Pony Soldiers

by James Axler

  "Gaia!" Krysty exclaimed, sitting up. "What's going down?"

  "Sounds like some chilling," J.B. said from be­hind the fragile partition of the faded blanket.

  The scream was repeated, rising and rising, higher than seemed possible for any human voice. It scraped at the nerves of the listeners, stretching on and on.

  "Upon my soul!" Doc whispered from the far end of the hut. "Some poor devil is in direst torment."

  "Torture," Lori said, appearing by the door fully dressed. "Heard it starting and getting up to see what is gone on. The sec men."

  Jak was last to rise, struggling with the greatest dif­ficulty to pull on his camouflage jacket. "Who's…?" he began.

  "Lori's right." Ryan tugged on his high, steel-capped combat boots and picked up the G-12 from the side of the bed. "You never forget a sound like that one."

  THE WHOLE OF THE MESCALERO tribe was there, sur­rounding the banked fires. The walls of the canyon seemed to glow with the vivid colors of red and deep yellow, highlighting the flaws and faults in the rocks.

  Above the lingering tastes of the evening's meal, they could all catch the elusive, unforgettable smell of burned flesh.

  Jak was at Ryan's elbow as they walked down the gentle slope, past the area of blackened grass where the oil had been torched.

  "You going 't talk Cuchillo?"

  "I don't know, Jak. You think it's a good idea tak­ing them both along?"

  "Think love her, Ryan."

  "Mebbe, son, mebbe. Talk a little later. Let's find out what's…"

  The words trailed away as the crowd opened up to give the honored visitors a good view of the people's celebration of their victory.

  Cuchillo Oro had his golden knife in his hand, and he waved it above his head to welcome them. "Come, brothers and sisters. Join us in honoring our enemies. Come, son-to-be." He beckoned Jak to sit by him, next to Steps Lightly Moon.

  Krysty grabbed Ryan by the arm. "Leave it, lover. Come back to the hut."

  "Listen to her, One Eye Chills," said the tall sha­man, a towering shadow a little to their right, away from the fires.

  "No. Got to see. It might help make a decision on something."

  The dazzling light of the fires and the movement of the crowd still obscured the center of the attention. The screaming hadn't come again, but there was a constant, muffled moaning and gurgling sound.

  Doc was hesitating, with Lori on his arm. Ryan turned to the old man. "Take Lori and Krysty back to the wickiup, Doc. No reason for 'em to see this."

  There was a nod of agreement and Doc led the two girls away from the fire, back into the shadows be­neath the cliffs. Ryan, with Jak and J.B., stepped for­ward to join the Mescalero.

  Cuchillo stood and embraced them all, hugging them and clapping them on the shoulders. Ryan could easily catch the rancid taste of stale alcohol on the chief's breath. There was a ragged cheer from the watching men and women.

  "Our Anglo brothers honor us. As token of my love for them I give the golden knife of my great fore­father, Cuchillo Oro, to Eyes of Wolf, that he may carry it all his days with us in honor."

  "He'll ask for it back in the morning, when's he's sobered up," Man Whose Eyes See More whispered in Ryan's ear.

  The albino hesitated, then reached out and took the beautiful, antique cinqueda, clasping his long pale fingers around the jewel-studded hilt, feeling the fine balance of the blade. He nodded his thanks to the chief.

  Cuchillo laughed loudly, clapping his hands. "Carry on, my people." He turned to Ryan. "Come, One Eye Chills, and see how the enemies of the people come to pay their price. Two have already joined their spir­its," Cuchillo continued, stumbling and spilling li­quor from the earthenware jug in his hand. Ryan noticed that most of the tribe seemed to be thor­oughly drunk. "The women were clumsy and did their work too fast. But the others will last longer."

  What hung on the two farthest stakes bore little re­semblance to human beings. Ryan could make out where the skulls were and where the limbs had been. But to the casual glance the corpses looked only like ragged carcasses of scorched meat, from some totally unidentifiable creatures.

  Sergeant McLaglen was nearest to them, then came the last two of Cort Strasser's private cavalry. Each helpless man was surrounded by a dozen busy women, ranging in age from young girls to white-haired grandmothers; torturing was mainly women's work.

  J.B. whistled softly through his teeth, speaking quietly to Ryan. "This fair turns my stomach. I'll be in the hut if you need me." He half turned, then came back, gripping Ryan's arm just above the elbow with fingers as tight as steel clamps. "Don't try to come between them on this. Look around. One wrong word and we're all dead. Or tied along those poor bastards. Let it be, Ryan. For tonight."

  The Armorer spun on his heel and strode away from the fires. Some of the warriors jeered him, calling him a weak woman, but J.B. ignored them.

  Ryan could feel that Jak was trembling. "Stay real careful, kid," he said, knowing that J.B.'s warning had been timely. Any attempt to interrupt the Apaches at their pleasure would probably result in their being instantly overwhelmed and butchered.

  "Want go, Ryan," Jak said. "Throw up soon. This real bad. Worse than I've… Got to go."

  The boy also swung around, darting quickly up the hill after the retreating figure of the little Armorer. The golden knife glittered in his belt. Steps Lightly Moon looked as if she wanted to go after him, but her father stopped her.

  "Why do your friends leave?" he asked Ryan. "Do they wish to insult the people? "

  "Of course not, Cuchillo Oro," Ryan replied. "They are very tired, and they do not wish to intrude on the sport of the people."

  Breath stirred his ear and he barely caught the faint whisper of the shaman. "Wise answer, my brother. It keeps your heart within your body and your eyes in their sockets."

  "But you will watch, One Eye Chills?"

  "Of course, Cuchillo Oro. I am honored."

  The chief laughed delightedly, patting his daughter on the cheek. "Go, Steps Lightly Moon. Show the old friend of your husband-to-be of your skill in giving honor to an enemy."

  The girl giggled, dropping a hasty curtsy to her fa­ther and to Ryan. She drew a small flensing knife from her belt and ran to the nearest captive.

  The next two hours passed for Ryan in a blur of re­vulsion.

  The women had used the living flesh of the first sec man to demonstrate their skill at sewing and embroi­dering beads. As he had strained against the ropes, they had covered the skin of his chest, upper arms and thighs with intricate patterns, piercing his genitals hundreds of times with the small needles as they sewed on dozens of tiny colored plastic beads.

  The trooper's tongue had been hacked off and his mouth filled with suffocating wads of cloth to muffle his screams. To stop him from trying to claw at the woman, they had simply cut off all his fingers and thumbs, cauterizing the bleeding stumps with burn­ing twigs from the fire.

  When one of them completed a particularly attrac­tive piece of sewing all of the women would stop and praise it, giggling with delight. One of the older women kept rubbing her hands over the beads, tug­ging at them, causing the wretched prisoner the most exquisite agony.

  Once there was no more flesh uncovered, Cuchillo Oro gave them his permission to kill the man. Ryan watched, face set like granite, as Steps Lightly Moon begged for the honor. Her father smiled benevo­lently.

  She began to dance in front of the man, caressing her breasts through her dress, lifting it to show him her smooth, bronzed thighs, touching herself and smiling as she moved closer to him. Ryan fought to steady his own breathing as he saw the sec man, despite the hor­ror of his own situation, begin to show visible signs of arousal. The pain as the sewn threads tightened was beyond imagination.

  Steps Lightly Moon laughed out loud, the rest of the watching women cackling with her, mocking the doomed man. The girl drew her little knife again, lift­ing her hand to touch it to the wide, staring eyes of the cavalry
man. She called to two of the women to come and hold his head steady while she probed with the point of the knife, lifting both eyes from their sock­ets. Ryan thought of the whispered warning of the shaman, feeling his gorge rising at the way the Apaches were taking such gloating pleasure in the de­struction of a human being. Whatever the cause, it was too much.

  Ryan felt the arm of Cuchillo Oro sprawl across his shoulders, and he barely won the battle not to pull away in revulsion.

  "I would have made their suffering longer, my friend. Perhaps we keep the three-stripe man for that. We blind him and cut out his tongue. Cut off his ears and nose. Hack away his balls and cock but take care to stop him bleeding to death. Hamstring him by cut­ting tendons at knees and elbows. Then everyone in the tribe can use him for what they wish. He can be beast to carry and be whipped. Or target for chil­dren's arrows. We can use him for seat or for… for many other things. He can live for our laughter for many moons if we care for him."

  Cuchillo's voice was drunkenly loud, and Ryan saw that Sergeant McLaglen had heard him. The non-com's body streamed with drying blood from dozens of small cuts, but apart from that he wasn't harmed. He wasn't even gagged. His eyes met Ryan's eye, filled with a mute appeal.

  Ryan looked away.

  Steps Lightly Moon had just won the praise of her father for finally killing the sec man she had been tor­turing. She had taken a barbed hunting arrow, insert­ing it, to the helpless sniggers of the women, between the trooper's spread thighs. She pushed it an inch or so higher, then twisted it and pulled it out. The man wrenched so hard at the ropes that for a moment it seemed he would break free. But the girl was quicker than the rest, ramming the long arrow its length into the man, clear to the flights. The white man shud­dered once and died.

  After innumerable humiliating and painful tor­tures, the second sec man was given a rapid and spec­tacular passing. The women made dozens upon dozens of narrow cuts, all over his body, each one sliced down to form a tiny pocket. From his forehead, over his cheeks and neck, across his chest and stomach, around his penis and buttocks, all the way to his ankles. Then, each cut was carefully filled with coarse grains of black powder from old rifle cartridges.

  A wizened woman took a burning branch from the fire and handed it to Cuchillo Oro, who nearly dropped it. Recovering, he offered the torch to Ryan. "Send him to his maker below the earth, my brother."

  "No thanks, Cuchillo Oro. You won the victory. You chill him."

  It had been a close call, straining Ryan's buried vein of uncontrollable rage. For a moment his hand had reached for the torch, wanting to thrust it into the chief's face.

  The Mescalero stood up, staggering a little, waving the torch to and fro to make it burn more brightly. He approached the bound man, who slumped in the ropes. The suffering and the terror had caused the sec man to lose control of both his bowels and his blad­der.

  "Nearly done, Harry, me bucko!" McLaglen yelled, struggling to turn his head.

  The flaming branch was passed quickly across the surface of the trooper's body, igniting the pockets of black powder. Every inch of flesh exploded in glow­ing fire, the night filling with the overpowering stench of cordite and roasted meat. Blackened and smoking, the body of the sec man jerked convulsively, before it stopped and finally remained still.

  There was a wave of cheering from the Indians, and Cuchillo passed a mug of fiery liquor to Ryan, urging him to drink. Fighting the desire to vomit, Ryan drained three mouthfuls, feeling the alcohol burn its way down his throat into his stomach.

  "Now we drink more," Cuchillo shouted, holding out the mug for one of the women to refill.

  "I'm gut-weary, Chief," Ryan said, standing up. "Gotta hit the bed."

  "Sure, sure you have. Last of the pony soldiers'll be there tomorrow for some more laughing and all…and all that. Sleep well, my brother."

  "Yeah, and you," Ryan muttered, picking his way between the Mescalero toward the wickiup. As he neared it he was suddenly aware of the shaman again at his elbow.

  "You did well. There are times when it is harder to sit still than to stand and fight."

  Ryan paused, looking up at the serious face of the wise man, trying to see the eyes behind the glasses. "Yeah. Wouldn't have saved those poor sons of bitches. And it'd have done for all of us."

  "Yes. It is as well you seek to know that this has al­ways been their way. Always the Apache has suffered at the hands of the others. Cruelty breeds cruelty, One Eye Chills."

  "The name is Ryan Cawdor, and don't forget it. I know you speak the truth, Man Whose Eyes See More. But that sure as hell doesn't make me like it any more."

  "No. May your night be good, my brother."

  "Sure." He turned toward the shadowy entrance of the wickiup.

  "Ryan."

  "What?"

  "I see your heart. Take care and move early and fast."

  Ryan nodded slowly, trying to mask his surprise. "I'll do that. We won't meet again, my brother. I thank you for everything."

  The shaman didn't reply, staring at Ryan for a moment, then moving silently down the hill. The last Ryan saw of him was the distant gleam of the torture fires reflected off the mirrored glasses.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THE DAWN WIND DROVE thin gray skeins of smoke around the bowl of the canyon from the embers of the cooking and torture fires of the long night. The can­vas flap across the front of one of the wickiups flut­tered, where it hadn't been properly laced shut by one of the drunken occupants.

  Ryan led his five friends down the slope from their hut, toward the five stark torture stakes. Four of the five carried a corpse. The fifth one had the naked body of Sergeant Sean McLaglen tied tightly to it. His head was sunk on his chest, and the whole of his torso was covered with black threads of blood. Since Ryan had seen him, someone had smashed both of the sec man's knees, so that they were swollen and bloody, with sharp bone showing whitely through. A heavy picket iron had also been hammered into the wood, through the soft skin of McLaglen's genitals.

  "He's gone," J.B. said.

  "No, I think not. See. His chest is still rising and falling." Doc looked around in disgust. "By the three Kennedys, but the Lord Almighty should send a mur­rain upon this place. They are as bad as Strasser and his brood."

  Though the old man kept his voice quiet, it was enough to drag the noncom back into a sort of con­sciousness. His mouth was filled with a crude hemp gag, but the eyes flickered open, turning to where Ryan and the other five stood, looking at him. They carried their blasters with them, as well as canteens of water and some dried food.

  Krysty squeezed Ryan's hand. "You can't leave him, lover. You can't."

  "Can't take with us," Jak whispered, face set like alabaster.

  "It's true," Ryan agreed. "Not with his legs broke like that. And the man's near done."

  "You said they threatened to keep him alive for weeks. Last night, when you told us all that happened here. You said what Cuchillo boasted they could do to their prisoner."

  "Yeah, I know, Krysty. I know."

  "Make a noise and we wake the camp. Only their drinking last night gives us a chance," J.B. said. "Fire a blaster and we're all chilled meat."

  McLaglen was moving his head slowly from side to side, listening to their quiet words, blinking his eyes as if he were trying to send a message to Ryan.

  "Take his gag out, Jak."

  "But, Ryan, he'd killed us if he could," Lori pro­tested.

  "Do it, Jak," Ryan ordered. "Time's wasting. Just do it."

  Fresh blood gushed out, following the removal of the tight coil of rope. The noncom breathed, deep and slow, several times, the sound rattling harshly in his chest. His mouth opened and closed, struggling for a faint, croaking word.

  "What's he say?" Lori whispered.

  "Water," Doc replied. "Poor wretch's asking for water."

  Ryan uncorked his own canteen, holding it care­fully to the man's bruised lips, watching him slurp a couple of mouthfuls.

&nb
sp; "No more, Ryan," McLaglen wheezed. "Sure an' it'd be a terrible waste, seeing as how I'm done for."

  "Can't take you."

  "Wouldn't… Oh, that nail in me balls is… Wouldn't want you to, Ryan, my bucko. But you could do me the one favor, if you've a mind, that is."

  "Have to be a knife," Ryan said quietly.

  "Think that worries me?" McLaglen asked, man­aging a crooked, wry grin. "Just do it now. And me thanks to you. Do it, Ryan."

  The hilt of the long panga was cool to Ryan's fin­gers as he drew it from the sheath. The light in the bottom of the canyon was growing stronger, and he knew that time wasn't on their side if they were to get away safely.

  He didn't waste words on the stricken man, know­ing that he had probably earned his chilling. But no man deserved the kind of chilling handed out by the women of the Mescalero.

  The steel thunked into the side of McLaglen's throat, opening the big artery beneath the ear, releas­ing a gushing flood of bright blood that patterned and vanished into the dust. Ryan had deliberately tried to pull the blow, not wanting to sever McLaglen's head from his body, but the edge was keen and it jarred into the thoracic vertebrae. The man's mouth opened once more, and it looked as if he were trying to say some­thing. But there was no sound, and in less than thirty seconds he was dead.

  Ryan stooped and cleaned the blade in the warm ashes of one of the fires, wiping it on the earth. He resheathed it and turned to face his friends.

  "That's the ending. Let's get the horses and quit this place."

  But it wasn't quite the ending.

  Nobody was stirring in the rancheria as they untied five animals from the picket line, not bothering to saddle them. They contented themselves with a rope bridle and a blanket thrown over each pony's back.

  Ryan began to lead them between the wickiups, but stopped at a quiet word from Jak.

  "What is it?"

  "Something got to do. Something got I don't want keep."

  "What?" Ryan asked, seeing the albino reach and draw something from the back of his belt, something that gleamed richly in the roseate light of the full dawn. "Ah, the gold knife."