Brokenclaw

by John Gardner

  It was pulled hard in to the right of the track and seemed empty and deserted.

  ‘I guess I’m going to do the famous Rushia backup. Watch out for me, James.’ Slowly the Trooper rolled in reverse, weaving a little until they had moved about thirty yards back, and just around a bend which would hide them from anyone approaching the Range Rover.

  ‘I don’t suppose you came ready for a shooting war?’ Bond’s finger was itching.

  ‘You don’t? Well, James, I came prepared for all eventualities.’ Ed jerked at his waistband and drew out a massive Colt revolver with a six inch barrel. ‘.357 Magnum,’ he grinned happily. ‘This is my “Make my year” gun. I also have accessories, like handcuffs. I was going to use them on your good self if I came to the conclusion that you were going to do something really difficult . . .’ He let the sentence trail off at the sight of Bond’s eyes narrowing. ‘No, well, perhaps not. Let’s get ready for these palookas and the famous General H’ang.’

  ‘When we take them, I want you to drive them down to civilisation and turn them in.’

  ‘Can’t I hang around and wait for you?’

  ‘I’d rather you had them in some lock-up. I’m not certain, but I think if they were near me for any length of time, I might just kill all three.’

  They moved quietly up the track. There was enough tree cover for Rushia to sink down, hidden by the Range Rover, and Bond to find a nice covert on the far side. From it, he had a view of the path snaking upwards through the trees which, he knew, led to the camp and Brokenclaw.

  They waited for almost an hour before the sound of voices began to float down from the track. Neither Wood, Nolan nor the general seemed to have the slightest care in the world. As far as they were concerned, they were invisible. Bond had a sudden nudge of anxiety lest Brokenclaw had sent some of his people from the camp down with the ex-FBI men.

  When they came into view, however, there were only three, moving slowly, two of them keeping time for the general’s dot-and-carry-one limp. They let them actually start to get into the Range Rover.

  ‘I really wouldn’t try anything silly, like going for catapults or shouting rape!’ It was Ed Rushia who broke the silence, and they all froze, for the long barrel of the Colt was placed neatly in General H’ang’s ear. ‘I could deafen him a mite,’ he continued. ‘Also my buddy just behind you, Wood – or Nolan – whichever you are, has a strong conviction that you are all expendable.’

  H’ang dropped the briefcase he had been holding.

  They came quietly enough, though they were all three carrying pistols. Both of the former FBI men still had handcuffs on them. ‘Needn’t have brought them after all, Ed,’ Bond said cheerfully as they cuffed all three men together, helped them into the rear of the Range Rover and used the last set of cuffs to secure them to part of the metal framework.

  ‘Commander Rushia’s going to take you boys down to the nearest cops.’ He fiddled with the briefcase, which opened easily enough, the combination lock having been used so often that the numbers almost fell into place by themselves.

  Inside was another set of the Lords and Lords Day documents, and when he saw them, Bond realised his hands were trembling. ‘Take this lot, Ed, and burn them the first chance you get.’

  ‘Okay, buddy. Good luck. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ one of the ex-FBI men growled. ‘He’s never coming out of there alive. I can promise you that.’

  ‘You’d be surprised at the places Captain Bond’s come out of alive.’ As he said it, Rushia thought he would possibly interrogate the boys on the way down. He had picked up a wrinkle here and there. If James was going into a certain death situation, it was better for ole Ed Rushia to be warned so he could send in the cavalry.

  Bond must have read his mind. ‘Ed,’ he said quietly, ‘only in the last resort. Please promise me that. It has to be very bad. I must do this on my own.’

  Rushia nodded, raised a hand and started the Range Rover’s engine as Bond slowly began his hike up the path which rose to lead him to his destiny.

  He knew the real danger was only just starting, and after a mile, had that uncanny feeling that there were several pairs of eyes on him.

  Slowly, the path flattened out, and then, quite suddenly, he was at the end of the treeline. The woods grew to the edge of an oval depression, about a mile long and half-a-mile wide. Smoke rose from camp fires, teepees were sited neatly in two long rows. At the furthest point, standing apart from the teepees, there was a large circular structure built of hides stretched over wood. It had a high curved roof and a totem stood directly in front of it. The ceremonial Lodge, Bond thought, bringing his eyes back down the lines of teepees. At the end nearest to him was a tent taller and bigger than the rest. ‘Buck House,’ he muttered to himself, stepping from the trees, his arms high over his head, his pistol held by the barrel, to show that he came in peace.

  Women, and a few men, had been moving through the camp, doing the usual morning chores of any society, lighting fires, starting to cook. As they saw the white man approach, they stopped and watched, faces expressionless, as he headed on down to the large teepee.

  He could smell the woodsmoke mingled with burned meat and expected to be called to a halt at any minute. But the men and women did not move. He realised that, after the initial interest, their combined gaze had now fallen on the teepee which he was nearing from the rear.

  He moved slightly to one side, so that he could approach diagonally, and then reach the entrance flap at the front. As he moved, a figure stepped from behind the teepee.

  ‘Captain Bond, what a pleasure to welcome you to our camp; and what a pity you did not obey my orders two nights ago.’

  ‘Where is she, Brokenclaw?’ He stood stock still, holding eye contact with the huge man who was now dressed in buckskin and wore a long hunting knife at his belt.

  ‘Where is she?’ Brokenclaw’s voice was friendly. ‘She is safe, James Bond. She is here and she is safe. Why, do you wish to fight me for her?’

  ‘That was my intention. One to one, head to head, Brokenclaw. And I’m quite willing to do it on your terms. You choose the weapons, so to speak.’

  Brokenclaw put back his head and laughed. ‘You think you’re man enough to be a chief? All right, Captain Bond. There is one way we can find out if you have the strength to be a leader of men. Come, I will introduce you to a little ceremony invented first by the Mandan nation. It was designed for just such a purpose – to choose leaders. It is called the torture rite of the o-kee-pa.’

  19

  CHALLENGE BY TORTURE

  ‘You see, when men and women from many different Indian nations sought permission to come and live here, adhering to the old ways, there were many things we had to decide as a community.’ Brokenclaw still maintained that perfectly composed manner, his voice never once indicating emotion.

  They sat on skins in his teepee, with a young Indian woman serving them with a kind of stew made from rabbit, wild onions and other root vegetables. They ate with spoons, from bowls, both fashioned from wood.

  ‘It was necessary for us to have a mutual understanding regarding things like our religious beliefs, and the ways in which we chose our leaders. We had to agree on ritual and etiquette,’ Brokenclaw continued. ‘One of the terrible things the white man has done to those I regard as my people, is to introduce a different way of life – a way alien to our forefathers and a way which has brought great degradation on the proud Indian nations. You see it on the reservations, you see it in disease and the horrors of alcohol. This was one of the reasons I was a prime mover in bringing strong people from various tribes together.’

  ‘I understand that.’ Bond tried to remain calm in the presence of this man who sat patient, soft-spoken and reasonable. It was difficult, for he knew that here was evil personified, a monster who claimed two sets of ancestors, two traditions and could slip between them like someone inflicted with a multiple personality. He was a man who had held t
ogether the San Francisco underworld and ruled through brutality and fear. Listening to him talk, it was difficult to accept the truth about this appalling aberration locked within a human body.

  ‘Among the most important of our rituals, we agreed, was the appeasement of the spirits, particularly the spirits of earth, fire and the water which once covered the entire earth. You can understand this, Captain Bond?’

  He nodded. Inside, his stomach churned as he waited for Brokenclaw Lee to come out with the real object of this little lecture.

  ‘Just as Christian peoples have their ceremonies which speak of death and rebirth – the rituals of Spring, the Easter rituals – so we had to look back to the old ways and resurrect our rites of appeasement, so that the spirits would not forsake us, so that we would live to see the crops ripen and be blessed with good hunting.

  ‘One such ritual which emanates from the Mandan Indians, the Plains People, is that of o-kee-pa. This is a long ceremonial period, in which there are spirit dances and sacrifice. Part of the ancient o-kee-pa rites concern the choice of future leaders.’ He paused as though waiting for Bond to show comprehension.

  Brokenclaw maintained that the o-kee-pa, when first discovered by the white man, had offended. ‘They considered parts of it so brutal and degrading that when an explorer from your own country, Captain Bond, took back evidence of the ceremonies, the Victorian British maintained that the poor wretched explorer’s mind was filled with bizarre and morbid fantasies. That was rich coming from the Victorians who exploited their workers, and who brutalised the poor, don’t you think?’

  Bond merely nodded.

  ‘We decided that part of the o-kee-pa was ideal for choosing future leaders from among our people here. The torture ritual had long been used to weed out the strong from the weak. So, some twelve years ago, we performed the ceremony again. Out of eight men, only two of us passed the test, and I have scars to prove it to you. See!’

  He rose, stripping off his buckskin jerkin to display his back. Below the shoulder blades there were long, thick ugly scars. ‘There are two more.’ He rolled up the loose trousers to show that there were jagged, rough scars on both of his calves as though a bullet had passed through the flesh and exploded, leaving torn and ragged wounds.

  ‘You tell me that you will fight me on my own terms, then these are my terms. I shall explain.’

  Bond listened with mounting horror, knowing that this man had already been through this vile and obscene test and won.

  ‘Those who would seek to be leaders were first taken to the Sacred Lodge and there smooth, strong pegs were driven through their flesh, one on each side of the back, below the shoulder blades and another two deeply through each calf. To these skewers, rawhide ropes were attached. At the end of the ropes leading from the calves, buffalo skulls were tied as weights, then they were suspended from the ropes tied to the skewers in their backs.

  ‘There are intricate, special chants which are sung during this phase,’ Brokenclaw continued. ‘The pain is intense, but you must remain conscious. If a man loses consciousness, then he is cut down and must drag himself to the Medicine Man, who will chop off one or two of his fingers.’ He played his own hands, one palm forward, the other twisted so only the back showed. ‘As you see, I have all my fingers intact. There are six men in this village who are without fingers.’ The smile was of intense pleasure melded with evil.

  Those who sought leadership, he said, were required to hang through the length of the chant. ‘In modern time that is about twenty minutes. Then we are lowered to the Lodge floor and the pegs are removed from our backs, but not from our legs, for the next phase is a race. The course is prescribed, around the village, and the buffalo skulls remain in place. This means that participants are hampered by the weight and sometimes have to be assisted around the course. Inevitably, the buffalo skulls drag the pegs from the calves which causes more pain but allows you to run faster. That, James Bond, is the torture rite of o-kee-pa. It is also my offer of a single test, one on one, though there must be a final decision in the unlikely event of us both completing the ceremony. So far, do you accept my terms?’

  He had expected some form of hand-to-hand combat with a choice of primitive weapons, or at least a match against Brokenclaw with no weapons. The last thing Bond had expected was this savage test of torture. But he had no option. He had placed himself in this situation, so he had to abide by it, even if it meant mutilation.

  ‘What is the final test?’ he asked.

  ‘The course we will construct,’ Brokenclaw spoke very softly now, ‘will bring us to two separate finishing points. We would each have to run the same distance, but we will end up some fifty yards apart. At the finishing mark there will be one bow and one arrow. If we both complete the course, then we must finish the matter. One shaft against one shaft. The first to reach his mark may shoot, and I should warn you that I am quite extraordinarily accurate with the bow.’

  Bond took a deep breath. ‘I will offer myself to this torture ritual on three conditions . . .’

  ‘Ha, you require conditions . . .’

  ‘They are perfectly reasonable . . .’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘First, I must have your word, spoken before the assembled braves and Medicine Man of this village that, should I win this test, I will be allowed to leave in peace with the girl.’

  ‘Agreed, of course.’

  ‘I must examine the bows and the arrows and have the word of your Medicine Man that neither will be tampered with before we end the test.’

  ‘You have my word . . .’

  ‘Your word is not enough, Brokenclaw. I require the word of your Medicine Man.’

  Brokenclaw gave a curt nod. ‘Your third condition?’

  ‘This covers two parts. First that I am allowed to see the girl and know that she is safe and well . . .’

  ‘Of course she’s safe and well . . .’

  ‘Good. I must see. I must also have a solemn oath that no harm will come to her during the test.

  ‘She will be free to go, naturally. But I fear, Captain Bond, that, while you might just have the courage and stamina to reach the end of the course, you can never beat me with the bow.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  ‘Then you accept the challenge?’

  Bond did not hesitate. ‘I accept the challenge, for you deserve to die, Brokenclaw Lee, and I fear that, though the authorities will eventually catch up with you, they will only imprison you. Prison is too easy. Your way is good. It is a test of manhood, leadership and courage. You merit death.’

  Chi-Chi was terrified. She did not have to tell Bond for it showed in her eyes and her whole demeanour. She looked more fragile than ever, he thought, as he told her that all would be fine.

  ‘I just want to get out of here, James. I want things to be as they were when you went out for the wine.’

  ‘The wine’ll keep. It’s a good year.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘I’m negotiating.’ He was not going to tell her how or make her even more frightened. As he left the women’s teepee, where she was being held, his one thought was that he had to survive; he had to win. Chi-Chi had become too precious for him even to think of losing.

  With Brokenclaw, he met Bear’s Head, the village Medicine Man and some of the senior braves. Using sign language, and watching his adversary closely, he felt confident that Brokenclaw was sticking to his side of the bargain. But there was still the nagging thought in the back of his mind that should he be close to losing the contest, Brokenclaw might have arranged some kind of backup. The one person Bond did not trust among the other senior braves was a short whippet of an Indian called Even Both Ways. To Bond, he looked to be the kind of Indian who had seen a lot of the world outside the reservations and this particular village. He also appeared particularly attached to Brokenclaw.

  They were led around the running course. From the Sacred Lodge, Brokenclaw had to run to the left and Bond to the right. They would cov
er the entire length of the village, running behind the teepees until they were on the far side of Brokenclaw’s own tent where their final goals were marked by white stones set roughly fifty yards apart. Here, one of the Medicine Man’s assistants set down the two bows and their accompanying arrows.

  Both bows were strong and almost identical, fashioned from good ash backed by animal sinew. The taut strings were also, in Bond’s judgment, made from the sinew of animals, and the arrows were firm, straight and iron-tipped, their flights made from large bird feathers.

  As much as he would have liked to try his own bowmanship, Bond knew that this would only be taken as a sign of weakness and uncertainty. Half the battle, he had decided, was to show no fear and display only great confidence in the outcome. To this end he now asked if he might be left alone for half-an-hour. He consented to sit in full sight of everyone, but, he indicated to the Medicine Man, he wished to talk to his gods.

  By this time he had taken to passing messages to Brokenclaw through the dignified, sinister man clad in garish skins and hung about with charms, face covered in a white mixture and his hair plastered to his scalp with some sticky red-coloured daub. Once he had accepted the challenge, Bond felt it was more impressive to ignore his opponent than appear friendly.

  His request was granted, and he moved a little way up the bowl of earth surrounding the village, finally finding a small ledge on which he squatted in the lotus position and closed his eyes. This was the only way he could face what was to come, to will himself into a mental and physical state which would guarantee his winning.

  First he settled his mind on his enemy. Brokenclaw had gone through this ordeal before, but that was some twelve years ago. In the time that had passed, the man had almost certainly lost some of his stamina. Yes, he appeared fit but Bond judged him as being a little overweight, certainly heavier than he had been a dozen years ago. It was possible that the strain would now be too much for Brokenclaw Lee.