by Paul Henke
The top of the butte was flat and dotted with boulders. In the middle were a couple of scrubby trees and patches of lush grass. The four of them were taken to a catchment area where water bubbled gently out of a rock. They could see six, round, bee-hive tents each about four feet high, near the trees. There was nobody else present.
After drinking their fill, still wondering what was going to happen, the boys were taken to within a few yards of the butte edge and made to sit down. Pegs were hammered into the ground and the boys were spread eagled, their wrists and ankles tied to the pegs. When their captors left them there was silence for a few minutes.
‘What’s this all about?’ Steve asked in a pained whisper. ‘What in God’s name do they want with us?’ His voice came out as a rasp in his fright.
‘I don’t know,’ said Paddy. ‘I just don’t know,’ he paused. ‘But I don’t mind admitting to you guys that I’m scared clear through. I’ve never seen people act like this before. I guess they’re probably from a reservation, perhaps outcasts. But what do they want with us?’
The loneliness, the fear, the uncertainty swept through Sion and suddenly tears trickled down his face. He was overwhelmed by his feelings. He knew, with a clarity, with a flash of understanding, that they had been brought here to die.
The sun was beating down on them unmercifully and their last drink seemed to have been ages ago. From the sun’s position it was just past noon, though on what day none of them could have said.
By straining his head Sion was able to catch glimpses of their captors as they prepared a meal and argued over the gear they had stolen from the boys. He watched them throw his kite sticks to one side along with the sheet he had cut and sewn to cover the frame. The afternoon was never ending. The sun was a burning, yellow ball, dehydrating them and leaving them with parched throats and aching heads. Throughout the afternoon there was no sign of their captors but towards sundown they heard the gang yelling and laughing.
Paddy said: ‘They’re drunk. Right out of their rotten skulls, the lot of them. Look at the fools dancing around. The pigs. I hope they stagger over to the edge and fall off.’ He hid his fear behind hate and disgust.
The sun had just set when three of the gang staggered over, laughing and giggling like children and cut the ropes holding Steve. They hauled him roughly to his feet but because Steve had long lost any feeling in his hands and feet he collapsed. The breeds laughed and began kicking Steve in the head and side. They were so drunk their efforts did not hurt him much but did get him awkwardly to his knees and finally to his feet. They pushed him roughly and each time he stumbled it sent the breeds into fits of laughter. In the rapidly falling light the boys saw him thrown down and staked out again.
‘I wonder what those devils are going to do?’ asked Sion, his voice sticking in his throat, fear like bile in his mouth.
‘I don’t know, but I sure as hell don’t like it,’ rasped Paddy. ‘Those bastards are capable of anything,’ he lapsed into silence.
The moon was up and still the sound of revelry went on. The silence that descended took them by surprise. Suddenly into the night came the most awful, blood curdling scream of terror and pain they had ever thought possible, even in their darkest nightmares. It seemed to go on and on and on. The boys went into a frenzy trying to get loose from their bounds, trying to block out the noise of Steve’s agony.
After what seemed like an eternity the sound dropped to a whimper in the still air, though from time to time, unexpectedly, it would rent the air apart again.
‘What have they done to him?’ Sion was nearly whimpering. ‘It’s the unknown that I hate the most, this not knowing. Oh God . . . God . . . God.’
Soon afterwards the night fell silent. Their captors had fallen asleep in a drunken stupor and Steve made no more sound. Now they were cold, shivering in the bright moonlight. Nervous exhaustion sometimes let them doze off fitfully but on two occasions during that long night Steve’s ugly scream, dying to a sob, brought them alert and trembling. Dawn broke in a radiance of colour and clear skies. It was going to be another hot and beautiful day. Was Steve still alive?
None of the gang was in evidence and nobody disturbed the tranquillity of the camp until the guard from below appeared without his horse. He went and roused one of the others who made his way in a staggering gait towards the pathway.
It was late afternoon when the others started to emerge from their bee-hive tents. They could hardly walk straight and spent ages at the water hole drinking. After another day in the sun without water the boys were half crazed for a drink and the three of them had blood around their wrists where they had fought against their bonds.
‘What did they do to him?’ Sion screamed the last word and then struggled against the ropes in a frenzy but to no avail.
A few seconds later one of the gang whom they had identified as the leader, loomed over them and looked down with contempt and hate on his face. It was the first time any of them had shown emotion to the boys except when they had been laughing at their discomfort. It was also the first time one of them had spoken to them.
‘I shall tell you white boy what we did. You will think about it until your turn comes to die.’
‘For God’s sake why are you doing this?’ Paddy asked in anguish. ‘We haven’t done anything to you.’
The steady, blue expressionless eyes looked from one to the other. The man’s nose was hooked like a beak, his hair jet black and tied at the nape of his neck. Although he wore buckskin trousers and moccasins he had on an old army jacket and battered hat with a feather stuck in the band. ‘Never mind why. Only know what. Your friend died sooner than we had expected. A slip of the knife. I cut open his belly and pulled out his innards. After a while I poured molasses over him. It’s a type the red ants love. He was tied over an ant hill. He should have lived until tomorrow at the earliest. It was a pity he didn’t. Our enjoyment has been shortened by one day.’
‘You swine,’ Sion yelled at him. ‘You filthy bastard. I hope you rot in hell.’
‘You will be there a long time before me,’ said the man calmly.
‘For God’s sake, why?’ Paddy was almost pleading. ‘Tell us that, man. What have we done to deserve this? If you must kill us, if you want our scalps, at least kill us quickly.’ His voice changed and the last word was begging. ‘Please.’
Suddenly the man towering over them became animated. ‘I’ll tell you why,’ he said fiercely. ‘I’ll tell you why. My grandfather was white. The rest of my ancestors have been Indian. We,’ he waved his hand to indicate the other men with him, ‘are from similar backgrounds. We have been outcasts in our tribes, given the dirtiest jobs and been treated like dung beneath the feet of the other braves. The white men treated us worse. What they have done to me and my friends would take longer to tell than you have to live. We left our tribes and banded together. We settled on unused land, raised a few cattle, started our own village. Then, a few years ago white men wanted it. One day while out hunting we returned to our village to find it burnt, the women and children killed and our horses gone. Some of the women had been raped and then burnt alive at the stake. One of the women was my wife. She had been lovely, gentle and kind. Our two sons had been made to watch before they were killed. Now we have nothing to live for except revenge. Our revenge is to kill as many white people as possible in the most painful way until we die or are killed. With you three I shall be more careful than I was last night, I promise you. You shall die in mad agony, eaten alive by the ants. You will be aware of them crawling into your eyes and brains until you go mad.’ Abruptly he walked away.
The boys lay in silence for a few seconds and then Sion spoke. ‘Oh my God,’ was all he managed to whisper because he was then sobbing, his body heaving.
The evening was a replay of the night before, starting with the heavy drinking, the laughing and the giggling.
‘Who is it to be?’ Paddy asked when they saw the figures looming out of the moon lit night.
One of the men was the leader. ‘Listen,’ said Sion desperately, ‘why don’t you ransom us? My father would pay much gold to have us back.’
Taking no notice of him, as though he had not spoken, one of the men drunkenly bent down to cut Paddy’s ropes. Paddy gave a low moan. They pulled him to his feet but he collapsed almost immediately. The breeds giggled inanely, kicked him for a few minutes and then pulled him up again.
The two men holding Paddy’s arms staggered back a couple of paces and from somewhere Paddy found the strength he needed. He barged one of them in the chest, wrapped his arms around the second, a small man barely up to Paddy’s shoulders, and rushed for the butte edge. Before they could be stopped Paddy and the breed went over in a long drawn out duet of screams. Then silence.
The remainder of the gang rushed to the edge, screaming and cursing. Yells were exchanged with the guard at the foot of the butte and then one of them bent down to cut Sion’s bonds. The leader stopped him and indicated Bill.
They hauled him to his feet and Bill collapsed, held up under the arms by two of the gang. The two friends looked at each other for a long moment, tears in their eyes.
‘Let him go you bastards, let him go,’ Sion screamed, struggling against the ropes. A kick sent his head reeling and the word please was only spoken inside his mind.
Bill fought like a madman. He kicked, bit, punched, and scratched. From the yells and curses in a mixture of English and Indian he was hurting some of them. Finally a rifle butt in the back of the head dropped him. They took an arm each, one grabbed his hair and they dragged him away.
After Steve had died they had thrown his body over the edge of the butte, leaving it to the coyotes and buzzards. Now Bill was tied down in the same place as Steve. The shock of one of their number being killed, Paddy’s suicide and Bill’s struggle seemed to have sobered the men a little. Now there was no laughter and dancing, just a business like preparation of the staked area and Bill’s inert form.
Sion went frantic with rage and anguish. He struggled and fought against the ropes. He no longer felt the pain in his wrists where the skin had been chafed away. He only felt that somehow he had to get to Bill before it was too late. He stopped to regain his breath and think. Finally he bent his wrist back and gripped the stake. Concentrating his mind and body on his arm he exerted all his strength.
Sion’s head throbbed and his body ached and after an age of effort he stopped, panting, his arm aching as though a red hot poker had been shoved through it. Again, he braced himself to try. His ears buzzed, his arm was on fire but he thought for a second there was some movement in the stake. Suddenly the night was split asunder with a cry that was to haunt him for years. Bill had made a noise that defied human description. The remaining part of his larynx had been made to work one last time. It was the only sound he made, the only sound he was capable of.
Sion gagged and retched until his stomach ached. Fear swept through him and once more he took hold of the stake and heaved upwards. He kept on . . . and on . . . and on. Waves of pain swept through his arm and down into his body. Red and black mists floated across his eyes . . . and on . . . He passed out.
When he came to Sion was first aware of the pain in his arm, then the stillness of the night. The moon impinged on his consciousness, and then the fact that his arm was out straight by his side. Awkwardly he moved it, lifting the stake to his eyes unable to believe what he saw. Pain swept across his shoulder and along his arm and he dropped it, his fingers too numb to let the stake go.
A while later he sat up and groped for his boot. With difficulty, because his fingers would still not do what his brain told them, he reached his knife. He slashed at the rope holding his left wrist until the rope parted and he could sit up properly. His fingers were beginning to tingle and his wrists throbbed painfully. After freeing his feet he tried to stand but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t make it.
Eventually, the numbness in his feet gave way to pins and needles that drove him frantic as he exercised his toes trying to get the feeling back more quickly. Finally, he could move but he sat immobile for a while, terrified to move. While he regained the use of his feet Sion looked round for a guard but could see nobody. Carefully he skirted the tents and crept towards Bill. He stepped down into a hollow and nearly screamed in shock to see Bill laying at his feet. It took all his will power not to retch at the sight.
Bill was wriggling in nameless agonies, the yellow and red of his bloodied intestines barely recognisable under the mass of seething ants, black in the moonlight. Bill was covered with them from his hair to his feet. Sion stood over him for a second, the knife clenched in his fist and looked down into the mad, staring eyes of his friend. For an instant, as he sunk to his knees, Sion could have sworn there was recognition in the eyes and then he had the knife in his two hands, above the body and he drove it with all his might into Bill’s heart.
Again and again Sion stabbed in a frenzy of horror, dislodging the ants, which rushed about in panic, trying to get away but not wanting to leave the food. Finally, Sion staggered away, the bloodied knife dangling from his hand, his mind in a stupor. He walked to the edge of the butte and was only a pace away when he heard something.
The sound penetrated the haze surrounding his mind and Sion looked back. The sight of the man crawling out of his beehive and going to urinate over the butte edge saved Sion’s life.
The fear evaporated. In its place was a hatred so all consuming he wanted to scream at them. He was about to rush stupidly at the man when Sion’s brain turned cold and sharp as ice. The hatred was there but so was cunning and intelligence. Silently, Sion crept to the side of the tent he had seen the man crawl out of and waited. He wanted to escape, that thought was firmly embedded in him. He did not wish to die. On the other hand he knew he could never get safely down the path in the darkness leading a horse, even with the aid of a full moon. Also he did not think he could kill all of them. Counting the one down below there were nine of them. Coldly and analytically Sion came to the conclusion he could not escape. As much as he wanted to he could not get away. And that left only one thing to do. To kill as many of them as possible until he too, was killed. Unless . . . unless he got an escape route ready. A last ditch attempt and if it failed he would die anyway.
The man was returning. Sion stayed hidden until the half breed bent to crawl into his hovel and then Sion stepped out and, more by luck than judgement, drove the knife as hard as he could through the man’s neck, severing the spinal cord. The man died without a sound. Taking hold of his feet Sion dragged him out of sight behind some rocks. Overcome with exhaustion he went to the water hole and drank his fill.
After a few minutes rest Sion went to find his poles and cotton sheet. Slowly, because his hands were still not responding properly, he tied the bamboo in a cross and fitted the sheet over it. He now had a diamond shape some eight feet by six. To the cross arm he tied two pieces of rope and to the main length he tied one piece a third of the way from the front. He knotted them together and from that he hung two loops, through which he intended placing his arms. From his years of experience playing and making kites, he hoped he would hang along the centreline and slightly back of the cross piece. Sion had made smaller kites in the past, hanging stones on them, experimenting with size and weight, hoping one day to launch himself into the air and float to the earth. That day had arrived.
Looking towards the east Sion felt the wind rising from the cooling rock below and coming in a gentle breeze directly into his face. That was the direction he had to take.
His knife in hand, he walked over to where the horses were tethered and hesitated. He had had a vague notion of killing all of them but realised it was impossible. There were thirteen horses as well as the mule and besides which he did not have the stomach for it.
In the centre of the scruffy camp were piled all the weapons and ammunition. Gathering up the guns he took them to the western edge of the butte and threw them over. He kept two of the six guns as w
ell as a rifle which he slung across his back. Next he stoked up the fire until it was blazing, the flames reaching three or four feet into the air. By now his hands were almost back to normal although his wrists were throbbing with pain. Flexing his fingers he noticed a little blood seeping out at his right wrist so he went to the water hole, washed both wrists and bound them with pieces of cloth. He took another drink and as an after thought filled a water bottle and tied that to the kite. If there was too much weight that would be too bad. There was nothing he could do about it. He got six fire brands ready and he made up six bundles of ammunition in bits of rag. He tied the ammunition to the brands and took a deep breath. He was now ready to kill the men.
He threw a flaming brand into each of the tents. He let go the last one when the first scream rent the air and one of the men, his shirt on fire, crawled into the open. Coolly Sion swung the rifle he had dangling from his neck and in the bright light from the moon and the fire, shot the man through the head. More screams started and then the bullets in the bundles began exploding. The six men still alive came tumbling out, yelling, panic stricken, their tents in flames. One of them was crawling, hit in the stomach from an exploding bullet, another was on fire from head to toe but the other four darted for cover. Sion aimed at the back of the furthest, held his breath and gently squeezed the trigger. He was gratified to see the man throw his arms out and fall face downwards. Switching targets smoothly he shot another in the side as he crossed from right to left but the other two dropped from sight before he could pull the trigger again.
The man on fire was rolling in agony across the ground and the one with the stomach wound was curled up in a foetal position, moaning. He fired a snap shot at the burning man, missed and slipped away towards the eastern end of the butte. A sense of foreboding swept over him and bone weary tiredness made him stumble.