The Black Trail

by James W. Marvin

  ‘Four.’

  But it would be a loss of face to him if they were to let her go. There was that to be considered. It was difficult to make up his mind.

  ‘Five,’ said Crow, leveling the Winchester at his next target. Picking it with care. Squeezing the trigger. The cloud of smoke from the rifle obscuring his view for a moment.

  The chief had begun to move, leaning to one side, when the heavy caliber bullet hit him high on the left temple, tearing away part of his forehead, angling down and sideways, kicking out a chunk of skull with the bloodied scalp and clotted hair still attached.

  He didn’t know what had happened. He’d been about to obey the demon’s master, then he was on his back and there was a pumping sound in his ears that drowned out any other sound. As his brain ceased to function the chief had the final realization that he had been shot. Saw with a desperate clarity that it was just a trick. And that the man who had gunned him down from the blackness must be…

  ‘Crow,’ he tried to say, but death stilled his tongue.

  But for the rest of the war-party his death was the spur they needed. Their belief had been strong enough before, with that silent figure watching them, clutching the symbol of slaughter. And the two killings, swift and total, removed any lingering doubts. One of the oldest warriors stood up and shouted out a guttural command for the woman to be brought out. Two young men scampered to obey him, while Mavulamanzi remained motionless and Crow, invisible, levered another round into the Winchester, catching the ejected cartridge-case and laying it silently among the cool stones.

  It was going to work. As long as nothing went wrong at the last moment, it was going to work.

  Lavinia heard the shooting and a vestige of sanity crept back into her mind. It must be someone trying to rescue her! Maybe the soldiers. Or that lean bastard, Crow. Even Mavulamanzi himself. Anyone that could take her out of this place.

  For a moment she was tempted to yell out. To call and let them know she was still alive. When the rough covering was pulled open and hands beckoned her into the light of the fires, she barely managed to hang on to one of the blankets to cover her nakedness. Standing for a moment, blinking at the bizarre scene.

  At first even she didn’t recognize Mavulamanzi, towering beyond the fires in his awful pomp and majesty. A savage leader from his bare feet to the crown of his painted head.

  The Zulu ignored her, and Lavinia was bewildered. Why was everyone so still, looking at her? Where was the rest of the rescuing army? There were two corpses on the ground there, both with bullets through their skulls. One of them, she recognized from the scar by the mouth, was the leader of the Indians. Who had killed them and why?

  The voice from the shadows made the two braves step hastily away from her, both sitting down in the dirt. Lavinia noticed that they were trembling as if they were in the grip of a sudden ague.

  ‘Leave the woman, men of the Mescalero Apache,’ said the voice. Using a language that she didn’t know, but recognized from having heard it all around her for the last day and more. The tongue was Indian, and yet the voice…the voice she recognized.

  It was…

  ‘Woman,’ said the echoing voice. ‘Walk ahead and do not stop. Walk, Lavinia Woodstock. Quickly but do not run. Show no fear.’

  It was Crow. She almost smiled as more of the nightmare flowed away from her and she guessed what was happening. Crow had sent the black down as an emissary of fear while he stayed out of sight and gunned down anyone who moved. So simple and so clever.

  It was going to be all right. She was going to live after all. They’d get away from America. Maybe go back to Paris. She’d liked Paris. It would be beautiful again. No more hardships. The pain and the wetness and the blood and the humiliations were all slipping towards the past. Aching to be forgotten.

  ‘Move,’ urged the voice, with a new note of urgency.

  Crow had noticed that there was the first hint of movement among the Indians. One or two of the young bucks, individually, were becoming a touch restless. It would only take that restlessness to spread and a man to look at his neighbor and the whole pack of cards would collapse around their ears. If only the woman would hurry up and move her ass out of the canyon. She seemed to be enjoying the moment, delaying it as long as possible. Looking around her as if she was a rich courtesan surrounded by a host of admirers.

  Crow had seen white women taken by Indians before. And he’d seen some of them that wouldn’t ever manage to be better than ninety cents in the dollar as far as sense went. Looked like Lavinia Woodstock might have gone the same crazy path.

  ‘Come on. Move now or stay there!’

  Finally, slowly, the white woman began to walk between the fires, past the giant statue of Chief Mavulamanzi, towards the main trail into the canyon. Behind her, Crow saw two of the braves whisper something to each other, and he leveled the Winchester. Snapping off two quick shots, seeing both warriors topple over dead. He was only about fifty yards away and with the accurate rifle it was like shooting beans in a can.

  Reverting to Apache, Crow ordered the remaining braves to turn and face the rear wall of White Canyon. ‘So that you do not see the manner of leaving for those who live forever. As long as the grass grows, so shall we watch over this place and it shall be sacred to the Mescalero Apaches for all time.’

  The woman was almost beyond the last of the cooking fires now, stepping past the sprawled corpse of the Indian chief. Looking down for a moment into the blankly upturned face, smeared with trickling blood. Then she moved on.

  Behind her Crow watched the braves, seeing them all obeying the orders of the unseen devil. Facing away from Mavulamanzi. The shootist wondered whether the Zulu would take his cue from their actions and make himself scarce. He needn’t have worried. Almost invisibly, the huge black slipped away from where he’d been standing and disappeared in the surrounding darkness, on the heels of the woman. Heading for the entrance to the canyon and safety.

  It wouldn’t take very long before the Indians recovered from that superstitious fear and realized that they’d been taken for a ride. They’d find the dead sentry and they’d come out of White Canyon so fast there’d be flames from the hooves of their ponies. It wasn’t Crow’s intention to be around when that happened and he’d already agreed with Mavulamanzi that they should hide up in a narrow side canyon less than a quarter of a mile from the opening to the arroyo where they’d rescued the woman. There was water in this canyon and the Apaches would be so furious that they would guess their prey had run in the direction they’d come from. All Crow and the Zulu and the woman had to do was wait and be patient.

  Once they reached the grove of trees where their comrade was impaled, they’d realize they’d been tricked and try and cut back. But by then Crow reasoned that there would be so many options open to him that they should be able to get back to the horses by a northern route and then clean away.

  Crow climbed steadily, moving along a ridge of rough stone, feeling his way towards the safety of a path that cut diagonally towards the top of the canyon he’d pointed out to Mavulamanzi. Knowing that he’d reach it well before the big Negro.

  Resting once he was there, lying on a flattish plateau. Slowing his breath to well below normal as he recovered from the exertion. The clouds were easing away from the face of the moon and he peered down over the lip of the cliff, seeing the glint of water far below him, and a handful of scrubby trees. It was a good place to hide up, with the drop of more than a hundred feet sheer to the trees and several alternative escape routes if the Mescalero should spot them and try to close in.

  There was a rattling of pebbles on the path about eighty feet below and Crow took the Winchester, cocking it and waiting. Hearing the rasping panting and moaning of the woman. He wondered whether the Zulu was with her and was taken by surprise when the massive black loomed over the edge of the plateau, the woman following him several minutes later.

  Mavulamanzi said nothing, going to the further side of the rocky ledge
and sitting down, mumbling to himself. Giving thanks, Crow assumed, for their successful rescue. When he looked back on it Crow realized how lucky they’d been and what a dangerous venture it had been.

  ‘Oh, my sweet Jesus,’ sighed Lavinia Woodstock, flopping down by the shootist, the blanket still pulled tight around her. She was struggling for breath and looked twice across at the figure of the chief.

  ‘He speak?’ she asked.

  ‘Nope. Not a damned word,’ replied Crow.

  ‘Nor to me.’ She sounded worried. ‘Went off after I’d run away. Passed me and just pointed up here. Then he leaped off as though someone had planted a maroon up his black arse. Left me to struggle along behind him.’

  ‘Guess he must be pleased.’

  The woman looked at him with her head on one side. Even in the poor light of the moon Crow could see that she’d taken a beating. Her right eye was swollen and blood coagulated in twin black trickles from her nose. One of the Mescalero had punched out two of her front teeth giving her face a lopsided appearance. If that was what her face was like, Crow wondered about the rest of her. His mind vaguely recalling something that poor dead little Mikalawayo had said about the honor of a Zulu chief. How he would go after anything taken and recover it. But if it was damaged he…

  ‘Take off blanket.’ The deep voice of Mavulamanzi made him start, looking round at where the big Negro stood, assegai in hand. Staring at Lavinia Woodstock.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take off blanket’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Not ask. Do.’

  ‘Why? You want to see what they did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lavinia Woodstock walked away from the black, shrugging the grey blanket tighter about her shoulders. Peering out into space. Far below them Crow could hear the sound of shouting and then, immediately after, the rumbling of hooves as the Mescalero set off in pursuit, as he’d thought they would. But he could tell from the sound that they were going in the wrong direction,

  ‘I say again. Take off…’

  ‘I heard you the first time.’

  ‘You are my…’

  ‘Fuck you, nigger,’ spat Lavinia Woodstock. ‘You got me here and now Crow got me out. Must have been his plan. Your fucking stupid black brain wouldn’t think of anything so damned clever.’

  Mavulamanzi reached out a long arm and plucked the blanket from her before she could stop him. Looking at her body, naked in the moonlight. Seeing the clear marks of the violent and repeated rapes. The blood and semen dappling her thighs.

  Crow was way too slow,

  With an explosive grunt of effort the Zulu thrust his short spear between Lavinia’s breasts, the power of the blow sending her toppling silently over the edge of the canyon. It seemed to take an eternity before they heard the thud of the body among the trees below.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next step was as inevitable as a fifty caliber bullet between the eyes.

  ‘You,’ said Mavulamanzi. Nothing more. That single, flat syllable of doom.

  They were so close together that Crow had no chance to draw any of his weapons. The Purdey was tied down in the deep holster and the Peacemaker was snug at the back of his belt. He went for the saber, but the Negro was too near and too quick for him.

  Up in the cold North-west Crow had once had a run-in with a big grizzly. He’d been stalking a pair of sisters who’d killed a friend and headed out for the high country. Tracking so intently and so cautiously that he’d literally walked clean into the embrace of the bear. Upright it must have topped seven feet and if he hadn’t reacted quickly the grizzly would have crushed him. He’d bitten it on the side of the muzzle, its breath rank in his face, falling and rolling clear as it let go of him.

  From what he remembered, Mavulamanzi was bigger and stronger. And, unlike the bear, the chief was skilled in fighting against men.

  A big powerful man himself, despite the misleading evidence of his slender physique, Crow felt like a child when the black picked him up, his feet dangling clear of the rock. Mavulamanzi kept his chin pressed into the side of Crow’s neck so the shootist couldn’t use his teeth on him, pinning his arms to his sides. Squeezing so hard that Crow couldn’t breathe, hearing his own ribs creaking with the strain.

  He didn’t waste any time on trying to talk the Negro out of killing him. What Mikalawayo had said came back to him once more. About the loss of face to a Zulu chief. Lavinia had died because she had been used by other men. Mavulamanzi had won her back, only to destroy her. That way, his honor was totally saved. Apart from the witness to his earlier shame.

  Crow.

  Eliminate the white man and there would no longer be anyone to know.

  ‘You die, Crow,’ the black man panted, gritting his teeth with the effort of holding the shootist, taking a faltering step towards the drop.

  ‘Talkin’ don’t get it done,’ hissed Crow, straining to free one arm, wriggling and gouging at the Zulu’s legs with his spurs.

  But Mavulamanzi was too strong. The strongest man that Crow had ever met. And with a sick certainty, Crow knew that he was going to die. As simply as that. The Zulu would just drop him from the cliff edge.

  And that was what happened. Crow’s hands were imprisoned against the chief’s waist, and with a struggle he managed to hook his fingers into the broad belt that supported the loincloth and the knobkerrie. Mavulamanzi didn’t notice and took the final step to the top of the sheer face of rock, casting Crow from him with a gasp of raw energy.

  Crow saw the world spin beneath him and felt himself falling free, then his hand gripped and held, and he hung there, suspended from the black’s belt, feet whirling in cold air.

  ‘Aaarrggh!’ screamed the Negro, eyes popping with fear as Crow’s weight drew him inexorably forwards to the brink of death, His hands waved at the night around him, struggling for balance, bare feet scrabbling for a purchase on the loose stones of the plateau.

  Crow hung by one hand, face turned up to watch the struggle that would determine whether he died immediately or had a second bite at the cherry of life.

  A weaker man than Mavulamanzi would have fallen, but the black was immensely powerful. Recovering himself and taking two steps back, so that Crow felt his boots scrape on the stone. He knew that in a fraction of stolen time the Negro would tear his grip loose and cast him again to his death.

  So he immediately kicked himself up and clear, tumbling on his side and coming up in a fighter’s crouch, fingers going for the saber. But the Negro was fast. Crow hadn’t even begun to straighten when Mavulamanzi was on him again, snarling like a wild beast, steel fingers crooking out for his throat.

  The shootist felt the air sing in his lungs as the hands closed around his neck, lifting him again like a puppet. He tried to knee the chief in the groin but the giant contemptuously turned his thigh to take the blow. Actually letting go of Crow’s throat with one hand to slap him across the face. It nearly knocked the white man unconscious and he fought hard against passing out.

  ‘Now, Crow,’ hissed Mavulamanzi. ‘Now.’

  Feeling the pool of blackness filling at his feet, Crow reached up and took hold of the little finger on the Negro’s left hand, bending it suddenly and savagely back against the joint. Hearing and feeling the bone crack, but not letting go. Ignoring the squeal of pain. Tearing at the finger, grinding the splintered bones against each other.

  In his attempt to shake Crow off, the Negro lost his footing and they both fell on the plateau, rolling and kicking on the very edge of the drop.

  At first Crow was on top, then Mavulamanzi, then Crow again. During the time that the shootist had spent with Indian tribes, he had hardened himself in wrestling matches.

  Always picking the biggest and strongest and most experienced older warriors for his opponents. So that he might learn. Learn and get better.

  With a drop of the shoulder and a kick of the right leg he managed to get on top again, and tried a desperate gamble.

 
As the Zulu’s arms locked in place around his back, bending his spine in an arc of pain, Crow dug his fingers into Mavulamanzi’s right ear. His nails drawing blood. The Negro bared his teeth at him and tightened his hold. But Crow wasn’t done yet.

  The grip on the ear was just to give him purchase. Stiffening his thumb, Crow drove it as hard as he was able into the corner of the Negro’s left eye. Jabbing it in and behind the eye ball.

  Mavulamanzi gave a roar of pain and for a second his grip relaxed, then tightened even more, making Crow nearly pass out. But he held on, forcing his thumb in deeper and deeper. Feeling the tip easing the eye out of its socket, lifting it and making it protrude. Mavulamanzi must have been in agony, but still he held on, mouth open, a strange metallic scream coming from his lips.

  The light from the moon seemed to be getting brighter and Crow watched the damage he was doing to the chief. Keeping up the pressure even when, with a sickening squelching sound, the left eye came clean out of its socket and dangled on the black’s painted cheek, held there by the nerves and muscles.

  There was very little blood.

  Even the supreme pain of the gouging didn’t stop Mavulamanzi.

  He threw his head from side to side, the eye rolling about on its sinewy cord. Crow kept his thumb lodged in the raw socket, pressing his nail against the dark opening of the optic nerve, forcing it along the narrow canal until it could go no further. Knowing that it must actually be close to the black’s brain.

  The pressure on his back and ribs was easing. Or was he imagining it?

  It was easing.

  The grip was relaxing. Moment by moment, and the screaming had grown more muted.

  Then, like the final spasm of a pole-axed steer, the chief fought his way to his feet. Standing four-square with a mighty effort of will, Crow’s feet free of the ground, toes rattling against the Negro’s shins.

  The swollen lips mumbled something in his own language. With a last effort Crow grabbed at the dangling eye and tore it away from the threads of gristle that held it to the socket Mavulamanzi screamed again. And again.