Sam nodded.
Thasuka Witko turned and headed back the other way toward the front gate. As he passed the Sheriff's Office, a dozen Beothuk warriors came out to join him, surrounding their leader as they passed through the gate and vanished into the darkness of the wasteland.
Tom Masters walked up to Sam's side and said, "That was the goddamndest thing I ever seen, Sam. You stared down a Beothuk! Did that itjin understand anything you said to him?"
"Apparently he understood enough," Sam said. He looked back Billy Jack Elliot, still sprawled out on the ground and said, "Somebody help his sorry ass up."
It was a goddamned massacre. Two-covered wagons shot to so much hell they looked like confetti. People moaning and bleeding, livestock riddled with bullets, the sound of bleating and weeping filling the air. Johnny Starr got down from his destrier and inspected his men's handiwork. He pulled back the first wagon's cover to look inside at the locked wooden chests and jars of food. There was a dead man slumped on the floor with a bullet hole in his chest and a woman backed up against the cart, pleading for her life. Starr waved one of the men over and said, "Frisby, get her out of there and look her over. See if she's worth holding onto."
Frisby Clement was a short, stocky man with a narrow beard he wore like a chin strap. He picked at the hair on his chin and inspected his fingers, looking for bugs, as he walked over to Starr's side. When Frisby saw the woman his eyes narrowed and he smiled so broadly that drool almost spilled from between his brown teeth.
Starr snapped his fingers and said, "Nobody touches her unless I say so, am I clear? Last time you idiots bruised the girl up so bad I had to put her up for two weeks before she could earn anything."
"You as clear as rain," Frisby said with a disturbingly high giggle.
Starr turned, about to ask Frisby what the hell he was talking about, then decided it wasn't worth it. He walked over to the second wagon, past an old man lying face down on the ground. His curly white hair was matted with blood. Starr stopped and nudged the man with the toe of his boot, but there was no movement. Starr looked into the second wagon and saw a few clothing trunks and barrels of food. No women. He leaned back and yelled, "Somebody start unloading this stuff. I want these bodies checked too. I want to know who's dead, who's injured and who's faking it. Put them in three separate piles and make sure you check the dead ones for anything worth keeping before you get rid of them this time!"
He walked around the front of the wagon to where a pathetic-looking young man knelt in the dirt with his arms raised, palms pressed toward the sky like it was his job to hold it up. "We were just passing through! You sons of bitches had no reason to attack us!"
The man standing guard over him did not respond other than to finger the brass latches of the black banjo case strung around his neck, back and forth, back and forth, click-clack, click-clack. With his off-set nose and crooked chin he looked like a beggar musician.
"If you're expecting Mr. Pine to respond, you'll be waiting a long time, my friend," Starr said. "He is bereft of voice, you see. His family was at Fort Bane when the Beothuk attacked. They spared young Mr. Pine's life, but they cut out his tongue so he couldn't tell anyone of what he saw."
The driver looked up at Mr. Pine, who opened his mouth and wagged the ruined stump of his tongue at him. The driver scowled and said, "Well we ain't Beothuk and we don't have nothing, so just let us go. Let me at least take the women to safety."
"Are these your people? Your wives and daughters and sons and such that we've killed?"
The man shook his head, "I'm just one of the drivers. The old man back there, Mr. Phillips, hired me to take him out to Tradesville. I was just trying to earn some money, and these people were just trying to get across the wasteland, but then you come along and kilt 'em!" He dug into his pocket and pulled out a few small severian coins and flung them at Starr's feet, "Here! These are all I got. Just take it and let us go."
Starr picked up the coins and jingled them in his hand. "A small fortune, to be certain."
"Hardly that, but good enough for what I needed 'em for."
"Which was?"
"What do you care?"
Starr smiled at him, "Humor me."
"I was gonna show my girl's pa that I was serious about marrying her. That I was willing to do what it took to provide for her and I weren't no lazy body like he said."
Starr rattled the coins in his hand as he looked the young man over. "I think that's the sweetest thing I've heard in a long time. What do you think, Mr. Pine? You think we have a romantic soul on our hands, here?"
Mr. Pine grunted, still fingering his instrument case in a continuous, rhythmic fashion.
Starr leaned down next to him, trying to get him to look up. "What is your name, son?"
"Jeffrey."
"Well, Jeffrey, I know it must seem horrible to a young man like you. Someone decent and honest. You still believe there's good in this world. That there's right and wrong, am I correct?"
"Yes, sir," Jeffrey sputtered.
"That is a noble thing, indeed," Starr said. "And I am truly sorry." Starr stood up and swept the dirt off his pants and said, "Mr. Pine? We are letting this one go."
Mr. Pine nodded. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Jeffrey looked up in disbelief, "Do you mean it?"
"I do," Starr said.
"But what about these folks?"
"Oh, I think they can stay with us. We'll see that the injured are treated and the dead are buried. I want to thank you, Jeffrey. Thank you for helping me see that there is still some good in this world."
"You won't regret this, mister," Jeffrey said. "I guarantee you this act of kindness won't go unrewarded. The Lord says there will be more rejoicing in Heaven over one sinner who repents than over a thousand believers who don't need to."
"Does he now?" Starr said whimsically. He looked at Mr. Pine, "You see that? I told you this was our lucky day. Go on now, Jeffrey. Run and spread the good news."
Jeffrey shot to his feet and took off running, the bottoms of his boots kicking up light clouds of yellow dirt across the mesa. Starr inspected the coins in his hand and held up the largest one, "Mr. Pine, I wager you this coin that you cannot hit him at a hundred yards."
Mr. Pine calmly undid the rest of the latches on his instrument case and opened the lid to remove a wooden rifle stock with several hinged pieces of narrow metal tubing bent around its side. He pressed a button on the underside of the stock and the metal tubes ratcheted forward one by one, joining together into one long rifle barrel.
Starr squinted to keep an eye on Jeffrey as he ran deeper and deeper into the darkness. The twin moons were out and bright as lanterns overhead, but soon Starr could hardly see anything beyond the flat grey surface of the nighttime desert. "You had better hurry if you want to win this coin, Mr. Pine."
Mr. Pine grunted as he removed a long scope with a wide glass eyepiece at the front and back. He screwed the scope down until it clicked into place and raised the rifle to his cheek.
"I can barely see him anymore," Starr sighed. "You were too slow."
Mr. Pine turned a dial on the scope and re-aimed, taking a long deep breath and holding it for so long that Starr worried he might pass out. Finally, the rifle fired in a tremendous burst of deafening gunfire.
Starr watched the grey dirt burst into crimson around Jeffrey and saw the young man collapse on the ground and flail. Starr sighed and dropped the coin into Mr. Pine's hand and said, "I was married once. We did that young man a favor by giving him a quick death." They both froze when they heard the distinct sound of a shotgun slide racking back and forth. Starr looked at Mr. Pine and said, "Let me guess. It's Mr. Phillips."
Mr. Pine nodded, keeping his cold eyes fixed over Starr's shoulder. He moved his long rifle slowly, but the old man said, "Move another inch and I'll blow a hole through his back that sprays lead and guts all over you, you son of a bitch."
Starr put his hands in the air and said, "Put your gun down, Mr. Pine
." Once the mute had done what he was told, Starr looked over his shoulder and said, "May I turn around, sir?"
"Do it slow."
Starr turned around and said, "It serves me right for letting you lay there. I should have been more thorough."
Phillips glanced back at where Frisby and the others now stood, whipping his head back to make sure Starr and Mr. Pine hadn't moved. "Quit your talkin' and get over there with the rest of your people."
Starr rolled his shoulders back and jerked his head to either side to loosen up. "Start walkin'!" Phillips shouted.
Mr. Pine came around Starr's back, keeping his hands high in the air. The old man tracked him with the barrel of the shotgun, and Starr immediately whipped the pistol out and fired. The shotgun went off harmlessly, hitting the ground just inches from where Mr. Pine stood, spraying the mute with rock and pellets. The old man grabbed the side of his neck and squeezed it in terror as a hot torrent of blooded gushed through his fingers. His boots shuffled in the dirt like a mountain dancer, and Starr clapped his hands raucously and whistled a tune while the old man staggered around, letting out an, "Aw," of disappointment when he finally fell.
Mr. Pine looked down where the shotgun's pellets struck the ground, and Starr twirled his pistol in a wide circle a few times in front of Pine's face before dropping it in the holster. "You might have the distance, my friend, but I have the speed. All right, that's enough fun. Let's get to work."
2. Tom Masters' Long Ride
Dark smoke filled the night sky, it swirled upwards toward the bright light of the twin moons, black enough to blanket the stars, black enough to make Tom Masters taste soot in the back of his throat no matter how many times he hocked up and spit in the dirt.
An hour of walking in his boots left him limping by the time he reached his property, but he still drew his gun and walked the perimeter, needing to make sure nothing uninvited remained. Luckily, all appeared safe and sound. Tom worked his way toward the backyard and poked his head inside the barn. A chestnut-colored, medium-sized destrier snorted at the sight of him and stuck her nose in his face. Tom patted her and said, "I'm sorry, Buttercup. Ol' Buck didn't make it." The animal turned toward him, nuzzling him with her large pink nostrils. Tom looked at the empty stall next to Buttercup's and needed to close his eyes.
He found the metal basement doors at the rear of the house were closed and locked, just as he'd hoped. They jutted out of the ground at a forty-five degree angle toward the house and he leaned down to knock on them in a sequence of three and two.
There was scuffling on the steps below as someone shuffled up to the doors and called out, "Who is it?"
"It's me," he replied, loud enough for her to hear.
"You alone?"
"Yeah. And I'm all right too, thanks for asking."
Martha threw the latches back on the doors to unlock them and Tom grabbed the handles to heave them open, making the heavy metal hinges groan. Tom patted the thick steel fondly and said, "Whatever crazy bastard built a bomb shelter when they erected this place, I'm gonna buy him a drink if we ever meet up."
Martha wiped her hands on her apron and held out her hand for Tom on his way down the rickety steps. "I never thought we'd use it for more than storage," she said.
There were racks of canned goods and boxes lined up against the walls and a few scattered chickens squawking angrily at Tom. They flapped their wings and sent flurries of feathers into the air. Bart was sitting at the far end with his legs crossed, nose buried deep in a book. The family's cat stretched out in Bart's lap and purred gently as the boy stroked its back. "You help your mama get all these animals in here?" Tom said.
Bart shrugged and nodded without looking up.
"He did his best," Martha said. "He was a good boy. Weren't the least bit afraid."
"How could he be afraid?" Tom said scornfully. "His biggest worry is that somebody might come along and snatch his books away." Tom snatched the book out of Bart's hands and the boy instantly said, "Hey!"
"Don't you hey your father, young man," Martha said.
"I'm sorry," Bart said, turning his eyes down.
"Buck's dead."
"What! How?" Martha pressed her hands over her mouth in shock.
Tom looked at his boy and decided there were details that didn't need to be gone into. "He just didn't make it is all."
Bart looked up at him, "You okay, Pa?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. There's a few dozen savages that ain't though," Tom said. "Anyway, you guys eat already? I'm starved."
"We opened up a few cans down here. Is it safe to go back up yet?"
"Almost," Tom said. "Might still be a few stragglers left in the settlement. I'd rather have you both down here till we know for sure."
"All right. I can heat you up some beans."
Tom grinned stupidly, "Then I hope for you all's sake this place has decent ventilation."
The boy chuckled and shook his head. Not like he was amused, though. More like he was just tolerating his old man's foolishness. Kid could read before he could walk. How the hell I sire a damn intellectual? "What you reading on, there, Bart?"
Bart folded the book and said, "It's a history book."
Tom's nose curled instinctively. "A bunch a' old stuff people already did and said?"
"That's one way of looking at it, I guess."
Tom held out his hand for the book and saw the faded cover and title that read The First Settlers − Founding Seneca Prime. "I read about them dudes back when I was in school. They fought the Beothuk. Just like some other people you might have heard of. Somebody who is maybe next to you, like, right now."
"Pa," Bart sighed. He took the book back and opened it to find his page again.
Tom gave up and walked over to where his wife was winding a wooden spoon around the inside of a pot. "It's not like I was expecting a parade or anything, but you know …"
Martha kept stirring. "He was worried. He just doesn't know how to tell you."
"How about you? You glad I'm back?"
She looked back at him and said, "Maybe I'll show you later if you behave."
Tom nodded at her, "That's the best thing anybody's said to me all day."
Both of them looked up at the same time toward the muffled voice that shouted, "Deputy Masters! Deputy Masters! Are you home? We need help!"
Tom lowered his head and said, "God damn."
"They must be around the front of the house," Martha said.
Tom waved for her to go over to Bart and he drew his pistol. "You both stay down here and keep quiet until I make sure everything's safe upstairs." He crept toward the steps and walked up as quietly as he could, listening for movement in the backyard. It would be impossible to open that cellar door without letting the whole world know they were down there. "Martha," he whispered over his shoulder. "Come on up. When I go through this door, you pull it shut behind me and lock it at the first sign of trouble, you hear?"
She held the handle with both hands over both of their heads, ready to twist it. "How will I know there's trouble?"
"By the deafening sound of hellacious gunfire."
"Okay," she whispered.
"Even if I get shot or something happens to me, you just shut that door and don't open it up no matter what."
"Okay."
"Hey!" Tom said. "You'd leave me up there wounded and not even worry about shutting the door on me?"
The voice cried out, "Deputy Masters! Please! My brother's injured!"
"I'm comin'," Tom shouted back. He reached up and helped her twist until he was able to force the door open and come out with his pistol cocked and ready to fire at the first thing he saw.
He aimed his gun at the girl sitting in the driver's seat of a small carriage with two sturdy looking mules pulling it. He couldn't see past her into the cart. Perfect for a few hidden itjins to come up firing. Tom shouted, "Don't come any closer! Get your hands up now!"
The girl threw her hands into the air and screamed, "Don't shoot! I'm Winn
ie Graves from up the way. My little brother goes to the same school as your boy, Bart."
Tom worked around the cart at a wide angle, until he could make out two figures huddled together in the back, seeing a woman with her arms wrapped around a younger boy. "Abe's been shot real bad," Winnie whimpered. "You gotta help him."
The little boy was pale white with bright red blood splattered across his left side. Mrs. Graves was stricken, babbling nonsense words that sounded like someone was tearing out her voicebox. Tom cursed at the sight of the wound and shouted, "Martha! Come on up here. I need some of them napkins."
"Napkins?" she shouted through the cellar door. It popped open immediately and she came running up to Tom's side and looked down, then recoiled suddenly. "Napkins…ain't gonna stop that, Tom."
"Not those napkins, goddamn it. The other kind. The lady kind. Hurry up, damn it. This kid's about to bleed out!"
Martha staggered back in horror, "I can't … I can't believe it. So much blood."
Tom climbed into the cart, having to use the side rails to keep from sliding around on the blood. He ripped the boy's shirt open and looked down at the wounded flesh, seeing a black hole in the boy's ribs the exact size of a pistol round. "How the hell'd he get this? The itjins were using rifles and arrows."
"Our neighbor said he saw a shadow on our front porch and opened fire. Abe was standing by the window to see what was happening when the glass shattered and he started screaming."
Tom muttered a curse and looked up to holler at Martha for standing still when he saw Bart running out of the house's backdoor carrying a handful of thick white sanitary napkins. He grabbed the first one from the stack and shoved it down against the boy's side, but the blood kept soaking through. "It ain't much but it oughtta hold him till we get over to Doc Halladay's."
"Is that the sick man who lives near the Sheriff? He ain't there. We tried to find him but everyone's sayin' he's gone."
Guns of Seneca 6 Box Set Collected Saga (Chambers 1-4) Page 42