Magnificent Guns of Seneca 6

by Bernard Schaffer

  Ruth got to her feet and laid her hand gently on Elizabeth’s elbow. “Do not give up your faith, sister,” she whispered.

  Elizabeth’s face filled with rage, “What faith? Don’t you understand? Willard was wrong! He was wrong about everything!”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  Elizabeth choked on her words as she staggered back and put her hand against the wall to keep herself upright as the wagon rocked them side to side. She grabbed handfuls of her hair and bellowed, “Let me out of here!”

  Ruth returned to the window to see what effect Elizabeth’s frantic screeches had. None of the Beothuk seemed to notice.

  ***

  Toquame Keewassee looked back at the wagon and frowned. “Do they have water?”

  The warrior next to him nodded and said, “There are skins inside of the wagon, but they will not drink them.” Comee turned around in his saddle and said, “The ugly one is screaming again. Do you want me to make her silent?”

  “No. That will send the others into a panic.”

  “White women,” Comee said bitterly.

  Keewassee touched the necklace of colorful crystals around his neck that he’d taken from the wasichu’s dead body. There was a yellow strand of hair tangled in the stones, the same color as the mass of blonde, bloody hair dangling from his saddle. He picked up the scalp and turned it over to inspect the ruined flesh along the underside. He spread the skin out on his saddle to dry in the sun and said, “We will meet up with the masked one past the mountain. They will be silent soon enough.”

  ***

  The wagon stopped and Ruth immediately lifted her head, “What’s going on?”

  The other women were asleep on the floor, curled up to one another with the dark hay scooped up against them, drawn in like birds building a nest. Ruth pulled herself to the window. The sun was setting. The sky was luminescent in blue and purple and the Beothuk were tending something over a lit fire. They’re going to eat us, Ruth thought. She opened her mouth to scream and stifled it with her fist. She looked back at the other women and her first thought was, If I let them sleep, they’ll stay closer to the door for when the savages come to drag the first one out.

  The horror of her own thoughts overwhelmed her and she slid away from the window and covered her face with her hands to pray. What’s happening to me?

  I don’t want to die. Where has my faith gone?

  Elizabeth has lost faith. Then let her be the one who goes first!

  The back door of the wagon flew open and the women inside sat up and screamed, clawing their way across the floor to get away from the angry looking man standing at the rear who held a flaming torch. Ruth sank down behind them and cowered in the corner, begging him not to take her. The man heaved something into the wagon with a thud before he slammed the door shut and re-locked it.

  “What is it?” Elizabeth Hall screamed, covering her eyes and diving into Ruth’s lap.

  Ruth pushed Elizabeth away from her and leaned forward. She inhaled and said, “I think it’s food.” She touched the hunk of meat with her finger. It was still warm. “They killed something and gave us some to eat.”

  The women slowly came out of the corner, moving toward the roasted meat. “Is it safe to eat?” one of them said.

  Ruth ripped off a chunk and smelled it. “It smells good.” She put it in her mouth and began to chew.

  “They’re feeding us?” Elizabeth whispered. “Why would they feed us if they’re going to kill us? Don’t you understand? We’re going to live! The Great Spirit has blessed us.”

  Ruth looked at Elizabeth with disdain as she chewed, waiting until it became tender enough to swallow. “For now, at least.”

  ***

  They rode into open country that stretched out in front of them like sheets of dark red soil, shimmering purple in the light of the twin moons. Toquame Keewassee held up his hand and all of the riders in the group instantly halted their destriers. The caged wagon rattled to a stop and two Beothuk on either side of the formation dismounted and ducked into the shadows, their movements only indicated by the soft click of their rifle hammers cocking back.

  Comee looked out across the landscape and saw nothing but an enormous tree looming in the distance, its bare branches bent over like the curled fingers of an angry god. Beside him, Keewassee leaned forward in his saddle and sniffed the air, then raised his fist and pointed at the tree ahead. All of the Beothuk drew their weapons and began to move.

  Wind blew through the tree, carrying the scent of decay past the rattling branches. The shadows of multiple objects hanging from the tree, their bare feet swaying side to side in the breeze. It was a dozen Beothuk strung by their necks. Keewassee peered into the darkness past the tree, searching the shadows until he made out the figures of the men hiding there. He saw light reflecting from their gun barrels and laid both of his hands on the neck of his destrier.

  The men came forward, each of them crouched forward in anticipation of firing their rifles. All except the one in the middle. The one in the mask.

  “You like my decorating, Tookie?” he said.

  Keewassee saw more of the men coming up on their sides pinning them in, moving like eager killers. He looked back at the man and said nothing.

  The masked man turned to look up into the tree and said, “These boys somehow got wind of where we was and tried a come up on ol’ Jim. But Jim ain’t the kind you easily come up on.” He circled around Keewassee's destrier and said, “Now who do you suppose told them how to find us?”

  Keewassee looked up at the bodies and said, “They are Akashame. River people. When the wasichu came, they were the first to sign his treaties. Now they are forced to live like scavengers. If they had been true to the old ways, this would not be so.” Keewassee looked down at the man in the mask and said, “If they had been true to the old ways you would be a dead man right now.”

  “So how do I know it wasn’t you that sent them?”

  “Because I would not send Akashame for a task such as this.”

  “No? Who would you send?”

  “I would do it myself.”

  The masked man chuckled and said, “I bet. So what brings you out here, friend? Just good conversation, or were you fixing to do some trading?”

  Keewassee looked back at the caged wagon and said, “Tonight I have brought you something different than before.”

  “Different how?” he said. “Our deal was squaws. Not too young, not too old, and not too ugly. You bring me some raggedy bag full of deformities and left overs and we ain’t trading.”

  “Before I tell you anything else, I want you to know they were not harmed. They were not touched. They were fed.”

  Gentleman Jim smiled sharply at him, “How about we cut the foreplay and bump uglies, Tookie? What did you bring me?”

  Keewassee cocked his head and one of his Beothuk threw the caged wagon’s rear door open. The women inside screamed as he reached in and grabbed the first limb he could find. Ruth kicked at him violently but he grabbed her by the ankles and yanked her out of the wagon so fast that she fell on the dirty ground with a thud. He snatched her by the hair and lifted her head, showing her face to the wasichu.

  The masked man yanked his pistol free and shoved it against Keewassee’s belly. “You got five seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doing with a cart full of white women, itjin.”

  “They came to us. They wanted to come live among The People and learn our ways.”

  He headed for Ruth and said, “Is that true? You came here to join the itjins?”

  “Our church did,” Ruth hissed. “But he killed Willard!”

  “Who’s Willard?”

  “Our teacher. The one who brought us here.”

  The masked man looked her up and down and nodded approvingly. “Teacher, huh? I just bet he was. Get the rest of the women out of that damn cage before I lose my temper.”

  “Please save us,” Ruth begged. “Please, in the name of the Great Spirit, I beg you t
o save us from these monsters.”

  “First things first, buttercup,” he said. He waited for the rest of the women to get ripped out of the wagon, laughing as they spat and cursed in fury at the Beothuk who touched them. He knelt down to inspect Elizabeth Hall but recoiled in revulsion at the vomit staining her chest. The masked man bent down and washed his hand in the dirt and said, “I reckon if we clean ‘em up a bit they’ll do just fine. Especially this young ‘un. Not that our buyer is real particular. Long as a girl’s got the right amount of holes, he’ll pay. I mean, they been takin’ squaws, so a few white women should be like Christmas come all over again.” He snapped his fingers at his men and said, “Round ‘em up, boys.”

  Keewassee watched the filthy wasichu grab hold of the women and thought, Good. Better to be rid of them. “There may be others. Ones like these. I do not know yet.”

  The masked man mounted his destrier and stayed silent for a moment, thinking it over. “The deal we had was for redskin slots only. We start taking real people and the law will come down on us harder than divine judgment. Plus, taking squaws is one thing, but taking white girls seems, I dunno. Uncivilized.”

  Keewassee looked at his riders who had the wasichu from the group bound and gagged across the backs of their destriers. “What do you want me to do with the men who came with them?”

  “Well, they wanted to be with the Beothuk, right?” He looked up at the dead native bodies hanging from the tree and said, “There you go. Itjin and whiteman, together at last.”

  Chapter 8: The Preacher

  Three days.

  Three days in the sun and heat, after Bob Ford fled Seneca 5 with no destrier and no water. Just a damn gun, he thought bitterly. It’s going to be the thing I use to blow my brains out and end this misery.

  He slumped against a rock and stayed there long enough that vultures started swirling over him, waiting until it was safe to descend and start pecking at him. Something was approaching. Bob lifted his head as much as he could, but could make out nothing more than a swirl of dust in the shimmering heat. He tried to swallow, but his throat refused. It was like someone had scraped sandpaper down his insides and stuffed it with cotton. He reached for his pistol but his hand slipped off the Devastator’s handle and finally, he managed to raise his arm in the air before collapsing on the road.

  His body contracted and extended in the dirt like a worm, a system of gears and cables that had run out of oil and started grinding against one another, glowing hot.

  A wagon trucked past him, swerving at the last second before the single mount pulling it trampled Bob. He choked on its dust and gagged on dirt as it filled his nose and mouth and eyes, swirling around him in a filthy cloud from the wagon’s tires.

  A strong arm lifted his head up from the ground and someone spoke, but the words were strange and muffled. Bob felt cool water trickle across his chest and dribble over his forehead, watering him like a plant. Water touched his lips. Droplets slid down into the white fissures of his cracked mouth. Everything inside of him began to bloom again. Bob looked up at the man who held him and saw an angel silhouetted by sunlight. “God sent you for me?” Bob said.

  “Not exactly,” the man said softly. “But I guess you’ll do for now.”

  ***

  Bob woke up in the back of the wagon, wedged between the wall and an enormous contraption that filled up the rest of the compartment. It was covered by a dirty tarp and Bob clutched handfuls of it to pull himself off the floor. “Hello?” he called out. There wasn’t room enough to stand inside the wagon. Sharp metal corners stuck into him from whatever was hidden beneath the tarp. Bob hammered his fist against the wall and shouted, “Hello? Anybody out there?”

  The wagon’s brake screeched and Bob had to brace himself against the doorframe to keep from getting bounced into the heavy metal frame. He reached down to feel the floor and realized his gun was missing and reached around in the darkness to see if he’d dropped it. That was when the side door opened and there it was, pointed right at him.

  The man holding the gun was old enough that his long hair ran thick with streaks of silver. His eyes were feline, drawn to sharp points over his weathered cheeks. His long, thin mustache dropped straight down toward the gleaming white preacher collar around his throat. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Bob Ford,” Bob said. He put both his hands up through the door and added, “Sir.”

  The man wrapped both of his black leather-gloved hands around the Devastator and cocked the handle back. “I’m only going to ask you this one time, Bob Ford. What are you doing out here?”

  Bob lowered his eyes for a moment, feeling his lip twitch while his mind spun like a roulette wheel, waiting to land on some kind of answer. “My destrier died and I was stranded. I thought I was a goner for sure until you came along.”

  “You with a gang, Bob Ford?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You with a gang that steals women and sells them off-planet? They get mad at you and leave you out here, Bob Ford?”

  “No, sir! But I reckon me and you have a similar interest in finding such men. I come to Seneca to find just such a person and bring him to justice, God willing.”

  “You some kind of a lawman? You don’t look like one.”

  “No, sir, I ain’t no lawman. I’m just trying to find the type of villain you seem to be so agitated about and hand him over to Johnny Saringo at the first opportunity.”

  The preacher’s eyes narrowed, “Saringo’s looking for him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what does he have over you to make you do such a thing?”

  Bob shook his head, “That’s a private matter, sir, and I prefer not to speak of it, even if you are a preacher and even if you do have me at gunpoint.”

  The preacher flipped the gun backwards and dropped it behind his belt in one fluid motion. “I’m gonna hold on to this weapon for a while until we get to know one another a little better if that’s all right with you, Mr. Ford. Come on out of there now. You can ride up front since you’re awake.”

  Bob stepped out of the wagon and said, “I appreciate that, sir. I also want you to know I appreciate you rescuing me from certain death and that I understand your hesitation about my intentions.”

  The preacher grabbed the forward carriage’s hand rail and hoisted himself up. “You always talk this much?”

  “Only when I’m nervous, sir.”

  “I put the gun away, son.”

  Bob climbed up into the seat beside him and said, “Guns I’m used to. I meant about being around a preacher.”

  ***

  Bob reached up and clutched his throat, trying to force himself to swallow dry. There was nothing to swallow. He looked down at the cantina on the seat between him and the preacher and dreamed about the sea of refreshment within. He wanted to lick the beads of sweat puddling on the seat’s wooden board. He thought about grabbing for his gun.

  “What are you doing?”

  Bob turned back to face front and said, “Nothing.”

  “Why you grabbing your throat?”

  “Because I can’t swallow.”

  “Swallow what?”

  Bob shrugged and looked away. The preacher picked up the cantina and tossed it into Bob’s lap. “You waiting for a special invite, boy? Drink the whole thing. We’re not too far from Seneca 6, plus I got more in the back.”

  “You sure, sir?”

  The preacher looked at him sideways, trying to assess the young man’s tone. “You’re either sassing me or you haven’t run into many kind people during the course of your life, son.”

  “Not particularly, no sir.”

  “Maybe it’s just that there aren’t too many to run into, Mister Ford. The way I see it, there’s the types that are born good. Graceful people from the ground up. They come into this world like a cool breeze on a hot day. Mainly, I reckon they’re womenfolk.”

  Bob nodded while he thought about the Alvarez sisters, working girls who preye
d on men at the Dalewood Saloon in the Filthy Five. Beautiful and treacherous. They could drain a man in more ways than fifteen. Probably not the kind of cool breeze the preacher means, he thought.

  “The other types are ones making up for the wrongs they done. Trying to buy back their souls a little piece at a time.”

  Bob turned to look at the man’s hard, weather-beaten features and said, “Is that you, sir?”

  The preacher grunted and said, “There’s not enough good I could do to pay off what I got coming, Mister Ford. Let’s just say I’m trying to purchase some leniency.”

  Chapter 9: Treat 'Em Like a Million Bucks