Guns of Seneca 6 (Chamber 1 of the Guns of Seneca 6 Saga)

by Bernard Schaffer

  A fierce howl stopped the animal dead, nearly throwing Jem from the saddle. He righted himself and patted the destrier’s neck, telling her to calm down. The canyon was covered in shadows, but nothing seemed to move. Jem drew one of his guns and waited.

  Anyone who’d grown up in Seneca knew about the werja. Jem had never seen one. Most that did never lived to talk about it.

  Morning began like a spark of flint in a corner of the sky that soon set fire to the distant mountain peaks. Jem rode into the open plains pulling his hat down over his eyes, trying to see ahead. In that moment he pictured Sam, twenty years prior, emerging from the same canyon, looking up at the same sky.

  He thought about what Sam’s reaction would be to Jem taking the time to ponder such things and laughed. It was like Sam was sitting next to him, looking at him sideways, chewing a cut of sweetweed. “You expecting that signal to send itself, son?”

  Jem spat a mouthful of sweetweed juice into the dirt, and worked the rest of it into the crook of his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. “No, sir,” he said, and started up the path.

  ***

  The pass was overgrown with thick brush and spiny branches, every inch of them covered in curved thorns. Jem dismounted and grabbed a handful of vine that speared his glove and left broken thorns in his palm. He pulled off his glove and tried to dig them out with the tip of his knife.

  One of the thorns was deep and he had to cut away the skin to pry out its hooked tip. He stuck his head up to yell in frustration and saw a half-naked young man looking down at him from high above, on a ledge. His long black hair whipped in the wind and two younger boys, kids really, were crouched at his side, trying to stay hidden. This one stood his ground, staring down at Jem in defiance.

  Jem stuck the knife back in his hand and cursed as he dug out the rest of the thorn. He cleaned the knife on his pant leg and sheathed it, then whistled for his destrier. He pulled himself into the saddle and started up the pass when the boy raised a stick high over his head and shook it, letting out a high-pitched screech.

  Jem waited for him to finish and looked up. “I know who you are. Heard that scream once before when I was just about your age. Didn’t scare me then neither.”

  ***

  By night fall, his stomach was growling. There were birds perched on the bushes, but they hardly seemed worth the effort to shoot. His Defeaters would leave little except a pile of wet feathers and the meat would taste like gunpowder. He had a bottle of whiskey in his saddle. He reckoned he could eat raw bassaricus as long as he had the right thing to wash it down with.

  He rode until he came upon a herd of leapers crashing through the brush. They ran in a pack, their long legs kicking high in the air at each step. The herd’s alpha was obvious. A large, muscular brute with antlers that spread out as wide as Jem’s arms. A smaller buck ran behind him, racing to keep up. Jem drew one of his pistols and fired, dropping the leader in the dirt so that the rest of the herd had to jump over him to get away.

  Jem grabbed a hold of its antlers and dragged it off the path. He slit the animal lengthwise, cutting through the tendons and separating the carcass to remove its internal organs. It had been years since he field dressed a leaper. Sam had been a good instructor.

  He laid out the tenderloins and ribs on a blanket of hide and went to gather an armful of dry branches that would go up like an inferno with one match strike. By nightfall, he was turning the meat over a roaring fire and the dripping grease sizzled in the flames.

  Jem ate until he was full and drank a portion of the whiskey. The temperature started to drop. He stoked the fire, trying to build up the flames enough to burn long into the night, thinking of the howl he’d heard earlier. Whatever made that noise was still out there and would be walking around while he slept in the open. Jem swallowed whiskey until the howling, the cold, and night under the open sky ceased to matter.

  Jem removed the rest of the meat from the fire and set it aside, saving it for morning. He laid out a blanket and leaned back to watch the flames dance and interweave, thinking of the Alvarez sisters, thinking of Anna Willow…

  He opened his eyes at the sound of a step so light on the ground it could have been just a leaf blowing across the dirt. The oldest Beothuk boy was creeping past the fire, reaching for the meat. Jem cocked the hammer of his gun, freezing the boy in place.

  The gun was aimed at the center of his chest and he stuck out his chin and pulled back his arms, daring Jem to shoot even though his lips quivered slightly and his shoulders rose and fell with excited breaths. His chest was finely muscled and hairless. There was a light growth of baby hair across the boy’s lip that looked like it might crawl off the side of his face. Jem made him out to be fourteen.

  “You’re the one that squawked at me. Where are the others? You come alone? Must be the brave one.” He waved his gun at the meat and said, “Go ahead. Take it. I don’t know what the hell you all are doing out here, but you must be hungry. Have it.”

  The boy remained motionless.

  “You understand anything I’m saying?”

  The boy looked at the gun, then back to Jem. Jem decocked the hammer on his Defeater and put it into his holster. As soon as the gun was out of his hand, the boy took off into the shadows.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Jem called out. He thought he could make out where the boy was, or at least had a rough idea which patch of darkness he’d vanished into. Jem picked up the spit and held it out. “Here. Take it. It’s all right. I’ve got enough for all three of you.”

  Hours later he shivered himself awake and opened his eyes to see the pale sky. His fire was a pile of smoldering ashes and the food was missing from the spit. He checked for tracks around the campsite, but saw neither animal nor Beothuk boy footprints. The destrier was standing only a few yards away, gnawing on branches. Jem tucked a pinch of sweetweed behind his lip and climbed up into the saddle.

  ***

  It was noon. Sweat dripped from the brim of his hat when Jem took it off to wipe his forehead. Coarse thorn-ridden vegetation spilled over the edges of the cliffs above him in long vines that swept the trail on either side of him. There were piles of leaper bones tangled in the vines, their blood spattered across the rocks beneath.

  Jem stopped his destrier and dismounted. The bones were picked clean but the blood was fresh. Strange paw prints were stamped into the ground around the kill site from an enormous animal with razor sharp claws. No, he thought. Several animals.

  His destrier snorted and stomped impatiently for Jem to climb back on. He unholstered a Defeater and cocked the hammer back, scanning the trail and cliff walls. “Easy,” he said, patting its neck. “Nothing to worry about.”

  He steered through the vines, forcing her to walk slowly as he kept his head on a swivel and his gun at the ready. The trail bottomed out into a dried riverbed with massive stones sunk in the clay. The damp muck sucked the destrier’s hooves as they travelled the embankment, searching for a path that would let them up onto the other side.

  ***

  Jem saw them enough times that he gave them names.

  He called the oldest boy Squawk. All three of them would ride along the edge of the cliffs above Jem, but it was only Squawk who stayed whenever Jem looked up. Squawk who stared back. Squawk who let Jem know he was not afraid of the White Man.

  The second boy was thin and long-limbed with a hooked nose and inverted chin. His appearance reminded Jem of a character from a book that his mother once to read to him. He called that boy Ichabod.

  The smallest had long, dark hair and a face that resembled Squawk’s. He scurried out of sight whenever Jem looked, but laughed and made it a game. Squawk reproached the boy every time, looking thoroughly annoyed. It didn’t matter. The game continued. Bug, then, Jem decided. Your name is Bug.

  The mountain pass ended at a wide meadow made of tall, swaying grass and cool air that blew across Jem’s face. The destrier licked the air with its long red tongue, lapping at it playfully.
He eased her down the embankment and she trotted across the flat land, kicking her knees in the air and flinging mud from her hooves. “Feels good to be back on soft ground, don’t it?” he said, patting her side. The destrier snorted and spun around in the air, whipping her tail.

  A cheer broke out from the mountain behind him and Jem saw the three boys sitting on their destriers, watching him. Bug had his hands raised in the air and Ichabod was clapping. Squawk barked at the both of them, and Ichabod said something back, then pointed at Jem and made circular motions with his finger. Squawk sneered and bunched up his destrier’s mane in his hand and kicked it in the sides.

  Squawk’s destrier bolted down the path toward Jem and trotted around him in a circle, both rider and animal prancing with their heads held high in defiant arrogance. Jem folded both of his hands on the saddle horn and said, “You gonna do something beside try and make me dizzy?”

  Squawk slapped the rear end of his mount and gave a command that sent it rearing up on its hind legs with both front legs sticking straight in the air. Squawk let go of the mane with one hand and leaned back, keeping that pose until the animal finally came back down. Jem stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. When Squawk turned around to join the others, Jem noted a small smile on the boy’s face.

  Jem waved to the other two and said, “Come on, now. Let me see what you’ve got.”

  Ichabod rode into the meadow. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he brought the destrier’s speed up, reaching a full gallop before gently pressing himself out of the saddle. He stood to his feet, grasping the mane with both hands and shifting hesitantly from one foot to the other. He suddenly let go of the mane and clapped both hands over his head, then dropped back down onto the animal and hugged it for dear life. Jem whooped and hollered as Ichabod rode past.

  He looked over at Bug and pointed. “What about you, squirt? Got any tricks?”

  Bug kicked his small mount into motion and took off running with an excited shout. He passed Jem at full speed and jumped to his feet, surfing on her back with one hand high in the air. The boy stood straight legged as the animal whipped around Jem, and he let go of the mane and spun in the air, landing backwards on the beast with his arms folded in a relaxed pose. The animal seemed to steer itself while the boy smiled and patted his mouth, pretending to yawn.

  Jem’s mouth fell open and he said, “Holy shit.” As Bug spun back around to ride back to the others, Jem grabbed his hat and stood up in saddle, waving it and cheering.

  ***

  The sun retreated from the mountains and Jem gathered the collar of his coat under his chin to keep out the cold wind. He gathered sticks in a pile and built a ring of stones around them then lit a match and flicked it into the kindling. He rubbed his hands over the blaze and sat down.

  The boys were watching him from a safe distance. Only Squawk refused to cross his arms over his bare chest and shiver. The other two looked pitiful. Jem waved for them to join him and said, “Come on. Don’t be stupid.”

  Squawk gave a command and the other two boys nodded and ran into the darkness. Squawk bent low in the grass and moved into the shadows. “Have it your way,” Jem said. He uncapped his whiskey flask and took a sip and tended to his fire.

  That Beothuk boy I shot wasn’t much older than Squawk, he thought. He took down a full grown deputy in the darkness and scalped him. Jem took a second, longer sip of whiskey. He was gonna come kill me and Claire, too. Screw that. I’m glad I shot him.

  Jem thought about the story Walt Junger, Billy Jack Elliot and Old Man Willow told about finding Sam’s body. A Beothuk massacre. So bad they couldn’t bring the body home. Jem took his knife out of its sheath and twirled it in his fingers, watching the firelight reflect off its blade. He drank again. “Sheriff Walt Junger,” he said.

  A fat conejo landed dead on the dirt in front of him.

  Jem looked up to see a triumphant Bug raise his hands in the air and cheer.

  “Let me guess. It was a contest and you just won,” Jem said. He grabbed the conjeo by its ears and slit it open with his knife. Bug bent next to him, watching in fascination at how he prepared it.

  Branches cracked and something heavy was sliding across the dirt toward them. Squawk came into the light, dragging a doe by her legs. He deposited the animal at Jem’s side with a grunt and looked down at the conejo in Jem’s hands. In the flicker of the firelight, for the briefest moment, the brave warrior was just a disappointed little boy.

  Jem looked over the doe and said, “That has got to be the biggest female leaper I ever seen. I’m impressed.” He patted the animal on the side and nodded approvingly at Squawk. Squawk plopped down cross-legged in front of the fire and sulked as he waited for Jem to finish gutting Bug’s catch.

  Jem got the meat roasting in minutes and showed Bug how to work the spit. He watched the boy try it himself and then said to Squawk, “All right. Stop pouting, we’ll do yours now.”

  Squawk’s head shot up and he held his hand up to tell the other to stop talking. All of the muscles in his body coiled like springs.

  Bug whispered something, but Squawk hissed at him to be silent. Jem searched the darkness but saw nothing, heard nothing, until a high-pitched cry rang out like an animal being torn apart at the joints. Squawk leapt to his feet and ran in that direction.

  “Lakhpia-sha,” Bug gasped. The child’s eyes went so wide that Jem could see white on nearly all sides of them. “Lakhpia-sha!”

  “What the hell is a Lakhpia-sha?”

  There was a second scream and Jem realized Lakhpia-sha was Ichabod. He scrambled to his feet and ran until he could make out Ichabod’s flailing hands and feet pinned under the form of a massive, silver-furred beast.

  The creature was shaking Ichabod by his left arm, its drooling fangs sunk deep in his flesh. Squawk leapt onto the beast’s back and wrapped his arm around its throat, trying to wrench it off of Ichabod enough to free his arm.

  Jem raised a pistol and shouted, “Get out of the way!” but Squawk could not let go. Jem yelled as loudly as he could, trying to scare the thing off but Ichabod’s arm was clenched in its mouth, shredded to a tangle of bone sinews.

  Jem grabbed Squawk by the shoulder and ripped him off of the animal’s back. He grabbed a tuft of the creature’s thick hide and jammed his knife into its throat. He pumped the knife back and forth like he was trying to get water out of the beast’s neck, and finally, a jet of hot black blood spurted onto his hand.

  The beast let of Ichabod and ran off, taking Jem’s knife with it.

  Jem raised his pistol and fired twice into the darkness but heard nothing. Ichabod moaned, lifting his ruined arm and staring at it in disbelief.

  “What the hell was that? Son of a bitch.” Jem looked up and saw Bug riding for them on his destrier, coming across the meadow at full gallop. Two small flames appeared in the darkness near Bug and Jem realized it was the shining yellow eyes of a second creature. Bug’s destrier screeched as the beast leapt and bit its neck, splashing Bug with her blood.

  Jem grabbed the boy by the ankle to pull him free of the thrashing mount. He fired at both animals rapidly, shooting Bug’s destrier and its killer until both of them were writhing on the ground in a mewling mix of bloody fur.

  “Werja,” Bug shouted, spinning around and around, pointing into the shadows. “Werja!”

  A third beast had been creeping up behind them and had its jaws open for the back of Squawk’s head when Jem turned and fired a bullet past Squawk’s ear that cleaved the animal’s skull in two.

  Squawk did not flinch. He tore pieces of his loincloth into small strips with his teeth, hurrying to get them around Ichabod’s arm. He chattered to Ichabod, smacking him on the cheek and shaking him, but the boy had stopped moving.

  Jem thought he saw movement in the darkness and pulled the trigger. His gun clicked, empty. Two werja ran forward so quickly that Jem barely had time to get his other gun free. He fired blindly, counting his shots, conserving his bullets
until he had a clear target even if it meant waiting until the things were right on top of him. He needed to save three bullets, he thought. I’m not letting these kids get eaten alive.

  Jem cocked the hammer back and waited, trying to breathe. One of the beasts roared, coming close enough that Jem could see its bright eyes as it leapt from the ground at him but did not strike. The animal’s open jaws sagged and it dropped at Jem’s feet with an arrow sticking out of the side of its skull.

  Whistles filled the air as arrows showered down around them, followed by the thunk-thunk-thunk of struck targets and the roars of dying werja.

  Jem held his arms in front of the boys as shadowy figures approached them, coming through the steam escaping into the cold air from the bodies of the werja. He heard their beads rattle and saw their tall bows first. Their arrows were trained on him now and Jem did not move away from the boys as the dozen Beothuk warriors closed in.

  “This boy’s hurt,” Jem said. He pointed down at Ichabod and said, “He needs help.”

  One of the men broke through the ranks and shoved Jem out of the way, looking down in horror at Ichabod’s injuries. He scooped up the boy in his arms and held him to his chest, then lifting his head to shout, “Mahpiya! Mahpiya!”

  The warriors parted as a withered-looking savage limped through the crowd. He was dressed in long white robes and used a staff to support his lame right foot. He bent to inspect Ichabod’s arm and reached into his robe for a small bottle. He uncorked the top and poured something foul-smelling onto the wounds, making them sizzle.

  Ichabod groaned, and the adult savage rocked him back and forth, wiping the boy’s hair out of his face. The old man poured the last of the liquid onto Ichabod’s arm and removed a clean cloth from his bag that he gently wrapped around the wound. He spoke rapidly at the men nearest to him and waved for them to come over. They picked up Ichabod and carried him to a destrier, then laid him across the back of the animal and secured him there. One of them leapt up onto it and galloped away.