Pony Soldiers

by James Axler

  "Don't want it," the boy insisted, seeing that Ryan was thinking of arguing with him. "Not now. Not ever."

  Jak handed his bridle to J.B., taking the few steps that brought him to the edge of the deep pool beneath the sky-scraping cliffs. He held the cinqueda by the rough, gem-studded hilt, weighing it in his hand for a moment.

  "Hell of a waste," the Armorer breathed.

  "Man's got to do what a man's got to do," Doc said. "There are some things that a man can't ride around."

  "Pearls of wisdom, Doc." Krysty smiled.

  But all of them were watching Jak. He threw the knife, underhand, pitching it high into the air. For several beats of the heart the golden dagger seemed to hang suspended in the air, catching the sharp rays of the morning sun before it toppled down, plummeting into the lake with only the barest sound. The ripples had vanished before they reached the shore..

  "Now we can go," Jak said.

  As they passed the last of the wickiups, a tiny na­ked boy came toddling out, blinking and rubbing his eyes, staring up at the Anglos as they walked past him. Krysty stopped and blew him a kiss. He gave them a bubbling, shy smile and pattered back into the hut.

  The companions had no more alarms, passing through the narrow jaws of the canyon. They skirted the pile of draggled corpses of the slaughtered sec men, disturbing some coyotes that were tearing at the bodies.

  Now it was safe to mount their horses and begin the journey to the hidden redoubt and the gateway that would transport them from the baking deserts of New Mexico.

  THERE WAS NO PURSUIT. When they eventually began the long climb toward the ruined blacktop and the concealed fortress, there was no giveaway column of dust to reveal vengeful Apaches on their trail.

  The sun was high in a clear, cloudless sky, and the air was filled again with the mixed scents of sage­brush and mesquite. Across the far side of the valley, a half mile or more away, a bird of prey rose suddenly into the air, winging upward, as if something had dis­turbed it.

  The contours of the winding road kept them out of sight of the plateau for most of the time, but they eventually emerged in front of the main gates into the redoubt. Ryan paused, slipping from the back of his horse, slapping it on the flanks and letting it go free. The others followed suit, stretching after the ride. Ryan made his way to the edge of the drop and looked out across the limitless expanse of the desert. At his lapel the tiny rad counter was beginning to cheep its warning to him, the counter well past the orange, shading into the red.

  The eagle on the far side of the valley came floating toward where Ryan guessed it had a nest. But once again it veered sharply away, as if frightened by something. Or someone.

  Ryan's one good eye was as sharp as that of any normal man, and it caught the glint of light on the cliffs opposite.

  "Down! Now!" he yelled, grabbing Krysty by the wrist and tugging her to the rocky earth outside the redoubt.

  The snap of the bullet smashed against the stone wall, kicking splinters over the group as they flat­tened themselves behind the cover. The boom of the blaster came a second or so later, the sound echoing from cliff to cliff, back and forth across the valley.

  J.B. articulated what Ryan had already guessed. "Russian rifle. Recognize that noise."

  "Samozaridnyia Vintovka Dragunova," Ryan said. "Course. That murderous son of a bitch Strasser got here first."

  "He can't get in the redoubt," Krysty offered. "Once we get inside the gates we're safe. And they're covered from him by that outcrop."

  It was true, Ryan realized, glancing behind them. Strasser hadn't wasted another shot from his sniper's rifle. He must have seen by now that he'd missed his one and only chance of killing Ryan. If they kept low they could get inside the redoubt without ever coming under his fire again.

  They all crawled slowly to the doors, finally being able to stand while the entry code was punched in. Lori went inside first, followed by Krysty, then Doc and Jak. J.B. hesitated, waiting for Ryan.

  "Coming?"

  "Sure. Just wishing that I'd been able to chill that triple-crazy butcher."

  "That was yesterday. There's plenty of tomorrows to come."

  They both heard the voice, faint, carried to them on the light breeze. It was calling Ryan's name, over and over.

  "Let's go in," J.B. urged. "Ignore him, Ryan. Come on."

  "Yeah, you're right," he agreed. As he went inside the vast mausoleum of the redoubt the last sound he heard before the doors closed was Cort Strasser shouting his name. Again and again. The words merging until it became a single crazed howl of end­less red-eyed hatred.

  They moved quickly through the hot spot that the redoubt had become, retracing their steps until they reached the door that led through to the main mat-trans chamber. Jak was in the lead and pushed at the handle.

  The opening door revealed the gaping muzzle of a .50-caliber Sharps buffalo rifle, pointing in their direction.

  "Greetings," said Man Whose Eyes See More.

  Epilogue

  THE SHAMAN WAS WEARING the same clothes that he'd been sporting when they first met him: the waistcoat of flowered brocade with the soft gleam of mother-of-pearl on the buttons; a striped shirt and a cravat of a brilliant scarlet that rivaled Krysty's hair; the silver claw stickpin with the jewel missing. The kerchief in the pocket of the vest was a pale cherry-red. The pants were frayed seersucker with one leg missing. His feet were bare and dusty.

  The mirrored glasses reflected their faces, staring at the vastly tall shaman.

  "How did… ?" Ryan began.

  "If you do not believe, then there is nothing I could say to you. If you do believe in the wisdom of other realities, then you would not need an explanation. I knew. I knew last night. I told you, Ryan, did I not?"

  "Yeah. You did. And now you want to come with us?"

  Man Whose Eyes See More smiled.

  THE ARMORED GLASS WALLS of the gateway chamber were a vivid golden yellow. The group of friends ranged themselves around the floor, avoiding the metal disks.

  Ryan stood by the main door control, ready to send them speeding on their next journey. He noticed that Jak looked tired and depressed, but there was noth­ing he could say to cheer him. Only time would do that.

  "Ready?"

  Krysty was sitting next to the shaman, who had drawn up his angular knees and rested his chin on them. She shuffled uncomfortably and reached be­hind her. She took something out of the back pocket of her pants and held it out to Man Whose Eyes See More.

  It was the tiny, polished black stone that she'd found in the ghost town. Apache tears.

  Ryan closed the gateway door.