Thasuka Witko spoke directly to Agaidika, loud enough for her deaf ears to hear, but also for his sons, who hid nearby so that they might listen and learn. He had done the same when Hoka-Psice went before the old woman, and he would not have bet that she would not still be alive long after he too joined the Great Spirit. “Mahpiya has told me that there are bad signs coming from the West. He claims a great evil comes to those lands, with wicked medicine to destroy the Wasichu who live there.”
Agaidika smacked her toothless gums together like she was chewing her words before she leaned forward and squinted at the Chief in the dim firelight. “Why should the People concern themselves with the Wasichu? If anything, we should celebrate their demise.”
The rest of the women murmured in agreement, and Thasuka Witko said, “Hoka-Psice always admired you, Grandmother Agaidika. He said if you had been born a man, you would have made a formidable General. You have guided our people for many years, and I value your counsel. I intend to lead a scouting party west to determine if this evil poses a threat to us.”
The women closed in around Agaidika. Each of them took turns whispering in her hairy ear. Thasuka Witko wrapped a blanket around his shoulders while he waited for an answer and walked away from the circle, toward the shadows where he saw two pairs of dark feet standing under a bush. Haienwa’tha whispered, “Why do you even have to consult with them? You are the Chief. They are only women.”
Thasuka Witko chuckled and said, “I once asked the same exact question of Hoka-Psice. I expect that your sons will someday ask you the same. This is what I was told: A Chief of the tribe gives the orders, but it is the women who enforce them, or see to it that they are not enforced at all.”
When he walked back, the women were separated from Agaidika and waiting for him to sit down. The old woman said, “It does us no good to endanger the lives of our brave warriors on something that is not of our concern. If Thasuka Witko insists on interfering in the concerns of the Wasichu, let the new Ayawisgi go.”
“I said I was going to lead the party.”
Agaidika smiled with a mouthful of rotten teeth and said, “You have said what you said, and so have I.”
The women withdrew from the fire, and Thasuka Witko stood up and called out to Haienwa’tha to bring the warriors of the tribe to him. Soon, the men were advancing up the hill toward the fire, talking amongst themselves excitedly about the upcoming battle. They boasted to one another about how many they would kill and the amount of scalps they would return with.
Thasuka Witko waited for them to gather around him before he said, “It is decided. All of us will remain here, except for the new Ayawisgi. They will ride west to act as our eyes and ears.”
There were responses of disbelief and anger at the women’s decision. The Chief held up his hand and said, “The point of the Ayawisgi is that they have proven themselves as warriors. What right do we have to question their abilities?”
Haienwa’tha stuck out his chest and said, “We will honor our ancestors and give all of you many things to sing about in our memory! When do we leave?”
Thasuka Witko looked at his son with concern and said, “Gather your things.”
The three boys hurried down the slope to return to camp. Osceola watched his son run and grunted with approval. “He is not afraid, even with only one arm.”
“Lakhpia-Sha is not going, old friend,” Thasuka Witko said. “He is too weak to ride.”
Osceola’s face twisted at the insult and he turned to his Chief and said, “My son is not weak. Be cautious with your words.”
“Listen to me very carefully,” Thasuka Witko said. “The scouting party is too small to send someone who is not healed. The old woman insists only the new Ayawisgi go, but according to the old laws, if one of them is not suited for the journey, I can select a replacement.”
Osceola nodded in understanding and said, “Do you have a replacement in mind?”
Thasuka Witko patted him on the arm and said, “There is only one man I would trust with the lives of my two remaining sons.”
Osceola bowed his head and said, “I will get my things ready.”
Mahpiya limped toward them and said, “I too will go with them.”
“The women’s council did not mention you, old man,” Thasuka-Witko said.
“This is true.”
“So I must forbid it.”
“Ah. Well then, so be it. In that case, I am going out to look for new herbs for the tribe and will most likely be gone awhile.”
“And just where will you be going to look for them?” Thasuka-Witko said.
The medicine man looked toward the west and said, “I think, in that direction.”
* * *
Charlie Boles Junior watched his father sit up in the hospital bed and said, “How does it feel?”
Boles braced his hand against the bandage around his thigh and said, “It hurts like hell, stupid. How much money do we have left?”
Junior reached into his pocket and took out the small fold of bills. “Not much. It cost a ton to get you fixed up. We have maybe enough to rent a room here long enough to find work.”
Boles snatched the money from his son’s hand and said, “Work? Go and find a sturdy mule that can carry us all the way to Seneca 6. Don’t buy nothing bow-legged now or I’ll make you sorry.”
“Why Seneca 6? We ain’t going looking for that man, are we?”
Boles’ eyes narrowed. “Just do what I tell you.”
* * *
Four days later, Charlie Boles Junior tapped his father on the arm and pointed up at the sky. A small transport vessel was descending from the clouds into a canyon, its thrusters popping jets of flame and smoke. Charlie Boles snapped the reins on their stolen, scraggly-legged mule, and headed toward the edge of the cliff to watch the ship’s landing gear extend as it lowered into the valley.
The boarding ramp extended and two uniformed Customs Agents carrying large rifles exited the ship. Little Willy Harpe and Hank Raddiger followed behind them. Little Willy surveyed the wreckage of a spaceship scattered around the canyon and said, “Go find that homing beacon and turn it off.”
He passed the burned out hull and pieces of engine to see a flock of black birds piled onto the carcass of a body, picking it clean. Harpe stomped his feet and chased the birds off, and as they fled from his approach, he saw that the body was missing a head.
Hank shouted, “Over here!” There was panic in Hank’s voice as Harpe walked around the wreckage toward him. Hank put up both hands to stop him and said, “Now calm down for a second, Willy. I don’t want you to get upset.”
Harpe shoved him aside, seeing nothing more than scattered ship parts and the burned out hull of a small spacecraft with a pole sticking out of it. Something was placed on top of the pole. Something that looked like it had hair that blew in the wind.
Little Willy stared at Elijah’s head, spiked on the pole. Elijah’s eyes were staring back at him as Little Willy reached up and grabbed the head by both sides and started to twist it free. It popped off with a sucking noise and Little Willy held the head between his hands and collapsed to his knees, screaming with such ferocity that Hank Raddiger’s insides felt wet. Hank kneeled in the dirt beside him and did not speak.
Little Willy swept his sleeves across his eyes and swallowed. “He’s going to tell me who did this to him.”
“I don’t think he’s going to do much talking, Little Willy.”
“SUFFER, you imbecile.”
Hank convulsed and contorted and his teeth smashed together so violently they cracked. Little Willy turned Elijah’s severed head upside down and peered into the open gullet of his throat before rolling up his sleeve and sticking his bare hand into the mushy pulp beneath Elijah’s chin. He slid his fingers around the neck bone and pushed past the muscle and connective tissue until he could touch the base of Elijah’s skull. He grabbed the brain stem and yanked it out of the way, guiding himself along the gelatinous surface of Elijah’s brain.
“Show me what happened, Elijah,” Little Willy said. “Show me.”
Little Willy closed his eyes and felt the creature ripple with energy. He reached out with his mind and tried to reignite the spark of existence inside Elijah’s brain. It was cold and dark, unlike anything he’d ever encountered.
Elijah’s presence was out of reach, and Little Willy commanded him to return over and over until the eyelids on Elijah’s face began to flutter. Little Willy stroked the decomposing flesh on his brother’s cheek and said, “I’m here, Elijah. Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.”
Elijah’s mouth opened and closed and Little Willy focused until the brain matter surrounding his hand grew hot, as if he were holding a scalding cauldron of boiling water. He tried smashing the skull against the hull of the ship, frantic to free his hand. The creature started to peel away from Little Willy’s body, its dark purple color turning pink and spotty as it unseated itself from his flesh.
Hank Raddiger gasped as soon as Little Willy’s spell over him ended. He sat on the ground in silence, feeling a cool breeze blow over his aching body. When he sat up, Little Willy was sitting cross-legged next to him, looking down at the creature sunk into his armpit, sucking on the fluids in his body. “What the hell is this thing?” Willy said.
“Something evil!” Hank said. “Something I wish we’d never found. Let’s get rid of it right now while it’s weak.”
“How long has he had it?”
“How long has who had it?” Hank said.
“My brother,” Harpe said. “It’s amazing.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Hank said. “We fought those military bastards for it last week and you’ve been letting it crawl all over you ever since.”
Little Willy looked at the severed head on the ground and whipped his head away. “Get rid of that thing, Hank. Get rid of it right now. I don’t want to see it ever again.”
Hank got to his feet and brushed himself off. “Ok, Little Willy.”
“Elijah,” he said. “Don’t call me by my brother’s name.”
A hundred yards above the canyon, Charlie Boles grabbed his son by the shoulder and said, “We’re getting the hell out of here and going home.”
A rifle’s battery pack hummed in Boles’ ear and he looked over his shoulder to see one of the uniformed Custom’s officers aiming the weapon at him. “Don’t move.”
17. Pale Horse
Dr. Royce Halladay set his cards down on the table and shook his head mournfully. “I apologize for my lack of knowledge, but I am not certain if having four of the same card is a good hand. And these do not even have the decency to be a proper number. Tell me, is the letter ‘A’ a good card to have?”
The other men at the table threw their cards down in disgust. “Go to hell, Halladay,” one of them said.
Halladay stared at the men in affected confusion as they stood up to leave. “But what about all this money you’ve left on the table, gentlemen? Well, I suppose I must take it then, if only to keep it safe until you return.” He raked the pile of coins and bills toward himself and chuckled. The chuckle became a cough, then a bark that left him gagging on phlegm and blood.
He looked up as the Proud Lady’s doors swung open and Sheriff Walt Junger came through them, looking all around the bar until their eyes met. “There are four warrants for your arrest on this side of the planet alone, Royce,” Junger said.
“I would prefer if you called me, ‘Doctor,’ if it’s all the same to you, Walter.” Halladay slid the money inside his shirt pocket and stood up to walk over to the bar with his empty glass. He set the glass down and tapped it for the bartender to fill it up again.
People standing around the bar had stopped what they were doing to watch the scene unfold, and Junger’s face started to twitch. He hitched up his gun belt and loudly announced, “I’ll call you anything I damn well please, blood-spitter. And it’s Sheriff Junger to scum like you.”
Halladay turned toward him with a raised eyebrow, “Now why would I call you that, Walter? Doctor is a distinction I earned, while the title Sheriff has only ever truly belonged to one man, and we both know what happened to him.”
“He was killed by the savages out in the wasteland. I saw his body, which is a damn sight more than you did after you ran off and hid when we were under attack.”
“Has that story passed through your lips so many times that you actually are starting to believe it, Walter? I wonder.” Halladay swallowed his drink and set it on the bar. His eyes were bloodshot and ached from lack of sleep. His legs jittered with restlessness and there was fire in his chest that boiled his guts, yet when he looked at Walt Junger standing there, all red-faced and affronted, Halladay suddenly felt right. He stood up straight and said, “Do you want to talk about what Tilt told me right before he passed on? It is a hell of a story.”
Junger backed away and struggled to unsnap his guns, shouting, “You are under arrest!”
Halladay produced two pistols, both aimed an inch from the Sheriff’s face. He cocked back both hammers and waited for Junger to lift his hands away from his weapons. Halladay smiled gently and said, “I apologize, Walter. You were not prepared.”
Halladay decocked the pistols and twirled them in his palms twice before dropping them back into their holsters. Both men stood facing one another, unarmed. Halladay said, “Are you ready?”
“Seneca 6 is a civilized town, Doctor Halladay! We have laws. This is not how we do things.”
Halladay started to answer when his face suddenly contorted and he bent forward, as if to begin a great fit of coughing. Junger grabbed for his pistols, when Halladay snatched both of his guns out of their holsters and jammed their barrels against Junger’s forehead. “That was called theatrics, Walter. And the cuckoo on your clock just crowed.”
Junger turned for the Proud Lady’s doors and ran through them, screaming for help. Halladay walked slowly down the steps after him, aiming his pistols near Junger’s feet. Halladay fired and the ground exploded next to Junger’s boots, sending him sprawling across the road. Halladay cocked the other pistol and shot it into the ground near where Junger lay and said, “Get up.”
Junger got up to his feet and let his hands hang loose at his sides.
“Arm yourself, cur,” Halladay said.
Junger stood there shivering, clutching his arms around his chest and he said, “Go to hell, Royce. You’re gonna have to gun me down in cold blood.”
Halladay smiled when he said, “Oh, but I assure you, mine is colder than a crocodile’s.” He went to pull the trigger, but the metal barrel of a rifle tapped him on the shoulder and stayed his hand. Halladay looked back at the young man holding the weapon and said, “Bartholomew Masters? Tom’s boy? I was always fond of Tom. Now, kindly remove from this conflict before you become perforated.”
“I can’t allow you to gun down our Sheriff, Doc. Especially when he doesn’t even have the decency to arm himself.”
“I will kill you and a dozen more who remotely look like you just to eliminate this son of a bitch, Bartholomew. Stand aside!”
“I have no doubt you will,” Bart said. “But it don’t change the fact that I can’t just stand here and watch you do it.”
Junger backed away from Halladay and said, “That’s a good lad. You’ll be well compensated for this.”
Bart scowled at him and said, “Just run off and don’t show your face again until things’ve calmed down.” He waited for Junger to disappear between the two nearest buildings to lower his rifle and said, “I’m awful sorry, Doc, but we still need to have some law in this town, even if the people we trust to enforce it aren’t worth the slime on a ring worm.”
Halladay groaned and secured both his pistols back in their holsters. He turned on Bart to say, “Twenty years ago I put five stitches in your father’s head after he was attacked on the same spot you are now standing. I do not believe he ever paid me for them. I will take my payment from you, immediately, in the form of liquid nourishment.
I’ll also agree not to put a canoe through your forehead for interfering with my plans.”
“It would be my honor, sir.”
* * *
William James Elliot, the Honorable Mayor and Judge of Seneca 6, stood on the porch of the Sheriff’s Office with his thumbs hooked through his pearl white suspenders. He was a thin man in a tailored suit made of fabric that shimmered in the morning light. He propped one foot up against the railing and swept dirt from the heel. The shoe was made of an exotic animal’s skin that had been imported off-world.
Elliot took a puff of his cigar and blew the acrid smoke into the air as he watched Marshal James McParlan come out of Anna Willow’s office down the street. He smiled at McParlan but kept the cigar clenched in his teeth.
The Marshal waited impatiently for the wagons to let him cross. The bruises on his face were dark now, and he appeared to be favoring his left side. McParlan looked up at Elliot and said, “Can I help you?”
“No, you cannot. But I assure you that I can be of great help to you.” Elliot tapped ashes on the railing and said, “Why don’t we go inside and discuss it?”
McParlan opened the door and saw Walt Junger sitting at his desk behind a stack of carefully arranged documents. McParlan removed his hat and sat on the visitor’s bench while Elliot leaned against the jail cell and re-lit his cigar. “My associate and I were wondering when you might be leaving?” Elliot said.
McParlan looked him up and down, “Just who in the hell are you supposed to be?”
“This here is the town Mayor and Judge. You will address him with the proper respect while in my presence.”
“Why, you got Bart Masters hiding in the back to protect you in case I pull a gun?” McParlan said. He turned to Elliot, “The answer to your question is simple. I’m not leaving until the threat is eliminated.”
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