And yet—and yet—something about all this doesn’t feel quite right. Which is why my gun-hand refuses to stray too far from the hilt of my Colt.
I sigh at that feeling, mostly to myself. I should know by now, things are never as easy as they appear.
I hear a noise from Tars Tarkas, as my friend rises to his mostimpressive full height and turns partially toward the ridge, his stance one of intense concentration. I follow his lead but see nothing but the mountain. Good as my senses are, I know the Thark’s are much keener.
“What do you sense?” asks Dejah Thoris.
“Humans” is his reply. “I believe”—slight pause, a shallow sniff, as he gathers more information from the scents—“there are two groups, one mounted.” He doesn’t sound happy. “The riders are approaching along the gorge but I suspect the others have been here awhile. The wind has shifted, that’s why I’m catching their scents now.”
“Ambush,” I wonder aloud and from both his and Dejah’s stance in the moonlight, I know we have all jumped to that same conclusion.
Hurrying back to my horse, I draw my Henry repeater; Dejah does the same. From there, it’s a quick scramble across the ridge-crest, taking care as we go to make no sound, until we achieve a respectable view of the scene below.
Even as we approach, the night silence is shattered by a volley of gunfire, followed by the shriek of terrified horses as startled riders jerk on the reins or, worse, the mounts themselves are struck. There are outcries as well, some expressions of alarm and rage, intermingled with sharp-spoken commands. The cries are those of Indians, which means the targets are likely a band of Apache. In the Superstitions, that means Chiricahua, which means people loyal to Cochise—which means those in peril below are quite likely known to us, if not outright friends.
Yet all those thoughts mean nothing because of what happens a moment later—as we behold a distinctive flash from among the attackers, followed an instant later by a vicious explosion in the midst of the targets.
“John Carter, did you see—?” cries my beloved.
“Impossible” is my reply.
Then, the sniper unleashes a second projectile, with as fearsome an impact as his first—and with that shot, the reality before us can no longer be ignored, or denied.
“A radium round,” says Tars Tarkas. “Someone down there is firing a radium rifle.”
“We have to draw their fire,” I tell my companions, knowing full well the risk of what I ask.
“First blood to me, then!” Tars Tarkas draws up a longbow of his own design and construction. We all came to Earth as I had come to Barsoom—stripped of clothes and possessions. In the time since, we have all adapted to the world around us, but the tools and weapons of the human race are simply too small for this Thark. During our time here, he’s coped by simply making his own—leaving me to wonder, assuming all goes well and we manage to return home, what people in times to come will make of these artifacts. Knives the size of a man’s arm, a curved sword as long as I stand tall, and arrows of similar length.
Quickly, and with practiced efficiency, I check my rifle and the Colt revolvers at my belt. On Barsoom, among my beloved’s people, the preference is for bladed weapons. The warriors of Helium have firearms of immense power aboard their flying vessels, but they see little honor in such things. Their preference is to finish a fight hand-to-hand. The Green Martians are not so idealistic; for them, what matters is victory, and the variety of their weapons has to be seen to be believed. All of them, I might add, are lethal.
That said, the Thark gives Dejah Thoris and myself a few heartbeats to begin our descent before he lets fly his first arrow. His aim is flawless, the consequence lethal; amidst the gunfire and the outcries of the combatants, his target goes down without a sound. Within moments, the first is joined by a second. This one, regrettably, is noticed, which in turn prompts immediate outcries of alarm.
Even as these marauders start yelling, a third of their number is dispatched to join his two companions. An instant later, the slope erupts once more with noise as rifles and pistols unleash a barrage in what these marauders hope is the general direction of their new assailant.
These bushwhackers are so intent on Tars Tarkas they don’t notice Dejah Thoris and me. As we move closer, I spare a glance farther down the slope, to see how their initial targets are faring. It isn’t a comforting vision. The scene below is a mangled mixture of horror and slaughter; the radium rounds have taken a deadly toll of the Apaches.
And now, that weapon is turned on Tars Tarkas.
I hear the distinctive sound of the rifle being fired, followed quickly by the shock of impact.
The noise of weapons, even the radium rifle, is nothing compared to the monstrous, inhuman bellow that erupts from behind me up the slope. I know for a fact it is like nothing ever before heard on this world. I also know from experience how terribly effective it is on men in battle, especially when that single outcry is echoed by a hundred more. It is the war cry of the Green Martians, capable of striking fear into the hearts of even the bravest of Helium’s warriors.
Men can resist the impulses of nature when confronted by that sound, but it is supremely difficult. They can choose to stand their ground, and more often than not pay for such arrogance with their lives. Their mounts react on a far more basic level. Somehow, even Earthly animals instinctively know what the roar means and respond accordingly. They scream and rear and kick and tear at their reins, until they can break free from where they’re tethered and run for their lives. Any fool who tries to stop them, they simply trample to the ground.
Another arrow strikes, but only a tree trunk this time. In return, the radium rifle disgorges a fresh shot of its own. The rounds it fires are of similar size to the balls carried by the Kentucky rifles of my grandfather’s era. The difference is that a rifle ball on Earth is little more than a shaped rock. The damage to its target comes solely from the force of impact, as forged iron punches through flesh and bone. Its radium counterparts are far more lethal; they explode on impact, with a titanic force far beyond any explosive on this world. A radium round does not merely wound. At best, it maims; most often, it simply blasts its target to bits.
I have to admit, this wretch is good. Give him a proper target, that may well be the end of things.
Amidst the clamor, none of them notices Dejah Thoris’s first shot as she drops one of the attackers. I am not quite so fortunate. As I strike my target, a profane outcry draws the weapons of those nearest him around to unleash a staggered volley in my direction, forcing me to dive for cover. This is when I realize the men we’re facing know their business; they’ve clearly been tested by service in the late War between North and South.
I return a hearty fire with my Henry rifle and drop another of our foes. A moment later I’m diving for my life as I perceive a distinctive flash I know only too well and hear a scrambling hiss through the air dangerously close beside me as the radium shell rockets past. The projectile strikes home on a nearby boulder and the air around me literally erupts with shock and fury. I find myself swept up by the fearsome shockwave and pitched head over heels, my Henry wrenched from my grasp.
Fortunately, if such a word can be applied to a horrific moment like this, the gunman significantly underestimates the raw power of the weapon he wields. Perhaps he should have paid closer attention to the shells he fired at the Apaches below? Perhaps he doesn’t take time to think, he simply reacts—as if he holds an ordinary rifle? Whatever the rationale, the consequences are stunning.
Trees rock wildly from the shockwave and more than a few actually snap, trunks crashing down with terrifying force as the air fills with splinters. Men find themselves staggered where they stand, and not a few of them are actually knocked back off their feet.
I’m used to this, having fought far more than my share of battles on the Red Planet. I hit the ground hard but I still manage to hold fast to my wits. From there, in that moment of confusion where the attackers try to rega
in their bearings, many of them astonished to find themselves alive and substantially unharmed, I am upon them. I grab a Colt from its holster and start shooting.
This is why I prefer blades. So long as I hold a sword in my hand, I can defend myself. After six shots, my pistol is useless, save as a club.
And that is how I proceed to use it. I reverse my grip on the Colt and strike the wretch closest to me with a backhand across the jaw. I sense another, coming at me from my blindside. As I spin to face him, I know that I’ll be too late to stop him or avoid his bullet—only to see him drop as his legs are scythed out from under him.
The man recovers even as he strikes the ground, twisting to his feet and slashing forward with his knife—but not at me. Rather, at his attacker, who confronts him: Dejah Thoris.
The man lunges; my Princess catches him by the wrist and yanks him forward, once more slashing her legs across his—this time from the front—to pitch him onto his face; at the same time, she lands beside him on her back, twisting in the other direction with such force that her adversary both cries out in surprised pain and releases his hold on the knife.
Dejah Thoris lets forth a powerful kick but the man is strongly made. He withstands the impact and responds with a powerful punch to my beloved’s jaw, forcing her to let him go. Worse, as this happens, he grabs hold of the pistol at his waist. Up it comes in his hand, his thumb cocking the hammer as he brings it to bear on my wife.
But at the same moment, she catches hold of his knife and lets it fly with all her strength. It strikes him in the base of the throat and just like that, his life is done.
To tell the tale takes time; to see it happen isn’t even a matter of heartbeats. In truth, by the time I realize it is Dejah Thoris who’s come to my rescue, the battle before me is done.
The next few minutes are a kind of madness, as we fight our way through to victory. Many is the time I have thought I was born to be a warrior. I love nothing so much as the ultimate test of a man facing seemingly hopeless odds; the triumph that follows such a struggle is unlike anything I have ever known, a sweetness of the soul that comes to a very few men and seems like both a blessing and a curse.
And yet, when the battle is done, and I survey the field, taking stock of the dead, the maimed and the bloody, I cannot help but feel an abiding sense of sorrow. So many lives cut short, so many dreams that will never be realized. True, there are some against whom a stand must be taken—but there are far too many battles where it is the innocents who pay the ultimate price. I have seen it here on Earth, and I have seen it on Barsoom.
I feel this way now because I have found someone who has become more important to me than my sword. Someone for whom my courage is needed not to level some fortress or defeat a villainous adversary but simply to hold her close and exchange a kiss.
I have never truly known loneliness until I met her. And now—I cannot bear for us to be apart. Thank God she feels the same.
Dejah Thoris is my Princess. She is my true love. She has been cast to Earth with me and with my best friend, and I am determined to bring them both safely home.
The grunts of a fierce struggle draw me back to the carnage. I sense more than see movement up ahead that shifts into focus as Dejah Thoris and I both hurry closer to reveal Cochise, chief of the Chiricahua Apaches, in mortal combat with another of our attackers. No guns for these two; they struggle with their bodies, and with knives. The renegade switches hands with surprising speed and lunges forward, Cochise pivoting so the blade cuts only his shirt. In the same movement, he grabs hold of the attacking hand and pivots, pitching his assailant up and over his shoulder, to come crashing down onto the sand-strewn rock with terrible force. The man is stunned; chances are his back was broken by the impact, but the Chiricahua takes no chances. His knife comes down to bury itself to the hilt in the other’s chest, right through the heart.
Around us, the scene is ugly. Bodies are strewn everywhere, most felled by the radium shells, but others in the struggle that followed. Out of the shadows emerge a pair of men. One of them—a comparatively young man, and handsome, with a beard, and only one arm—wears the uniform of a cavalry general. The other man helps the General along, and as the two of them come closer I see that it is none other than Cochise’s friend—and mine—Tom Jeffords.
My focus, however, is not on these two but on the man who confronts them—and us: The last of our attackers now stands before us, holding the radium rifle.
The man seems to know his business. He wears a Colt at his waist, holster reversed as is the custom for the Cavalry, to allow for an easier draw of the weapon when on horseback, but he leaves his pistol be. The rifle, he knows, is a far more effective killing machine. At this range, he doesn’t need the shell’s explosives, impact alone will punch the round right through a living body. If the weapon’s magazine is full and the man knows his business, Cochise and Dejah Thoris and I will all be dead before we can even take a step against him. I could certainly do that; prudence demands I treat this man with as much respect, even in the dark.
“You killed my friends,” he snarls.
“You had the same intent for us” is my reply. The surrounding bodies are mute proof of that.
“Yeah.” He smiles, proud of what he’s done. “An’ it looks like I win.”
“You think,” wonders a new voice, from above and behind. “I have to say, I see things somewhat—differently.”
The gunman doesn’t even try to turn. He knows he’s likely finished, so he simply pulls the trigger. At that same moment, the figure behind him reaches out with lightning speed to grasp the barrel and yank it away, so the radium shell goes spiraling up toward the stratosphere.
Now the man grabs for his pistol, only to discover that it’s no longer there. Another hand has snatched it away. Before he can do anything more, a third hand and a fourth reach down from above to grasp him around the shoulders and scoop him up better than ten feet above the ground.
I don’t have to look at Cochise or the other two to know that none of them can believe what they’re seeing. My wife, however, chuckles with delight.
Cochise murmurs in Apache; now even I can’t help a smile.
“This is indeed,” I tell him, nodding, “the fabled Ghost of the Superstition Mountains.”
Tars Tarkas quirks me a look sideways, his mouth twisting in disdain. We’ve known each other long enough for him to become used to my sense of humor, but that doesn’t mean he always likes it.
“Well,” chimes in my wife, “perhaps not quite dead.”
Mind you, the man held snugly in his grasp may not be quite so sanguine, dangling as he is in uncomfortably close proximity to those terrifying fangs and the fearsome face they frame. To give him credit, despite whatever fear he may be feeling, he does not utter a sound. Villain he may be, but he faces his captor with no lack of courage.
Cochise does not seem overly impressed by my words.
“I have heard all the stories of these mountains,” he notes dryly, “from my own people and the Navajo—as well as the Hopi, the Yaki, the Zuni—but never in the wildest of tales have I been told of a spirit resembling this one.”
“The difference, perhaps,” I suggest quietly, “between stories and reality.”
“Bless my soul.” This comes from the General, Oliver Howard, newly appointed by President Grant to bring peace to the southwest. The word on him is that he is a man of honor, a warrior who is also a man of peace. Jeffords trusts him, and that’s enough for me—and also, it seems, for Cochise. Presumably, Jeffords has led him out here to meet with Cochise, to try to negotiate a peace treaty for this land.
Dejah Thoris turns to Jeffords with a question: “Are there any other survivors?”
Tom shakes his head. It seems we are the only ones who still live.
“You kill the General,” he says, “you kill Cochise, it’d be like firing off a cap inside a pile of dry tinder. This country’d drown in blood, natives, and settlers.”
“This
is our land,” the gunman cries with a snarl. “First we get rid of the Apaches, then we start in on you blue-bellies. And we won’t stop till our country’s free.”
“Appomattox settled that,” I counter. “Enough blood was shed, by both sides. It was time for the war to end.”
“A mistake Lincoln paid for with his life.” His reference is to the president’s assassination at the hands of John Wilkes Booth. That had been a hard day for me. True, he’d been my enemy, but when I heard the news I truly thought my heart would break. It was in large part why I rode for the Southwest; I wanted a new land, with new hope and opportunity, where a man could start fresh and build something of value, untainted by the mistakes of the past. I suppose I got my wish, only not in Arizona but on Barsoom.
“Four years of carnage wasn’t enough?” I wonder.
“You’re Carter, aren’t you?” challenges the man. “I thought I recognized your face. You fought for the South, Cap’n Carter, how can you say such a thing?” His outcry is almost a primal scream, mingling grief and rage. I’ve heard it’s like before. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, since you fight alongside monsters. You talk about blood; I say Lee’s surrender made that sacrifice all for nothing. With these weapons, we can take back all we’ve lost. We can break the back of the Union.”
Tars Tarkas holds his prisoner facing us, which means he cannot see the man’s face. However, his touch is surprisingly sensitive, and he can feel the intensity of the man’s passion reflected through the warmth of his flesh and the beat of his heart. It is a challenge he cannot help but respond to, by baring his lesser fangs, fearsome in their own right, and letting loose what is for him a gentle growl. For me, it sounds much like a steam engine rumbling past along the railroad.
Under the Moons of Mars Page 20
