The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time

by Raymond Dean White

Inching his way slowly through the grass, Daniel passed between two sentries, avoided a trip wire that would trigger cans and other noise makers and flowed between tents filled with sleeping men until he reached his position near one of the machine guns. His cold stare took in the two men manning it, as they in turn watched their relief approach. Changing of the guard. Daniel’s left hand closed gently around the medicine pouch that hung from around his neck and he breathed a silent prayer.

  Across the compound, Raymond Stormcloud slid into place next to the other gun and opened a small pouch, taking out a grenade and laying it on the ground beside him. He and Daniel wanted to do this quietly, but the grenade made a good backup. Next, he readied a pair of throwing knives and a tomahawk.

  Daniel placed his own grenade beside him, cocked his crossbow and unsheathed his fighting knife. He was ready.

  The men being relieved joked for a few minutes with their replacements before heading for the comfort of their sleeping bags. Daniel waited patiently, his long, smooth muscles relaxed. Aspen leaves, stirred by a breeze, pattered like approaching rain.

  A slight thud from across the compound told him Raymond had gone into action. In one smooth motion, Daniel drew back his right arm and threw his knife.

  A second later, one of the machine gunners asked, “What was that?” The man turned and saw his partner falling, a knife protruding from his throat. It was the last thing he ever saw. Before he could yell, or even move, a crossbow bolt pierced his brain.

  Daniel walked softly forward into the machine gun nest, pulled his knife from the neck of the first guard and slit both men’s throats. They were already dead, but Daniel was in no mood to take chances. He lifted a key ring from one of the dead men.

  Silently, he slid into the prisoner compound, waking men and women, cutting their bonds or unlocking those he found in chains. Raymond was already doing the same. They had to move fast. There were hundreds to free and soon the Utes would hit the armor.

  Ker-blaaaam! Explosions shattered the night.

  Adios armor, Daniel thought, as he tossed the keys and his knife to a prisoner and darted back to the machine gun. He spun the gun around and sprayed the enemy’s tents as the soldiers bolted from them to meet the attack. A death’s-head smile marred his face as men fell, shocked at being killed from behind.

  War cries split the night from the enemy horse herd and the ground rumbled as Minowayuh stampeded the remuda through the middle of the camp, trampling tents and soldiers. Bullets slammed into enemy flesh from the woods and rocks outside the camp. For a brief time, all was chaos and in the middle of it a steady stream of prisoners poured out of the camp, melting into the darkness beyond. Daniel knew it wouldn’t take the enemy commander long to rally his men.

  The machine gun jammed and Daniel lobbed a grenade into a mass of men, laid a written message for the enemy leader on the body of one of the dead gunners, then sprinted into the darkness. Not all of the prisoners had been released.

  *

  It was dawn before the message was discovered and delivered to Colonel Reynolds, Commander of the Black Death battalion. It read, “Now you fight our war, our way. Release the remaining prisoners and abandon the goods you stole. Do this and we will let you go in peace. Harm them and you will all die.”

  Colonel Reynolds wasn’t particularly brave. Once Duane Reynolds, a blackjack dealer at the San Pablo Lytton Casino in San Francisco, he was beaten and fired by the Pomo Tribe when they discovered he lied about his Native American ancestry. He survived The Dying Time and ensuing years by being sneakier than those around him. That same skill aided his rise through the ranks of the King’s Army, eventually leading to his being placed in command of this mission--less a statement of his accomplishments on the field of battle than to bureaucratic inefficiencies in an army spread too thin.

  Slowly the Colonel crumpled the message in his fist. His horses were gone and his armor immobilized. His cavalry had just become infantry. A small corner of his mind wanted to accept the Cheyenne offer, but if he didn’t come back from this raid with enough slaves to make up his losses the King would have him killed. Besides, he still outnumbered them. They couldn’t have more than three or four dozen fighters left. And the way their firepower had fallen off so sharply the past several days he could tell they were short of men, or ammo, or both. He could still come out of this with a victory--and a triumphant return to California could elevate him to the nobility.

  He turned to a lieutenant standing beside him and said, “Get me a pair of prisoners, a woman and a child.” He saw the Lieutenant’s questioning look. “Our answer to those red bastards up in the pass,” he explained patiently. God! It was so hard to find good officers now that royalty was purchasing commissions for their sons.

  “No stinking savages can tell us what to do.” And no red-nigger was ever going to beat him again.

  The woman was old but defiant and Colonel Reynolds was sure she’d been selected because she slowed the march. The boy, no more than eight, had a broken arm and was certainly chosen for the same reason. Both were tied to stakes.

  He poked the boy’s arm and was rewarded with a soft groan from the child and a murderous glare from the old bitch.

  “Don’t pile that kindling too high,” he told a Private tending the chore. “The lower the fire, the louder they’ll squeal.”

  Duane Reynolds, one-time blackjack dealer, would have been appalled, but the years of hiding and starving, of killing and eating the unwary, followed by much better years in the army had turned Duane into the Colonel. And the Colonel enjoyed the show as the fires were lit and flesh began to blacken and curl.

  The captive’s screams echoed off the rocky walls, as the Colonel turned back to the business of war. His lips twisted into a satisfied smirk, he pointed up the pass and said, “That’ll scare the shit out of those red-skinned maggots. It’s a message they’ll understa...”

  A neat round hole appeared in the center of his forehead and a single rifle shot echoed from high up in the rocks. Death claimed him so swiftly he didn’t even register surprise.

  Two more swift shots ended the burning pair’s misery.

  Minowayuh and Daniel ducked below the ridge line as the twin 50’s on the APC’s opened up, chewing the hillside like a horde of locusts, killing shrubs, small trees and an unlucky marmot.

  Minowayuh nestled his ancient Enfield rifle in the crook of his arm, turned his rock hard face to Daniel and said, “Teach them not to mistreat prisoners.”

  *

  Daniel Windwalker rode warily through the scrub oak and juniper forest. Low branches plucked at his hat and eyes and scratched across his leather chaps. A hoof clopped against a rock and he frowned. While the rain the night before had softened the dead leaves and branches underfoot, it was still impossible not to make some noise in this terrain. And noise could be fatal.

  A light rain still fell from the lead gray sky, as it had for the better part of the past eight days. Droplets beaded and dripped steadily from the brim of his hat onto his dark woolen poncho.

  The normally sure-footed appaloosa slipped and caught itself, then continued plodding steadily on a course that followed a game trail angling toward the top of the hill. Deciding it was time for another visual, he reined his horse to a stop and slid from the saddle. He unbuckled his chaps, looping them over the saddle horn and sat his hat on top of them. He shucked out of his poncho and draped it across the saddle.

  Grabbing a pair of binoculars, he started for the ridge, drifting silently up the hill. His tall, lean form bent forward as he took the slope, strong wiry muscles effortlessly bunching and relaxing as they carried him to the top.

  The mottled wool shirt, brown loincloth and deer-hide leggings he wore blended perfectly with the terrain. A faded Harley Davidson bandanna, bearing the motto, “Live Free or Die” held his long black hair out of his eyes. A single notched eagle feather pinned to that headband was Daniel’s only badge of authority.

  Keeping low, so as not to skyline h
imself, he peeked around the side of a large rock and spied the fleeing enemy below. As he did so his normally warm, gray eyes, turned so cold and hard his own wife, were she still alive, wouldn’t have recognized them.

  Four long lines of men wound their way down the canyon floor, cursing as they stumbled and slipped in the mud, darting fearful glances at the slopes above. They had reason to fear. Since the Utes reinforced the Cheyenne, the Black Death battalion had endured nerve-wracking hit-and-run attacks, booby traps and sniper fire that had thinned their ranks by nearly twenty-five percent. In return, all their efforts to engage their attackers and use their superior numbers to advantage had left them frustrated, grasping thin air. Their arrogance and pride had vanished during the retreat, leaving the impression they were holding their ranks and maintaining their discipline for the same reason fish swim in schools.

  But not all of those below were enemies. Toward the rear of the column a small band of people, perhaps a hundred men and women, were chained together. These were the prisoners he and Raymond hadn’t had time to free. They were the cause of his concern. The weight of their chains made their march clumsy and slow, infuriating their captors, who used whips and gun stocks in a futile attempt to make them move faster. Only sheer willpower kept Daniel from flinching as he heard a whip crack and saw it lash the back of a fallen prisoner. Under his shirt, Daniel wore the same ropy, twisted scars the captive below was collecting.

  The whip cracked again and for an instant Daniel was back in a past that began in shame. It was dark. He was drunk, staggering down a muddy dirt road to the tin-roofed hut where his wife, Talks-to-Flowers, lay on their small bed, coughing up blood and pieces of lung. He’d spent their allotment money on booze instead of medicine--again.

  But this time, the medicine man, Sees-Far, stood outside the door, shaking his head sadly. Daniel’s grief tasted of cheap rum. He turned and headed back toward town. Maybe someone would buy him a drink.

  Later, he stopped to relieve himself against the wall of the bar. It had closed before he got there, so there was nothing to wash away his grief, his guilt.

  There was a sound that hurt his ears. The Earth lurched and knocked him down. He heard a rumbling, clattering roar and something hit his head, sending him into darkness.

  For weeks his mind refused to focus. Vague memories of jolting earth and scorching fire underlay his detox agony and confusion. Things crawled on and under his skin. Convulsions left him spent. Occasionally, someone would force food and water on him. Eventually, his mind cleared and he awoke to a nightmare, lying chained to other men and women, most from his tribe. His life as a slave began and for awhile he wondered whether he had died and gone to the white man’s hell, or if Mah-hay-oh, the Great Spirit, was punishing him for being a bad husband. Either way, he accepted his lot as just. There was no rum, no whiskey, only hard work and pain. While some withered and died under the harsh treatment, Daniel grew strong.

  White men with guns forced the Indians to build a large, windowless, single story building with a dirt floor. The work was difficult and dangerous in the choking, dusty, darkness of a Post-Impact day. The Indians carried topsoil from the fields inside the building. They were made to string florescent grow-lights, find fuel for the electrical generator, chop wood for the stoves, plant and tend crops.

  Eventually, after two years of freezing cold and snow, the sun returned to the sky and the weather settled down. The slaves were taken out to work in the fields, a place where the slightest offense meant harsh punishment.

  One day, as Daniel leaned against the whipping post, muscles knotted in agony, trying not to cry out as the whip burned stripes of fire across his back, an eagle feather fluttered down from the sky. He looked up and saw the great bird soaring free, heard its piercing cry and understood. Mah-hay-oh had given him a vision. It was like waking from a dream. The pain of his brothers and sisters was now a pain in Daniel’s heart. From that day, he shared his food with others, eased their burdens as much as he could and plotted with them to escape.

  By listening to the white men and interpreting their words in his own way, he learned that Mah-hay-oh had hit their world with His fist and destroyed their way of life because He was tired of waiting for the white man to put aside his arrogance. The elders of Daniel’s tribe had always known that the white man’s path destroyed their souls by divorcing them from their mother, the Earth; just as they knew the white man wasn’t wholly evil, merely twisted because of the way he viewed things. But now Mah-hay-oh had made the white man weak. Now the Indian peoples of all tribes could return to greatness, combining the best of the white man’s world with Indian knowledge. Once more the tribes would roam free and proud.

  Slowly, patiently, Daniel organized his people. He showed them the feather and explained its meaning.

  Some of the guards sensed the difference in Daniel and responded the way they knew best--with brutality. He hoarded his anger and shame at the beatings against the day his chance would come. And his day did come.

  The whip cracked again and the instant passed. Daniel was back in the present, watching the man being whipped struggle painfully to his feet and continue the march.

  Daniel’s right hand went to the coiled bullwhip that hung from his war-belt, caressing it almost fondly. It was the same whip that had made the scars on his back, borrowed, so to speak, from its former owner, who no longer needed such worldly goods.

  Daniel was master of many skills, but he was particularly proud of his skill with the whip. The irony of it appealed to his dark side.

  He pulled out his ancient, mainspring-powered pocket watch--the only type still working now that no one could make batteries--flipped open its ornate case and glanced at the time: 4:18. His gaze lingered briefly on the picture of his wife, taken a couple of months before her death, more than twelve years ago. She had always forgiven him his weakness. Someday maybe he would forgive himself. He closed the case gently, tenderly and returned it to his pocket. Time to get to work.

  He slid back below the ridge and mounted his horse, nudging the animal forward. Soon his people would end this battle. A smile returned to his face, but didn’t reach his eyes.

  A few minutes later he reined in and dismounted. His approach to the scouts would be quieter and less visible on foot. He drifted between the trees, intent on his mission.

  The forest was more open now that they were losing elevation. More cottonwoods and willows were mixed in with the cedar. The scrub oak had all but disappeared. The little ravine was widening out. Before long, the feeder creek that flowed down it would join with a larger stream and flow out through the narrow canyon, with its blood red sandstone cliffs, into a large, flat valley that stretched for miles. Once in that valley, the force on the other side of the ridge would be all but immune from attack by the Cheyenne and the Utes. Out in the open, they could use their superior numbers to mount a secure defense.

  As things stood now, the rough terrain of the canyon worked greatly to the advantage of the Cheyenne. Good cover allowed them to set up ambushes, get close for an attack and retreat without exposing themselves, just as their ancestors fought the cavalry. A small number of warriors could impede enemy progress down the canyon, while the remainder held the high ground on either side. And though a concerted attack by the enemy would force the Cheyenne to retreat, yielding the ridges to the enemy would cost Daniel’s fighters nothing--as the enemy commander knew by now. For in this part of Wyoming there were only two directions--up and down--and the canyon they were in was the best and most open, for miles around.

  Daniel saw movement through the trees. Instantly his mind and body went on full alert. He paused behind a cottonwood and scanned the surrounding area. He heard splashing followed by the sucking squelch of boots in mud, as one of the enemy scouts crossed the stream and waded through the marshy area near its banks. Cigarette smoke drifted to him on the faint up-canyon breeze.

  He changed course and sidled up the slope of the canyon wall until he was hidden from
view by a screen of boulders, then sprinted forward for a good quarter of a mile. Peering around a large rock he could see the two making their way along the stream, one on either side. Below him was a small clearing. He headed down toward it, his mind planning the attack while figuring how long it would take them to arrive. Crouching behind a big cottonwood, Daniel uncoiled his whip and readied his small, pistol-style crossbow. Then he cocked his 9 mm Beretta semiautomatic pistol and returned it to the holster he wore nestled into the small of his back. The gun was strictly a last resort, as he needed to kill them quietly.

  He checked his watch again: two minutes till five. He fingered his medicine pouch and muttered a brief prayer, settling down for a short wait. There was a certain Zen about the way Daniel waited, his body relaxed and perfectly still, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest. No sign showed as the tension mounted inside him. He could have been meditating instead of planning murder.

  Less than five minutes later, a change in the feel of the woods told him of their approach. The slap-smack of footsteps in mud and the whooshing of damp grass against legs located them for him. Daniel waited until the closest man was only five feet away. He stepped quickly from behind the tree, placing it between him and the man on the other side of the creek. His left arm came up, bringing the crossbow to within two feet of the startled man’s face. The flanker had no time to react as the bolt from the crossbow tore through his left eye and imbedded itself deep in his brain.

  Daniel sidestepped swiftly to his right, clearing the tree just as the other scout’s head turned in his direction. Daniel’s right arm snapped forward and twenty feet of rawhide bullwhip flashed through the air and coiled tightly around the neck of the man across the creek. A sharp jerk, an ugly cracking sound and the second man was dead before the first hit the ground.

  With a satisfied smile, Daniel stripped the men of weapons and ammunition. He took their radio, then dragged the men to higher ground away from the creek to avoid fouling it, hoping the local wildlife would make short work of them.