching him on the shoulder lightly. “He’s not out of it yet. We better get the circulation going in his arms and legs. Start rubbin’.”
Fargo began to work on Erik’s left arm while Yancey briskly rubbed his right. The Enforcer looked up coldly at Richards.
“Start on his legs.”
“Hell with you, Bannerman. I don’t care whether he lives or dies.”
Yancey’s eyes narrowed. He continued to massage Erik’s arm as he spoke to Richards in icy tones.
“Start on his legs, or you’ll damn well find out what it’s like to be crushed inside one of those hides yourself. That’s a promise, mister.”
Richards’ lips clamped together and he flushed. But, after a token hesitation, he set aside his rifle and knelt and began to rub Erik’s thighs.
It took them nearly half an hour before they brought the young Viking completely around and Erik sat up, rubbing at his ribs, twisting his head gently on his shoulders, obviously a mass of aches and pains. He stared at the three men and nodded to Yancey but it was obvious that his mind was not yet registering fully.
“How you feel, Erik?” Yancey asked.
He replied in Danish and, when he saw the blank faces of the others, he frowned and, with an obvious effort said, in English: “I am very sore—Ah! Yancey, my friend. What are you doing here? And Smoky. Uh—Sheriff—Richards, isn’t it?”
The sheriff nodded curtly and rubbed unthinkingly at his battered, misshapen nose. Then Erik twisted his head sharply, immediately clapping a hand to his neck as it clicked audibly, wincing in pain, staring at the sapling with the dangling rawhide thongs.
He lowered his gaze to the violated body of the dead girl and there was an animal sound deep in his throat as he started to crawl towards her. Yancey put out a hand to stop him but the Viking smashed it aside, his arms collapsing under him and his face pushing into the ground. He heaved up again and crawled to Blue Dove, leaning over her and looking into her face, the bear claws around his neck dangling down and touching her bruised and lacerated flesh.
Erik sat there as the three men watched silently, and stroked the midnight-blue hair, now matted with blood and mud. After a long time, he crawled over to some thick grass near the base of the sapling and rummaged around, finally coming up with his Bowie knife. He slipped it awkwardly into the sheath at his belt and turned to look at the others.
His face was a rocky mask.
“Where is Bodine? And Garrett?” he asked hoarsely.
“Dunno where they went, son,” Fargo told him quietly.
Richards gestured to his right.
“Some tracks there. Dunno how far they go, but if they keep on in that direction, they’ll end up in Bowie.”
Erik nodded slowly.
“Yes. They mentioned Bowie. Garrett took the hatband with the conchos. One of them tells where the Matador bank money is hidden.” He started to get up, slipped, and had to use the sapling to pull himself up fully. Once on his feet, his legs appeared rubbery, but he leaned against the sapling.
“I will bury her and then I will go after them. They made me watch while they tortured her. Violated her. I have to kill them. Will you lend me your horse, Yancey. They seem to have taken mine.”
Yancey shook his head and Erik’s face hardened even more.
“No. I’m coming with you. No arguments. You don’t even have a gun. You can’t go up against a couple of snakes like that alone.” Yancey turned to Richards. “You’ll lend Erik your horse, won’t you?”
“Like hell.”
Erik smiled faintly and stepped over beside the hunter on shaky legs. He put up a hand an squeezed the old man’s shoulder.
“Muchas gracias, amigo. You have been a good friend, Smoky. We may not meet again, but I will never forget you or all you’ve done.”
“We’ll meet again,” Fargo said. “And listen, I know what you’ve got in mind. But you watch Bodine. He’s one of the best Bowie men around and he’s had a lot more experience with a blade than you. His favorite stroke is the gut-ripper, comin’ up from crotch to brisket, and he’s mighty fast with the backhand slash.”
Erik nodded soberly.
“Thanks, Smoky.” He squeezed the old man’s shoulder again, wanting to grip hands with him, but not wanting to risk Richards trying anything while Fargo was diverted.
Even so, Erik inadvertently walked between the sheriff and the hunter and Yancey yelled a warning as Richards brought up his rifle, using that circular, jerking, gun-spin to cock and load before it settled into his hand. Yancey’s right hand palmed up his Colt and he fired from the hip simultaneously with Richards.
Fargo used the heavy barrel of the Sharps to thrust the Viking aside and, as Erik sprawled, the buffalo hunter staggered under the impact of lead and went down. Richards spun as Yancey’s bullet slammed into him and he bared his teeth, levering again, trying to bring his rifle barrel up in line with the Enforcer. Yancey dropped hammer and Richards was lifted off the ground. He dropped hard, sprawled like a crucifix, rifle flying from lifeless fingers.
Erik ignored the man, and knelt swiftly beside Fargo. The buffalo hunter lay with his right hand clawed into his chest, the fingers trying vainly to hold back the flow of blood. A trickle of crimson showed at the corner of his mouth and Erik knew he was lung-shot. He gripped the hunter’s hand hard.
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