by J. T. Edson
‘But the nearest Waw’ai country’s—,’ Mark began.
‘Yeah, I know,’ interrupted the Kid, ‘It’s a good three hundred miles from here. But this bunch are Waw’ais, or I’ve never seen one.’
At that moment one of the cowhands came up with a rope and Mark took it. Kneeling at the Kid’s side, Mark quickly secured the groaning Indian’s wrists with the rope. With that done, Mark rose and lifted the man erect and held him upright as if the other weighed no more than a baby.
‘Let’s take him down to the barn and make talk,’ suggested the Kid.
‘Not the barn,’ Betty objected. ‘I don’t want that mare disturbed.’
‘Use the store cabin,’ Dusty told the Kid and looked at the assembled cowhands. ‘Billy Jack, get the bodies moved. You’d best leave them in the forge until we can have pappy over to look at them.’
Being country sheriff, Dusty’s father would want to examine the bodies when he heard of the attempted murders. The tall, gangling, miserable-looking cowhand who rode as Dusty’s very able sergeant major during the War nodded and gave the necessary orders. Leaving the removal of the bodies in Billy Jack’s hands, Dusty turned to his cousin.
‘You’d best go to bed, Betty,’ he said.
Obediently the girl turned and walked towards the house. There were times when she laid down the law in no uncertain manner and she ruled the house firmly, but Betty knew better than stand arguing when Dusty’s voice held that quiet, deadly serious note.
‘What’s happening, Dusty?’ Hollenheimer asked, joining the small Texan.
‘We’re just now going to find out,’ Dusty replied and suddenly he ceased to be a small, insignificant figure. In a strange way he appeared to grow until he gave the impressiou of towering over big Mark Counter even.
‘How?’
‘Any way we have to.’
‘May I come along?’
‘It might be better if you didn’t, Professor,’ Dusty warned. ‘There’s more than just a chance raid to this. So I aim to find out what’s behind it and the Indian might not want to tell me.’
‘I assure you that I don’t want to come along out of idle or morbid curiosity,’ Hollenheimer replied, ‘And I promise that I won’t interfere in any way.’
‘All right, Professor.’ Dusty said. ‘You can come along. But understand now that I’ll hold you to your promise.’
Hollenheirner formed some idea of what made Dusty a cavalry captain at seventeen and the peace officer who tamed a wild Montana mining town after three less able men died trying as he watched the small Texan. Quietly, yet in a manner which showed he expected instant and unquestioning, obedience, Dusty told the ranch crew not assisting Billy Jack to return to the bunkhouse. Cowhands were not noted for mild obedience or excepting a man as their boss merely because he happened to be related to the owner of the ranch. Yet not one of them raised any objections to doing as Dusty ordered. Talking amongst themselves, the cowhands walked away in the direction of the bunkhouse.
Half carrying the Waw’ai, Mark headed for the store cabin and the Kid walked at his side. Neither spoke, but both knew that they might be involved in something unpleasant before very long.
Before following his friends, Dusty returned to the porch. Ole Devil sat at the door, showing some impatience.
‘Well, Dustine?’ growled the rancher.
‘They’re Waw’ai Comanches according to Lon, sir,’ Dusty replied. ‘Three of them. We only managed to take one alive.’
‘This isn’t Waw’ai country, and never was,’ commented Ole Devil.
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Dusty. ‘I’m just going to ask the one we took alive about that.’
‘Let me know what you learn,’ Ole Devil ordered.
‘I’ll do just that, sir,’ promised Dusty.
Hollenheimer stood waiting for Dusty and accompanied the small Texan towards the store cabin.
‘How do you propose to get answers, Dusty?’ he asked.
A cold set mask replaced Dusty’s usual easy-going expression. ‘Any way I have to use, Professor,’ the small Texan said.
CHAPTER THREE
NAMES FROM THE PAST
With Hollenheimer following on his heels, Dusty entered the small cabin selected as the best place in which to interrogate the Waw’ai prisoner. The Kid had brought along a lamp and hung it from a hook fitted into the roof for that purpose. As Dusty and the Professor entered, the other two Texans put the final touches to fastening the Waw’ai to the wall.
Although called a store cabin, the building served mainly as a workshop for saddlery repair. Harness, spare saddles, bridles and other horse equipment lay around the single room. In its centre stood a stout table and two heavy benches were set against the walls. Looking around him, Hollenheimer saw a number of items which might serve as instruments of torture, although their true purpose was the repair or making of leatherwork. Tearing his eyes from the stout needles and short, sharp, curved bladed knives, he looked at the prisoner.
Clearly Mark and the Kid had wasted no time on their arrival. Already the Waw’ai stood with his back to the wall, arms drawn up and apart with ropes secured to pegs in the wall and his legs held apart, fastened to the work benches. Tied in such a position by experts in the use of ropes, the Indian could barely move.
Hollenheimer studied the Indian with some interest. Most Comanches tended to be short to medium in height, with stocky, robust bodies. Although showing a wiry, muscular development, the Waw’ai was tall and slim. He had the normal straight black hair of all Indians and the slightly Mongoloid features of the Comanche. All he wore was the smallest breechclout Hollenheimer had ever seen and his body glistened in the lamp’s light. If he felt afraid, the Waw’ai did not show it, but scowled defiantly at his captors.
‘He said anything yet?’asked Dusty.
‘Only one thing,’ the Kid replied, lips twisted in a wolf-savage grin. ‘I won’t tell you what.’
‘Ask him why he came here,’ Dusty ordered.
Turning back to the Waw’ai, the Kid repeated Dusty’s question in Comanche. At first the Indian made no reply, then he grunted something.
‘He allows they came to steal horses,’ interpreted the Kid then swung back to the prisoner. ‘That’s a lie. No Waw’ai ever raided over the ridge behind his village. You came here to kill me.’
Only a grunt left the Waw’ai’s lips and he hung his head in a surly manner. Mark shoved the man’s head back, forcing him to look straight ahead. Taking out his knife, the Kid held it before the Waw’ai’s eyes and then lowered it to the level of the breechclout.
‘Tell me who sent you, or I’ll make you half a man,’ he growled.
For a moment fear flickered in the Waw’ai’s dark eyes and the Kid thought his threat might work. Then the Indian stiffened his features into a cold, expressionless mask,
‘Strike, Pehnane dog-eater!’ he snarled.
‘Aiee, Namae’enuh!*’ said the Kid, using another name for the Waw’ai. ‘Would you go back to your people and not be able to make children with your sister?’
‘Strike, don’t talk!’ the Waw’ai spat back after a brief pause. Watching the Kid at that moment, Hollenheimer wondered how he ever thought the other looked young and innocent. Nothing in the Kid’s cold Dog Soldier’s mask of a face led the Professor to believe he would hesitate before castrating the prisoner. Nor did there seem to be any chance of Dusty or Mark making a move to prevent it happening. Suddenly Hollenheimer’s mouth felt rather dry and he ran his tongue tips over parched lips, wondering what he ought to do.
However the Kid understood Indians far better than Hollenheimer, academic knowledge and international reputation notwithstanding, ever could. All too well the Kid knew how an Indian would stand up to pain. Mere torture could not bring out the required answers. No Comanche would doubt that another Nemenuh aimed to carry out a threat of torture, yet the Waw’ai seemed resigned to the hideous fate of losing his manhood. That meant the Waw’ai must have some strong puha, medi
cine power, behind him. The Kid knew the futility of using ordinary methods when dealing with the sacred state of puha. Neither the threat nor actuality of castration would make the prisoner talk.
‘I see you are a brave man,’ he said. ‘If you tell me why you came and who sent you, I will let you go free.’
‘And what will your white friends do?’ asked the Waw’ai.
‘This is the one called Magic Hands,’ replied the Kid, indicating Dusty. ‘He who came to the big council when the white men fought among themselves and broke the medicine of the Devil Gun.’
During the War, a pair of fanatical Union supporters took an Agar Coffee Mill machine gun to a council of Indian tribes in North Texas and hoped to use it as an inducement to send the tribes on the warpath. On learning of the plot, Dusty led a small party of men, including the Kid’s father, to the council and ruined the insane plot.** In doing so, he gained quite a reputation among the Texas Indians and the Kid could see that the Waw’ai was impressed at coming face to face with the fabled Magic Hands; who had such courage that he threw aside his revolvers when stood before the Devil Gun so as to make its owners fight him.
‘Magic Hands would keep his word,’ admitted the Waw’ai. ‘But if I speak, the Death Bringer’s puha will kill me.’
‘It’s medicine business, Dusty,’ the Kid explained, turning to his waiting friends. ‘Unless we can break it, he’ll not talk?
‘Then we’ll have to break it,’ Dusty answered. ‘Those three jaspers came here to kill you, and likely Uncle Devil. I aim to find out why and who sent them.’
‘I could work on him,’ the Kid said. ‘But he’ll not talk with a death curse hanging over him.’
‘Perhaps I can help,’ Hollenheimer put in, moving forward from his place by the door.
Hearing the voice, the Waw’ai looked for the first time away from the grim faced trio of Texans. He stared with some interest and surprise at the tall, stately figure of the noted Eastern savant, gazing at Hollenheimer’s head with especial attentiveness.
During his last lecture tour in England, Hollenheimer mingled with upper-class sportsmen and adopted their style of leisure wear. Even on his visit to the OD Connected, he chose to wear a dark burgundy smoking jacket and a red fez decorated in black silk with various cabalistic signs. Such a style of dress had attracted comment among the ranch crew and certainly the Waw’ai, his knowledge of white men limited to soldiers and native Texans, never saw its like. Studying the crescent moon and five-pointed star motif of the fez’s decoration, the Waw’ai wondered what kind of white man fate threw him into contact with.
‘How do you mean, Professor?’ asked Dusty, while the Kid looked from the Waw’ai to Hollenheimer’s fez and back.
‘I’ve found that displaying pseudo-magical powers often has a most salutary effect upon the Indian,’ Hollenheimer explained.
‘How about making that so a half-smart lil Texas boy like me can follow it?’ requested the Kid.
‘I’m somewhat skilled at sleight-of.hand,’ Hollenheinier answered. ‘Learned in college originally, as a means of entertainment during fraternity dinners rather than with any serious intention. However it came in most useful in gaining the confidence of the Indian, when used in conjunction with a demonstration of some easily-transported scientific development which smacked of the supernatural to the uncultured. braves.’
‘Which same, we’re a mite short on scientific developments down here on the OD Connected,’ Dusty drawled, guessing what the other had in mind.
‘I brought one of the latest model microscopes back from England, it’s in my trunk,’ Hollenheimer told him. ‘Would that work, do you think?’
‘It’d do for a start,’ the Kid admitted when Dusty explained the purpose of a microscope.
‘Then I could perform some sleight-of-hand.’ Hollenheimer went on, warming to the idea; especially as it might prevent the need for using physical torture. ‘Pull a bullet out of midair, or a coin from his ear.’
‘Which same any half-way good Nemenuh witch man or woman can do?’ drawled the Kid. ‘No sir. Happen you aim to make him think you’re a top medicine man who’s strong enough to break the death curse, you’ll have to do a whole heap better than that.’
‘Happen the microscope works,’ Dusty drawled. ‘I’ve an idea that’ll make this hombre think he’s run across the top medicine man of the whole white race.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Mark.
‘Go get the microscope,’ Dusty told him, ignoring the question.
‘It’s packed in a polished wooden box in my trunk, Mark,’ Hollenheimer went on. ‘Tommy will find it for you if you ask him.’
‘Do that,’ Dusty said. ‘And ask Uncle Devil if he’ll let Tommy come back here with you. Tell him it’s mighty important.’
‘Sure,’ Mark answered and left without further talk.
‘You start telling that Waw’ai what a right fine medicine man the Professor is, Lon,’ Dusty continued. ‘Lay it on good and thick.’
‘Why sure,’ grinned the Kid, having such faith in the small Texan that he needed no further instructions or explanation. ‘Start up some of your magic, Professor, so’s he can see that I’m not fooling.’
Although the Waw’ai tended to scoff and stated that he had never heard of the white people having medicine men, he stared at Hollenheimer who nonchalantly reached an apparently empty hand into the air and produced a silver dollar between his finger-tips. Give the Professor his due, no matter what motive lay behind his acquiring a knowledge of sleight-of-hand, he learned real well. Working with only the items from his pockets, he performed a series of highly diverting tricks. Dusty and the Kid watched with interest, seeing that the Waw’ai gave Hollenheimer his attention without being over-impressed.
Mark returned with Tommy Okasi who carried the microscope box and set it on the table. Walking over, Hollenheimer opened the box, took out and set up the microscope. Then he handed Mark one of the slides and told the blond giant to take it outside then place a couple of spots of water, from the rain-filled barrel against the side of the building, on to it, While Mark went to obey, Hollenheimer gave the Kid his instructions.
‘This white medicine man has great puha,’ the Kid informed the Waw’ai.
‘I haven’t seen it yet,’ the Indian sniffed.
‘Soon you will,’ promised the Kid, voice holding a threatening note.
When Mark re-entered the cabin, Hollenheimer took the slide from him and carried it to where the Waw’ai stood. Holding the slide between the tips of his fingers, Hollenheimer raised it to before the Indian’s eyes.
‘What do you see?’ he asked, speaking Comanche.
‘A small piece of white man’s glass,’ answered the Waw’ai and showed surprise at hearing his native tongue come from the strangely-dressed white man.
‘Nothing more?’
‘It is only a small piece of glass, with a little water on it.’
‘You do not see things moving in the water?’
‘There could be nothing in such a tiny spot,’ scoffed the Waw’ai,
‘Bring him to the table,’ ordered Hollenheimer and backed away, keeping the slide in plain view all the time.
While guessing that Hollenheimer had aroused their prisoner’s interest, Dusty did not intend to take chances. After unfastening the Waw’ai’s legs, but before freeing his arms, Dusty hobbled his ankles in such a manner that he could walk but not make any sudden moves.
Hollenheimer made sure that the Waw’ai would receive the full benefit of a modern scientific wonder, placing the slide into position and focusing the microscope while the freeing of the Indian took place. On the man being brought to the table, Hollenheimer removed the’ slide from beneath the lens and repeated his question. Again the Waw’ai insisted that he saw only a piece of glass with a spot of water on it. Then Hollenheimer let the Indian peer through the microscope without placing the slide into position. Following Hollenheimer’s instructions, the India looked.
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bsp; ‘I see nothing,’ said the Waw’ai a shade uneasily, wondering how such a large circle of bright light could be at the bottom of the narrow tube.
‘Then look again!’ boomed Hollenheimer and, with a flourish many a professional stage magician might have envied, put the slide into position.
More curious than interested, the Waw’ai bent once more over the microscope and squinted into the eye-piece. Instantly his body stiffened and he let out a yell, No longer did he see a bright light, but a murky circle in which hideous shapes moved, writhed and twisted. Jerking backwards, disregarding the hobbles on his ankles, the Indian sat down hard on his rump. Hollenheimer removed the slide and held it towards the horrified face of the Indian, causing him to try to shuffle back across the floor.
‘Now do you believe?’ demanded the Kid.
‘Aiee!’ ejaculated the Waw’ai. ‘He has much puha.’
‘He is the greatest medicine man of the white people,’ the Kid stated for Dusty had explained the rest of the scheme while Hollenheimer introduced the Indian to the wonders of the microscope. ‘This medicine man can give powers that makes a man beyond pain and of great strength.’
‘That I have not seen,’ the Waw’ai said, but his voice showed uncertainty.
‘See that small yellow one?’ asked the Kid, pointing to Tommy. ‘The medicine man gave him puha so that he can break wood with his bare hands or feet,’
‘I would like to see such puha,’ the Waw’ai stated.
‘You will,’ the Kid promised.
