Deadlands: For a Few Dead Guys More

by Shane Lacy Hensley

  He slowed and stopped as he was halfway down the hill, for he could no longer hear any of the night sounds. Nothing beyond the wind, his own rustling in the grass, and the distant songs of coyotes. He swung his head slowly from side to side as the turtle would, straining his eyes and ears for danger. If there was, it was nothing he could see or hear. With the wind at his back, it was nothing he could smell. When he continued forward, he did so at the turtle's pace.

  Howls Softly stopped near the base of the hill and kept as still as he could. The wind had shifted to his left as he neared the bottom and its soft whisper was now the only sound in his ears. Even the coyotes had ceased their distant singing.

  The light of the fire was dim but it was enough to give him an idea of how many were camped here. He counted eight dark forms. Eight, with one fire?

  His eyes were drawn to a rifle shoved bayonet-first into the ground with a coat draped over the butt. The coat was quite dark, but he could make out a row of bright metallic buttons and three broad chevrons, pointing down, stitched to each arm.

  Union. From the looks of it, some kind of forward patrol. But where were the two soldiers on watch? And where were their horses? He could smell the stench of their droppings from here, but he could make out none of them in the darkness.

  The clouds reluctantly released their grasp on the moon. Freed to share its light with the earth once more, it did so, slowly turning the grayish darkness to a stark contrast of pale silvery-blue and black shadow. He blinked as occupants of the camp became visible. He stared, uncomprehending.

  A gasp escaped him before he could stop himself. His eyes darted from side to side, then returned to the camp. His breathing was now louder than the wind's. He stood on wobbling legs and staggered back, nearly tripping himself. He forced his eyes closed, spun around, and ran as fast as his aching legs would take him.

  He kept his head down and made himself stare at the ground in front of him, as though the sea of grass at his feet could somehow wash the image from his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut once more, trying to find solace in darkness. He found none. The burning in his legs eased slightly as he reached the top of the hill.

  "Hey, what in-"

  He opened his eyes to see a very startled face before he slammed into the body to whom it was attached. The two of them tumbled to the ground and rolled down the hill. Something very hard slammed into his head and the night fell away to darkness.

  ***

  The sky was the color of fire, orange-red shimmers playing across blood-red clouds. The rising sun-or was it setting?— nearly touched the horizon, glaring at everything laid before it. The air itself was hot and very dry.

  Howls Softly slowly stood, staring at his surroundings with confusion and a little trepidation. He was sitting on a hill-was it the same hill?—but his clothes weren't dirty. In fact, they weren't his clothes. They were something old Laughing Face would have worn years ago. He stared down at himself, then ran his hands through his hair, feeling his head for the bump he knew should be there. Although surprised when he couldn't find it, he was shocked to realize that his long hair, pulled back and tied off, was cropped at the base of his neck. What was happening? Who had done this to him?

  A scream pierced the air. He froze, listening. It came once more from behind him, somewhere beyond the top of this hill. He spun and hurried up the soft slope, feeling at his hip for the knife that, to his dismay, wasn't there. He cursed the sky, the sun, his luck, and the traveler who had seen fit to trade his clothes and cut his hair. He was still afraid but now he felt a little better.

  He crested the hill at a full run but when he saw what lay before him he came to a dead stop. At the base of the hill there was no sign of the Union camp, nor of the horrors he'd seen within. Instead he saw a different kind of horror.

  A dirt-packed road lazily wound its way through the hills. People were at camp on both sides of the road as far as he could see in either direction. His people, he realized, recognizing some of the markings and faces. Some were clothed in a more traditional manner, but most of the men were dressed in clothes such as his, while most of the women wore gowns. He'd never seen this many Cherokee in one place, not even at the Confederation gatherings.

  Amongst the distant forms walked the occasional soldier clad in blue. He watched one soldier spit on a young Cherokee as he walked by The boy didn't react, but the soldier cracked the butt of his rifle into the Cherokee's knee. The boy howled and began to cry as the soldier moved on. None of the Cherokee nearby did anything.

  "Nunna daul Tsuny," he whispered, his eyes wide. "This isn't...it's not—"

  He heard the scream again. Further down the road he saw four soldiers in blue dragging a struggling Cherokee girl to a small tent. As she opened her mouth to scream once more, one of the soldiers punched her in the stomach. She doubled over in pain as they pulled her inside.

  His stomach clenched and he found himself running down the hill, unsure of what he should do, but certain that he needed to do something. He ran as fast as he could but he still felt slower than the turtle. It seemed as though the road crept closer, but it was still so far away.

  As he ran he saw the soldiers along the road watching him, all of them suddenly very still. It was unsettling to feel their collective stare, but none of them raised their rifles and shot at him, so Howls Softly ignored them and focused on the tent. Over the sound of his breathing and the soft thud of tall grass crushed beneath his feet he heard a terrible groaning, the pain and fear thick in her voice. His jaw clenched and he forced himself to run faster.

  Finally he reached the road, leaping over two sleeping Cherokee, and ran toward the tent. Over her cries he could now hear the harsh laughter of the soldiers. He balled his hands into fists as he grew closer, oddly unafraid as he prepared to tear their throats out with his bare hands. He calmly realized that he would die, but he didn't care.

  The cries stopped and after a brief time a soldier emerged from the tent, clad only in his breeches and boots. He slipped his arms through his uniform shirt and slipped the buttons through the loops. Inside the screaming began anew, followed by more laughter.

  He didn't notice Howls Softly until the Cherokee slammed into him from the side. Both tumbled to the grass. Howls Softly pinned the soldier beneath him and put his fists to work. The soldier cowered as blows rained down on his chest and face.

  The cold rage that filled Howls Softly turned to uncertainty as he stared at the soldier beneath him. The skin was bone-white, paler than clouds on a bright day. Where a man's mouth ended the soldier's mouth continued, the thin lips nearly stretching from one ear to the other. The eyes were small and solid black, set closer together than those of any man he'd seen. The soldier's ears were little more than lumps of flesh protruding from the side of its head.

  As he paused, the soldier opened its impossibly wide mouth, exposing more teeth than three men would have between them, and squealed. Howls Softly stood and the soldier scrambled back, squealing again. He looked around, looking to see if his people had noticed something so obviously out of place. None of them were even looking in his direction. Most of them were asleep. Further away he saw more soldiers, but none made any move to aid their injured companion. They were all watching him. The only sounds were the girl's groaning and the soldier's squealing.

  The flap of the tent swung open and another soldier emerged, rifle in hand. This soldier—a sergeant, he noticed with a sick detachment-was also more beast than man. The soldier on the ground pointed at him and continued its rapid squealing. The sergeant nodded and raised its rifle in line with Howls Softly's chest. There was a flash from the muzzle and then his world was filled with a deep roar-

  ***

  The blow to his chest jarred him awake. It was night once more, for he was staring at the stars. His chest was on fire and his head felt as though it had burst. Standing over him was a Union soldier, lantern in one hand and rifle in the other. He noticed that the bayonet was fixed, but thankfully it was pointing
toward the stars and not toward him.

  If Howls Softly could have done anything beyond gasp for breath he might have tried to run away, but his lungs felt as though they had been trampled by all of the horses in Kansas. Instead he managed a weak croak and curled into a ball. As he rolled to his side the world seemed to twist and the hammering in his temples increased. He saw the soldier raise the rifle and felt the butt crack into his ribs.

  "I said get the Hell up!"

  The voice was shrill and nearly cracked, but he was certain that if he disobeyed then he would be resting in the grass permanently. He wheezed and croaked once more, then tried to force himself upright. He failed the first time and tumbled back to the ground, but then managed to stagger to his feet. The soldier held up the lantern and stared at him.

  Howls Softly stared back. He was oddly relieved to note that the soldier's mouth, eyes, and ears were normal for every white man he'd seen, although this was more of a boy than a man. Brown hair cropped short was stuffed beneath the dark Union cap. Wide eyes stared back into his, although the skin around them was puffy and red. A mouth with thick lips was clenched tight, although he thought he saw a quivering of the chin.

  "What the Hell did you do to them?"

  Howls Softly blinked. "To who?"

  The soldier snarled and hefted the rifle, stepping back and leveling it at his chest.

  "To Jackson, Blatch, and Voltz! To Poniske! To my entire unit, you damn fool!"

  His tongue felt thick as he realized what the soldier was asking him. "I didn't do anything to yourJisten, I saw a campfire and decided to see who was around it. Then the moon came out and I saw—"

  His stomach decided then that it wished to be empty. Afterwards he coughed and wiped his mouth on his shirt. He spat to get rid of the awful sourness, then turned back to the soldier.

  "I guess you already saw what I saw," he said softly. He shook his head and spat once more. "As soon as I saw...your unit," he said carefully, "I turned and ran far and fast. I went over the hill and then I ran into somebody. 1 think it was you."

  The soldier nodded tersely, as if satisfied with what he was saying. Howls Softly continued. "After we fell I hit my head. Then I was here and now you will shoot me if you think I'm lying." He smiled weakly.

  "Shut your mouth."

  He did so. The soldier stared at him once more with narrowed eyes, then said, "Hold up your hands so I can see your palms. That's good. Now, turn them over." Apparently satisfied, the rifle lowered slightly. He tentatively lowered his hands.

  "I swear by all that is holy I'd have blown your damn face off by now if I thought you were responsible for what happened to my unit."

  "I believe you."

  The soldier slowly nodded. "Looks like you have some Indian in you. What's your name?"

  "The whites call me Hal."

  "I'm Private John Rawls. I'd shake on it but I don't trust you as far as I can spit, so for now just stand right there. Which tribe are you with, Hal?"

  "Cherokee." It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He winced and closed his eyes, then opened them when the world began to grow dizzy. Rawls seemed amused.

  "So I guess my next question is what a lone Cherokee is doing this close to the Illinois border. Excuse me; I mean 'sneaking up on Union patrols in the middle of the night.'"

  He sighed. "I can't run. I can barely stand. Shoot me if you want to, but I'm not going anywhere."

  Rawls smiled humorlessly. "So you're working for the Rebs."

  Howls Softly grimaced, but said nothing.

  "I heard you make good scouts. You have to be good if you made it this far in. Well, guess what Hal. Tonight you're working for the Union Army. You're going to find who did this to my unit so I can send 'em to Hell."

  He blinked. "And then?"

  Rawls was silent. Howls Softly sighed and shook his head. "Very well. It doesn't appear as I have a choice."

  "You're smart for a Reb. Get moving."

  "Where?"

  "Back to my camp. Good a place to start as any. And hurry. We need to find 'em before sunrise."

  "Why sunrise?"

  Rawls didn't answer.

  ***

  Howls Softly was grateful to see that Rawls had covered the bodies with blankets. The stench was awful but he learned that breathing through his mouth instead of his nose lessened the roiling of his stomach. He circled the camp slowly, working his way in to the covered bodies. Rawls retrieved all of the unit's firearms and placed them in a pile, then stood before it, watching Howls Softly work.

  There were no trace of footprints beyond those of the unit. To one side of the camp he noticed hoof prints and horse dung, but there was no sign of the horses. Their prints showed them leaving the camp at a dead run. Three torn pieces of rope were evidence of what had become of their hobbles.

  He stepped away from the camp to take a breath of fresh air and then moved in to where the bodies were. It looked like they had all died in their sleep—the lower halves of their bodies were still inside their bedrolls. He sighed, then steeled himself for what he had to do. Gingerly, he flipped back a blanket to stare into the dead eyes of Sergeant Poniske.

  He'd seen dead men before, but none so close. The man's skin was gray in the moonlight. His mouth had fallen open before death had fixed it in place, and he noticed that the man's visage was screwed into a mask of sorrow. His eyes had already begun to jelly, giving him the impression that the man was close to tears. He slowly replaced the blanket, then turned to the others. When he finished he returned to Rawls.

  "Tell me what you saw."

  Rawls seemed surprised. "I thought you were going to tell me."

  "I mean earlier. Tell me why you were away from your unit."

  Rawls nodded slowly. "I was on watch. They usually stick me on watch first because I can never get to sleep. They gave us horses this time—it wasn't standard, what we were doing—and we stopped here for the night. I tied up the horses, we ate, then they went to sleep.

  "It must have been a few hours later when I heard the horses get all nervous. I tried to see what was scaring them so I circled the camp, but when I got back they all bolted. I thought I hadn't tied 'em all proper and I ran after them. I should've woken up the sergeant, but I thought they'd get tired after a bit and I could bring them back to camp."

  Rawls frowned and kicked at the ground. "Thing is, they never stopped running. After a while I stopped and turned around but I didn't know where I was so I wandered about for a bit. Then I'm coming up this hill and you run into me.

  "I thought you were Jackson at first, but when I got up and saw you'd hit your head on that big rock sticking out of the ground I saw you were someone else. I went back to camp to wake the sergeant and that's when I found them."

  Rawls' face was fighting a war with itself to remain stoic. Howls Softly could see tears forming, but somehow Rawls managed to keep them in. After a pause, the young soldier's face hardened.

  "I thought that you running away like that meant you'd done it, even though I knew you couldn't have...torn them like that. But I figured you might have seen who did, so I grabbed the lantern and found where you were.

  "It's a good thing I wasn't a minute faster. If I'd seen you standing over those bodies I reckon I wouldn't have bothered to ask any questions."

  Howls Softly snorted. "Yes, that is a good thing." He frowned and looked once more at the surrounding hills. "I believe that your unit was resting near Nunna daul Tsuny."

  Rawls looked at him as though he'd suggested fish grew on trees. "What?"

  "It's 'the Trail Where They Cried' in your tongue. Where we cried."

  "What of it?"

  "Terrible things happened here."

  "So?"

  He glared at the soldier. "Thousands of Cherokee died when your government forced us west. Thousands more wished they had been so lucky. When we are old enough to ask why our mothers and fathers don't have mothers and fathers, we're taught of your president's lies, of the treac
hery we suffered at the hands of Major Ridge and Elias Boudinot, and of the deprivations of the Georgia Guard. We're told of things that no children should hear, but we're told because our mothers and fathers' mothers and fathers were children when these things happened to them."

  Rawls hesitated. "That's bad what the Georgians did to your people. But they are Rebs, after all. 1 know what they can do to good people. I'm wearing the Union blue because of what they did to my brothers. I imagine it wasn't as bad as what they did to you and yours, but it was bad. I saw their bodies. That's when I knew I had to fight. That's when I knew I had to send them to Hell where they all belong."

  Both fell silent, each weighing the other's words. Rawls was the first to speak.

  "So why does it matter that we're here, near this Trail of yours?"

  "Many of my people died here. Their spirits felt great pain. Perhaps one of these spirits remembers the last time that soldiers were here."

  Rawls snorted. "Hogwash."

  "What?"

  "You're telling me a dead Indian did this to them? I don't cotton to ghost stories, Hal."

  Howls Softly tried to keep the anger from his voice. "No man did this to your fellows. At least, no living man. You saw their bodies. They were torn apart like rag-dolls. Look, ten years ago I wouldn't have thought of this, but things have changed-things are different now. I've seen things, strange things, that only exist in stories. I've seen the work of spirits. I watched a man shot dead in a gunfight stand up and shoot the victor in the back, then walk out of town with six holes in his chest.

  "What was it that scared your horses enough to break their hobbles? When I found your camp, tell me why there were no sounds save my own-why weren't the bugs singing? Why are there no tracks through this camp beyond that of your unit?

  "You don't believe me? Then take a look at their faces. Tell me you've ever seen a dead man's face look like that before. Then you tell me who in this world could have pulled apart the bodies of four sleeping men without any of the others waking up."

  Rawls stared at him hard, then spat at his feet. "Fine. So it might have been a spirit. Tell me how I can kill it."