Blood Sport

by Robert F. Jones

  “Okay,” I said. “I trust Hunk’s shooting, after that story you told me this morning. But what about ricochets? I mean, those skulls are hard, and bullets have been known to follow the curve of the skull. . . .”

  “Iss hokay,” said Hunk. “I got solids in here”—and he slapped the magazine. The steel-jacketed bullets ought to pop right straight through the bone, I knew, but still . . . I walked out the hundred paces, my throat jerking spasmodically, and lifted the skulls to my shoulders. The others looked distant and tiny. Fric and Frac made exaggerated soup-eating motions and laughed uproariously. If I could make it to the woods . . . But Hunk would drop me before I covered ten yards. I tried to swallow and stood as still as possible. Hunk was sitting, his elbows on his knees, and the end of the scope stared at me like a monocle.

  The skull on my right shoulder exploded like a grenade, fragments flying every which way, one of them clipping my nose, and I never heard Hunk’s shot. With my ears still ringing and my mind racing like a squirrel cage, my knees started to buckle and then, splat!, the second skull exploded, louder than the first. I reeled away to my right, but caught myself from falling. Hunk was standing up, grinning proudly as he snapped the bright brass out of the receiver. I took a deep breath and tasted blood in the back of my throat. A bloody nose from that first bone fragment. I stooped to pick it up. It was a chunk of cheekbone, and I pocketed it for a souvenir. I wiped my nose on a shirt sleeve and walked back slowly. At least I hadn’t peed my pants. Twigan and some of the other women applauded.

  “Fine,” I said to Ratnose. “Now let me do the same for you.” Everyone laughed. Ratnose took the .243 from Hunk and handed it to me.

  “Not just yet,” he said. “First let’s see you hit that skull on the pole above my cave.”

  The rifle felt light but well balanced, and I knew it shot flat. I wrapped the sling around my forearm and took a squint through the scope. A cinch. The skull looked as big as a medicine ball at this range. I thumbed back the hammer and squeezed off. Very little recoil. The top of the pole quivered as the skull flew apart. The lower jawbone was all that remained, spinning crazily until I levered in another round and smashed it to bits, the few remaining teeth spattering down like hail. A surge of confidence: I couldn’t miss with this piece. Spinning around, I worked the lever again and zeroed in on a flock of chickens that were working over the horse manure at the edge of the corral—nearly a 200-yard shot. I headed one chicken—pow!—then another before Ratnose could grab the rifle barrel.

  “Goddammit,” he roared, “don’t show off on the livestock!” Great gusts of laughter. Only Fric and Frac looked glum.

  “There’s one round left,” I said as Ratnose let go of the muzzle. Before he could object, I zapped the wineskin that lay on the ground between Fric and Frac. A spurt of wine hit Frac in the eye while Fric did a backflip getting away. After a moment of stunned silence, everyone descended on the ruptured wineskin, laughing and scratching and guzzling to see that none of it went to waste. Then the men raced to get their own weapons.

  One thing about Ratnose’s people, a whiff of gunpowder or a drop of blood always put them in a festive mood. For the next hour, the camp sounded like a battlefield. Hunk blasted a couple more chickens so as not to be topped by my shooting—”Need a few more for the chicken soup anyway,” Ratnose rationalized. Then Beppo broke out a rusty old foot trap from the storage shed and began throwing targets for the wing shooters. Empty beer and bully-beef can, pie tins, pot lids, whiskey bottles, even an old wooden clog—we shredded or shattered or ventilated all of them. Fric and Frac, the pistoleros, recovered from their bruised egos and skipped a bottle cap across the stream with their six-guns. Finally, Ratnose called a halt.

  “It’s always good to burn a little powder,” he said, “but we haven’t got an unlimited supply of ammunition. And anyway, Runaway here still has to show us how well he can ride.”

  I had been hoping that they might have forgotten about the riding part. Like most kids growing up in the countryside, I’d snitched rides on old farm plugs from time to time, galloping them to a froth while we played Cowboys-and-Indians, but I knew I was not a real horseman. Not like these people were. They practically lived on horseback, and when I recalled how Ratnose had vaulted from the saddle the other day as easily as I’d step off the front porch, I knew I’d make a bad showing. But not as bad as it turned out.

  The horse they led forth from the corral was a raunchy, hammerheaded buckskin. Old and galled, with a rib cage like a tank truck. I’d never get my knees around those withers. And I was expected to ride him bareback, with only a cinch around his belly and a string of rawhide in his mouth. No bit, no snaffle, no nothing.

  “Shit, I won’t even be able to mount up,” I complained. “I’m too short for this damned giraffe.”

  “I’ll give you a leg up,” said Ratnose with a wicked grin.

  “What do I have to do with him?”

  “Nothing much. Just ride him down to the edge of the woods there and back. Take him at whatever speed you want—walk, trot, canter, or gallop.”

  I looked more closely at Ratnose. It sounded too easy, and he had that slick sound of menace in his voice that I was beginning to recognize as a signal that Ratnose was in a mood to teach lessons.

  Suddenly he grabbed me by the leg and threw me onto the horse’s back. I had the reins in my hand, but before I could even take up the slack I was upside down in the air, staring down at the crowd that looked at least a hundred yards below me, and then I was back in the nightmare—”Learn to fly!” Skidding, slipping through the air. A splat of white light. The horse rearing over me with rolling eyes and mucky hoofs. A roar of shock and horse laughter in my ears. Somehow I scuttled clear of the hooves and staggered to my feet up against the rails of the corral. I felt clearheaded but numb, and I could see that they were all laughing at me. I was walking over to Ratnose, who held the bridle, and saying “Gimme that!”

  Then I was up in the air again—longer this time, it seemed, but the shock of the landing seemed less. I remember thinking: If only I can figure out when he’s starting to throw me, then maybe I can correct for it. But I couldn’t even tell if I was ever on the horse’s back. All I could feel was the flight through the air and then the dirt under my cheek. I could see the people watching me—some gleeful; others neutral; a few, like Twigan and Hunk, looking embarrassed, or maybe sad. I don’t know how many times I took that trip, but finally Ratnose grabbed me by the neck and pulled me away from the horse.

  “I think we can safely say that you’re not a horseman,” he said. “You’ve failed the test.” Fric and Frac applauded, and Frac—that rotten bastard—started beating on his mess tin. A few others cheered, too. I tried to focus on them and remember their faces, but my eyeballs were still spinning, and bits of dirt and horseshit kept clouding my vision.

  “Wait a goddam minute,” I said finally. “I passed two thirds of the test, and I’m willing to keep trying on this part until I can make it. And you told me yourself, this morning, that you got thrown by that Husky over there in the shed. Nobody ate you up because you couldn’t ride a simple little dirt bike. I know kids only ten years old who can ride a dirt bike. Let me show you what I can do on the Husky and then give me some time to learn about horses.”

  They pondered that for a few minutes, the older men talking back and forth in their nasal, hissing language that I couldn’t understand.

  “Iss good point,” Hunk said finally, in English. “I say give kid another chance.” Most of the others nodded agreement.

  “Okay, Runaway,” Ratnose said, “you’ve gained a reprieve from the charcoal broiler.”

  By now the numbness that had come with being thrown was wearing off. My left shoulder ached, and I noticed that both of my elbows were skinned raw, my shirt shredded and sticking to the blood with clots of grass and rubbed-in dirt. My nose throbbed; it was thick enough now with swelling that it restricted some of my vision up close. Yesterday’s whip cut across my c
heek had reopened, though the dirt in it kept the bleeding to a minimum. I asked Ratnose if I couldn’t clean up before riding the bike.

  “Come on, Runaway, I didn’t figure you for a femme. Next thing you know, you’ll want to go to the pediatrician—or maybe the gynecologist.”

  I took a swig from Fric and Frac’s half-empty wineskin to clear my throat and then wheeled the Husky out into the sun. Ratnose tossed me the key. I switched on the gas and closed the choke lever, then checked the oil sump: full, though slightly dirty. It took three kicks to get the bike lit off, but once she was running, she sounded smooth and hungry. My father used to laugh at the way I attributed human characteristics to my bike —”anthropomorphism,” he called it—but I figured that if men in the olden days could give human names to their horses and mules, and even make love to them, then why couldn’t my generation do the same? I mean, they’re both transportation, and if anything deserves to be treated like folks, it’s the thing that gets you away from them. I didn’t believe in going so far as to ball a bike, though. I’d heard of a kid who tried it and got stuck. Coitus captivitis of the exhaust pipe.

  The big 450-cc motor was warm now, blipping nicely under my left hand, so I pushed the choke lever all the way open and clutched her into bottom gear. She jerked forward a bit—strong, eager to ride. The gang was gathered all around me, goggling like a bunch of Stone Age savages who’d never seen a machine before. Well, I’d give them a magic show, all right. Ratnose was yelling something at me through the engine noise, pointing to his head. Twigan came running up with a crash helmet in her hand, one of those fancy American-flag numbers out of Easy Ridersville. It must have belonged to the Husky’s dead owner. I shook my head “no,” even though I knew I should take it.

  “That’s for pussies!” I yelled to Ratnose. He was standing nearly in front of me, and as he started to grin his approval, I brought her up to revs and popped the clutch. The torque came on like the Light Brigade and the front wheel leaped into the air, knocking Ratnose on his butt as the bike took off in a classic wheelstand. The crowd in front of me scrambled and split as I held the wheelie right through them, spewing dirt and sticks and assorted crud behind me like a machine gun. Ahead of me was the big bonfire, but I wasn’t ready for that yet—not until I’d gotten the bike sorted out. I backed off on the throttle, the engine torque serving as my brake, and slid around the fire in a sharp series of S-shaped slides, then hit it again and lined out towards the end of the clearing, changing up through the gearbox to top before I got there.

  The Husky had more power than anything I’d ever ridden before, but it was a smooth machine, totally responsive. It felt great to be back on a bike, up on the pegs, leaning and swinging my body like a small, upside-down pendulum that controlled the great vibrating steel time machine under me. I had plenty of room to work in, so I cut a few tight doughnuts and figure-8s, then lofted the bike over logs and potholes, getting the feel of her for my big act. I’d noticed that the bonfire was built on the backside of a shallow slope, so as to mask it from the prevailing winds. The rim of the slope was between me and the gang, offering a perfect takeoff ramp for a jump over the fire. I’d give them a touch of Evel. Knievel, that is. Right now I was Awful Knaufel.

  Wheeling to the far edge of the clearing, I stopped the bike and lined up for the run. Just the top of the fire was visible from here, owing to the rise in the ground, and I could see the faces of the gang through the flames, warped and goggling and wraithlike. I charged at the fire, the throttle screwed down tight, full revs, belly-tight against the tank, and then as I hit the top of the slope I stood on the pegs, leaning backward to bring the front wheel up and keep it there throughout the trajectory. At the top of the jump, I could see them all ahead of me: hands at their throats and mouths; even Ratnose agog, with his big midnight eye fixed on me in unblinking horror. I almost lost it when I touched down—later, when I paced off the jump, it measured a full twenty strides—but that only made it look more spectacular. Brakes and a sharp downshift, and I was skidding to a sideways stop in front of them, once again lashing everyone with dirt. Dogs and chickens scattered, women screamed, and even Ratnose flinched. I blatted the throttle loud and high, then hit the kill switch.

  “Do I pass?”

  Everyone blinked their eyes and then started cheering. Ratnose, too. I’d joined the gang.

  As we walked away towards the fire for the customary crait celebration—these people celebrated everything, sometimes even the sunrise—Ratnose put his arm around my shoulder. “Ah,” he said, “there’s an old saying that applies here. ‘To ride, shoot straight, and tell a lie is all you need to teach a guy.’ “

  Yeah, I thought, The Song of the Hassayampa.

  33

  MY FIRST FEW DAYS with Ratnose’s gang had made it seem that they led a pretty easy life. I mean, plenty of fresh red meat, plenty of dope and wine, no restrictions on screwing, or shooting off guns at any time of the day or night. People just jumped up whenever they felt like it to go galloping off on a horse, say, letting it run wherever it wanted. I had free access to the bike, after my initiation, just as the rest of the band had to the horses. We ate when we pleased, drank when we pleased, played when we pleased, worked when we pleased, and slept when we pleased, with whomsoever was pleased to sleep with us. Or alone, if we pleased. But it only seemed that way. Actually, we worked pretty hard.

  The rumors that drift down the Hassayampa with the skulls and flotsam of the spring runoff would lead you to believe that Ratnose spends all his time raiding and raping and burning. In point of fact, we only raided when we were really hard up, like when we needed more ammunition, or horses, or a new lot of women. Ratnose had a good trading relationship with many of the villages on the outskirts of his territory, and whenever we needed the staples like salt or sugar, the cheap things, we would ride on over to one or another of them and swap hides for what we needed. We rarely raided a settlement, since Ratnose figured that settlements were serious things that could call for reinforcements, and at any rate the people in them had long memories. Instead, he preferred to raid the few caravans or wagon trains that crossed his country. That way he could pick his own time and place, and usually wipe out the party to the last man. Also, caravans were “concentrated riches,” as he liked to say, while villages were “concentrated poverty.” Not that Ratnose was any Robin Hood. He had nothing but contempt for such romantic notions as robbing from the rich to give to the poor. You robbed from the rich because they had stuff, and yet let the poor alone because they were a waste of time. Unless you wanted skulls. (“A poor man’s head skins out easier and cures quicker than a rich man’s because he has less fat on his skull,” Ratnose always said.)

  No, a raid was a big thing to Ratnose and his people, kind of like a Christmas shopping expedition would be to city folks, except that you did it with guns, though with no less anticipation. We actually went into training for the raids. Men who had grown soft and sloppy on too much crait or eating, too much lying around camp, would hie themselves off into the mountains for a few days of climbing, hunting, and loneliness. Dried meat, raw roots, ice water and solitude would shape them up quick. But few of the men—and very few of the women, for that matter —ever let themselves slide that far into slobhood. We all had work to do, though we never called it that. We got a kick out of providing.

  Like on the morning after my Initiation Orgy, when I was lying there in Hunk’s cave feeling completely frazzled from pituitary to pecker (more about that later), and old Beppo walked in wondering if Hunk would help him out on the trapline that day. Hunk’s dart wound was still kind of septic, he said, but maybe . . .

  “How about you, Runner?” Beppo asked. My bones still ached, and the cuts on my face and arms had that stiff feeling that warns against motion, but I said, Sure, just give me a minute to get dressed and eat. I pulled on my boots, stuffed a handful of sarvisberry pemmican into my mouth, grabbed my shotgun, and followed noseless old Beppo out into the trapper’s world.


  We pounded those wooded draws all day, wading the ice-cold streams and clambering up sheer granite faces to investigate Beppo’s sets. He must have had a hundred of them, and he knew each one more intimately than my tongue knew the creases between my molars. He seemed to see the flow of the country through a shrew’s eyes, or better yet, feel it through a mole’s toes; he knew how various furbearers and predators would use the wrinkles of the earth, where they would step to avoid getting their feet wet, which ones would take to the water rather than continue on land, what patches of berry bush would draw which birds and thus which foxes, weasels or reptiles. He knew the otter slides and the beaver houses, the wolf runs and the bear dens, and he could build a perfect set for each one. Mainly he used deadfalls, snares, and cage traps, though when he had to make a set underwater, like for beaver or otter, he used steel traps. For pine marten and fisher, he used small steel traps which he set inside of little doll-sized log cabins, whose doorways he anointed with an evil-smelling goo that he carried around with him in a milk bottle. The first time I smelled it, I nearly puked.

  “What the hell’s in that stuff?”

  “Fish guts, chicken heads, the eyeballs of codfish, rat brains, the bodies of mice that died in the grain bin—things like that. After a while it turns to liquid. The marten thinks he’s found himself a feast, and snap, I’ve got him.”

  I admired Beppo’s skill in reading the wilderness, and I was fascinated with what he taught me about the daily rounds of animal life, the ease with which these creatures were taken by anyone who look the time to study their habits. But I was repelled as well. Beppo was a phlegmatic killer. He carried a cudgel with him on these excursions, and with it he merely tapped the trapped animal over the snout, knocking it cold. Then he jumped on its chest, rupturing the heart. I saw him do it to wolves as well as weasels—standing there expressionless within inches of a set of teeth that could have taken his hand off at the wrist. Clank! Stomp! Then the skinning knife. I began to wonder if perhaps he hadn’t lost his nose to a wolf bite. No, he told me, nothing so glamorous. A crazy whore he knew in Hymarind had clipped it off one night with a garden shears while he was cooling out from a crait high. It wasn’t so bad after he got over the shock of being ugly, he said. At least, he didn’t snore anymore.