‘What? Throw those spears of yours? If the light’s good enough for you to see him and hit him, then it’s going to be good enough for him to see you at the same damned time.’
There was a pause. Mick nodded. ‘I think that the remark of Mister Crow has a great wealth of credibility to it.’
Mavulamanzi shook his head. ‘It is mine,’ he insisted, eyes gleaming angrily.
‘Wrong.’
‘Wrong, Crow?’ he asked, menacingly. ‘How are you saying it is wrong?’
‘Because it is.’ He glanced around, judging the light and trying to estimate how long it would take him to reach the young brave who was pacing nervously around the mouth of White Canyon. Wondering as he watched the Apache whether their chief would be replacing him yet. Taking a guess that it would not be until after they had eaten an evening meal. Then another man would go to take his place as a sentry.
There was a moment when the white man thought the huge Negro was going to rise like a behemoth from the earth and break him over his knee. His hand dropped on the blind side and readied the Purdey for a draw. But that moment of tension passed and he relaxed, slipping the retaining thong across the hammers of the scatter-gun.
‘That’s agreed then?’ There was no reply from the Zulu. ‘Hell, at least it’s not disagreed. Main thing is to keep quiet. Mikalawayo.’
‘Yes, Crow.’
‘Chance to make up for the affair of the gun. You come down with me. Back up. Bring that pistol and ifn I get into trouble, then you damned well use it. If you get me killed I’ll take it out on your black hide.’
‘Rest your anxieties, Crow. I shall be jolly quiet and soulfully discreet Very quiet.’
Lavinia Woodstock lay on her back. Trying to sleep and finding it impossible. They had thrown up a crude shelter for her against the end wall of the canyon, made from blankets and travois poles. The night was closing in outside and she shut her eyes, enjoying the temporary quiet. There was the smell of cooking and the low chatter of the Mescalero warriors, squatting around their small fires. Occasionally she caught the ripple of laughter from some joke. Jokes that she suspected featured her at their centers.
She was naked above the waist, wearing only a cotton shift below. And she was bare-footed. She rubbed her hand down across her breasts, wincing at the streaks of dried blood and the scabs from where jagged nails had ripped at her flesh.
‘Dear Lord, God, most merciful creator, I beg you to look down on this your most humble servant and aid me in my time of tribulation. I have sinned but I have not been able to help myself. They took me, Lord. Took me. Man after man after man. Ways natural and unnatural. Please, Jesus Christ, please, make the bastards suffer like they’ve made me. Make those rotten whoring bastards bleed and burn in Hell. And let me watch them. Let me do the cutting and the burning, Lord God. Merciful Lord God. Oh, I beg you to help me be freed from this travail.’
The flap of the makeshift tent was pulled unceremoniously back and there stood two of the younger braves of the tribe. Leering in at the semi-naked white woman.
She began to cry as they came in towards her, brutally moving her and spreading her thighs. Lavinia was conscious of the soreness and stickiness between her legs. Some of it blood.
Most of it not blood.
There was little light from the sailing moon, serene behind a shredded veil of pale clouds. The sentry was young and inexperienced, not moving around all the time as a good guard should. Sitting down with his back against a mighty stone that had been washed from the walls of White Canyon countless centuries ago. He was cradling a Winchester in his arms, humming quietly to himself.
Crow had crawled to within a dozen yards of him, with little Mikalawayo at his heels. Turning to speak quietly to the diminutive Negro.
‘One sound and they’ll come pourin’ out there like bees out of a hive. You use the gun ifn you have to. No other way. You understand that, nigger?’
‘Yes. I do. Silence is number one top-hole thing to have.’
‘Yeah. I’m goin’ in with my knife.’
‘Now?’
Crow nodded. Almost smiling at the earnest face under the grotesque hat ‘Yeah. Right now.’
He had unbuckled his gun-belt, leaving it a way back, not wanting to have it get in the way for the swift, silent killing he desired. Keeping the hilt of the saber firmly in his right hand. Mikalawayo moving behind him in a strange, scuttling movement, like a crab with a broken claw.’
There was a clatter just ahead of him as the Apache dropped his Winchester, standing and stretching, muttering something to himself. Crow froze, pressing himself flat against the dirt.
Seeing the darker figure against the blackness all around them. Hearing the pattering of liquid on the stones just in front of him, catching the acrid smell of the Apache’s urine. Waiting until the moment it stopped when he calculated the Indian would be tucking himself back into his breeches. Knowing he might not get another chance to take the Mescalero away from his rifle.
Powering himself up off the balls of his feet, the long knife glittering in his hand, his fingers grasping for the Indian. A groan breaking from his lips as he realized he’d got it wrong.
The Mescalero wasn’t where Crow thought he was. In finishing his urination he’d stepped back, perhaps to avoid getting his boots wet. But Crow’s charge missed him, the knife cutting empty air, the fingers only just touching the loose shirt.
But it was enough to send the Apache leaping clumsily backwards, going for his gun, simultaneously trying to draw his own knife. Crow desperately struggling to keep his balance, steadying himself against a rock. Peering through the night to make out what the warrior was trying to do.
Seeing the Apache was also hesitating, Crow dived in at him, cutting for the Indian’s legs. Feeling the jar of the long blade against flesh and the moan of pain from his opponent. Rolling over and coming up in a crouch. Straightening and seeing the blur of the Indian. Stepping in and kicking hard at the bending figure. The slash of the Mescalero’s knife missing him. Feeling the toe of his boot thud home in the man’s throat, sending him spinning over with a dreadful retching groan of distress. Croaking as he tried to scream, the sound no louder than a kitten’s mewing.
For a moment Crow relaxed, knowing instinctively that the fight was won. He balanced himself more carefully, hearing the squeaky breathing of the excited Mikalawayo, just behind him.
Crippled though he was, his larynx crushed by the vicious kick, the Mescalero Apache came from a warrior society where one did not acknowledge defeat in such a fight until one was dead. He had the knife in his hand and the gun was close by.
‘It’s over, boy,’ whispered the tall white man, coming in like a great black cat, ready now for the final flourish.
And that was the moment that Mikalawayo, unable to see properly, chose to creep forwards. Stumbling as his foot turned on a pebble. His hands going out and knocking into Crow’s back, sending the shootist toppling forwards. Losing his own footing and falling. His wrist jarring on a boulder, the cut-down saber clattering from his fingers into the blackness.
‘Bastard!’ said Crow, disgustedly.
‘Apologies,’ piped Mikalawayo, hearing the knife fall and turning to grope about in the pebbles for it.
The young brave was torn between the desire to reach his Winchester and give a warning to the camp, and the passion for the honor that would come to him if he could kill these two bungling intruders himself. The pain from the deep cut on his knee was forgotten as was the difficulty he had in breathing. He could see the face of the white man, and a splash of lightness at his neck. And the empty hands.
Crow saw the hesitation and started to move in, knowing that it was his best hope, but the Mescalero brave made up his mind and lunged with the knife. Crow grabbed for the Indian’s wrist, tugging him in, rolling over backwards, pulling hard. Kicking at the man’s stomach and lifting him up and over. Letting go of his arm at the highest point of his flight so that he crashed over several feet
behind him.
Landing nearly on top of the groveling figure of Mikalawayo.
Who had just found the saber and picked it up, feeling the trailing golden sword knots. Half-rising to try and hand it to Crow, eager to make amends for his mistake that had put the whole attack into jeopardy. His mouth was open to whisper out the good news when he suddenly had the Mescalero come tumbling into him, sending him flying. Hanging on the saber.
Crow stood in the mouth of the canyon, completely unarmed. Looking to try and see where the Apache had dropped his rifle. But the clouds had thickened and it was impossible to locate the gun. From the blackness behind him he could hear the gasping and scuffling noise of close fighting.
‘Hold him, Mick,’ he hissed.
‘I am trying Mister Crow. I think…I think…I have managed to stab him with your sword. Yes. I…’ there was a pause and then the Zulu’s voice again, strangely gentle, almost puzzled. ‘Oh, goodness, Mister Crow.’
‘What?’
‘He has deceased me. I am dead.’
Mikalawayo wasn’t quite right in every particular, but nearly enough for it not to matter very much.
Crow heard the rattling of the Apache’s throat. A sound of death so flat and final that once a man had heard it he could never ever mistake it for anything else. Carefully, the white man had groped his way across, finding the Indian had died on top of Mikalawayo, the point of the saber jammed upwards under the ribs into his heart, killing him almost immediately.
‘He fell on me and I held sword up at him. So easy, Mister Crow.’
‘Guess that’s right, Mick.’
‘I did well?’
Crow had rolled the corpse off the little Zulu, seeing the hilt of the Apache knife lodged deep in Mikalawayo’s stomach, angled towards his spine. It wasn’t the kind of wound you got to walk away with. Silently, Crow picked up the battered yellow hat and handed it to the Negro who took it with a grateful smile, his teeth white in the blackness.
‘Yeah, Mick. You did well. Me and the chief can go on ahead now, thanks to you.’
‘One thing I do carefully, old friend, Crow.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Now I die I am doing it jolly well in total silence, aren’t I?’
Crow stayed with him for the couple of minutes it took him to keep his word, then he stood up and began to move back to rejoin Mavulamanzi.
Ready for the last part of the plan.
Chapter Twelve
Mavulamanzi was not in the least worried by the death of his servant. Barely even listening as Crow started to tell him what had happened.
The guard is killed?’
‘Yes. He is, but…’
‘And you tell me Mikalawayo also.’
‘Sure. He…’
‘Then you and me go on tonight? The plan works is it not?’
‘The Hell with it,’ muttered Crow. ‘Yeah. The plan goes on. All we have to do now is get in White Canyon. And get out again with the woman. Nothing easier.’
‘We go now.’
‘Sure. Now. And for God’s sake try to remember, Chief, what I told you to do. Don’t go foolin’ around with some hot-head plan of your own.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know of that,’ said Mavulamanzi, testily. Leaving Crow feeling that the mind of the black giant was only partly with him. That part of it dwelt somewhere in a skull-lined cave and stirred gibbering potions of bleak revenge.
The light of the fires flickered and danced off the myriad crystals scattered all over the high walls of White Canyon. Glowing like millions of insects, making the ravine look like something out of a child’s fairy tale. For Lavinia Woodstock there was no light or beauty in the place. For her it was something out of the darkest caverns of a nightmare. Her body was torn, so that she trembled at every sound, unable to eat the wooden dish of beans and meal that had been brought into her by one of the mocking young Apaches. Time had lost its meaning. Had she been asked she would not have known whether she had been a Mescalero prisoner for a day or a month.
What she wanted above all was revenge. The prayers to a Christian God had ceased, pushed away by imploring whispers to a more primitive deity. One who would relish his altars piled high with the torn relics of humanity that Lavinia would offer him. Raw heads and mangled bones. She would have given anything for the chance of sweet, sweet revenge.
Angry Man Whose Face Smiles was becoming more and more worried. There was still no word or sign from the four men who he had left to cover their departure from the place where fire had taken the life from the trees. Perhaps they had been killed. Perhaps they were even now under threat of attack. It was time to change the guards. He decided that he would replace the two men on the high cliffs with four others. And send three in place of the single warrior who was the sentry at the opening of White Canyon.
Beyond the dancing flames of the cooking fires it was midnight black. Dazzled by the light, none of them could see even six feet into the darkness. They could have been ringed by a hundred soldiers with leveled carbines and known nothing of it.
The chief shivered, feeling a cold wind touch his flesh. Reaching behind him for a blanket to cover his shoulders.
Stopping the movement as he heard a collective cry of shock and fear from his men. Swinging round towards the fires and gasping. His jaw sagging so that it pulled at the old scar around his lips. The pain passing totally unnoticed in that moment of stark horror. Angry Man Whose Face Smiles was briefly aware that the eye-stretching terror had nearly caused him to lose control of his bowels and shame himself. But even that didn’t seem to matter.
Not compared with what stood there, just visible at the edge of the ring of fires.
Seeming around eight feet in height, the skin so black that it was almost invisible. White paint across that followed the main bones of the body making it look like a skeleton. The face split with streaks of white and eyes that burned like fire.
‘El Esqueleto,’ he breathed. ‘La Muerte Alta.’ A legend become flesh in front of his unbelieving eyes. The living skeleton. The tall death.
It was too much for the superstitious Mescalero Apaches. Several of the younger warriors were actually yelping their fear, scuttling away on their backsides from the vision, sliding closer to each other. Even the chief found himself paralyzed.
The thing in the night didn’t move. Standing motionless, just the eyes flicking from side to side.
Then they all heard the voice. A creeping, insidiously soft voice that echoed from the cliffs around them, making it impossible for them to pin down where it came from. Angry Man Whose Face Smiles thought that the gentle voice was the most frightening noise he’d ever heard. It came from nowhere and from everywhere.
‘The first man to move dies.’ There was the crackling of wood and buffalo chips on the fires. No other sound except for the harsh breathing of every man there. ‘I am come for revenge.’ The voice spoke English. Slowly, so that most of them could understand it. Switching suddenly and frighteningly into Apache. The woman is to be released or my vengeance will strike you down. I am all around you. There are a hundred times a hundred guns pointed at you.’
In the shelter, the happenings in the open reached Lavinia Woodstock. But she still didn’t move, cowering among the blankets, naked, sucking her thumb and whimpering to herself.
The Indians were frozen in their places. Terrified by the specter in their midst. And that silken voice that caressed like velvet on your skin.
‘Send her out to me and no man move.’
Crow knew that the spell could be easily broken, and he was hoping that one of the young braves might lose his nerve and give the chance to…
‘I shall…!!’ screamed out a boy of seventeen, close to the chief. Starting to get to his feet.
There was a crack of noise from somewhere among the cliffs and a flash of fire. And the young buck toppling over backwards, splashing Angry Man Whose Face Smiles with blood and brains, his head torn apart by a bullet from a Winchester.
; ‘I warned you…’ hissed the voice, before the echoes of the shot had died away. ‘That bullet came from a gun with more triggers than there are grains of sand in the Rio Grande. Each man who speaks or moves will die.’ Crow paused. ‘But if all is as I command, then that warrior and all like him will live again at the rising of the next sun. Only…Only if my orders are obeyed.’
The chief looked at the corpse that lay a couple of paces from him. Marveling at the power of this midnight spirit who could send a giant demon to appear motionless in their midst. Who could speak the language of the Mescalero Apaches with such skill. And who could send death with such lethal accuracy. It took only a very small jump to believe that whoever was out there could also repair the shattered skull of the young boy and make him walk and live again.
‘Take the woman and let her walk free and then sit and wait in silence. On the rising of the sun you may move and leave this place and all will be well.’
This was the crucial moment. Had the appearance of Mavulamanzi been shocking enough? And had the killing of the young warrior been enough of a lesson on what might happen to anyone who stepped out of line? Crow cradled the butt of the rifle against his cheek, finger light on the ridged trigger, and waited.
Waited.
Narrowed his eyes, brushing aside a stray hank of hair that had drifted across his face in the light breeze among the cliffs’ Calling out once more, measuring his words with care.
‘I shall count five breaths, and then I will kill another of you. Then another and another until you are all dead. If you do not bring out the woman. One.’ A long pause. ‘Two.’
Angry Man Whose Face Smiles looked around him. Up at the gigantic figure of the black man, holding, he now noticed, a short-bladed spear, the fire reflected off the polished point
‘Three.’
After all, the woman had been used. There would be little more pleasure in taking her all the way back to their main camp. The braves who had wanted her had taken her. Some of them many times. He himself had used her more times than there were fingers on his hands, as befitted the rights of a chief.
The Black Trail Page 10
