Hazards

by Mike Resnick

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it wasn’t no Yeti but just a eight-foot-tall basketball player on the lam from the mob for not shaving points, so I told him everything I’d experienced since then, covering such heroic adventures as the Clubfoot of Notre Dame, the Island of Annoyed Souls, my six hours as President of San Palmero, and many other such exploits, which I’ve writ about before and won’t thrill you with again (or at least not right this moment), and Clyde, for his part, told me about the mountain gorillas and pandas and blue whales he brung back—them few what was still alive and feebly kicking—after his veterinarians nursed ’em back to health, which he assured me was the very safest way to bring ’em back alive. I told him of the fifteen or twenty times I’d fallen passionately and eternally in love, and he told me about the eighty-three times he’d fallen passionately and briefly in lust—well, eighty-one if you don’t count the gorilla and the orangutan—and when we’d caught each other up on the past few years we went to work on dinner. I don’t know what it was, but it didn’t have no scales, and that was enough for me. And then, as we shared his flask and lit a couple of cigars, just to keep the insects away, Clyde decided to tell me why he was decimating the jaguar population of the Motto Grasso, which I didn’t even know we was in until he mentioned it.

  “It happened about two months ago,” he said. “I was back in the States, peaceably blowing away spotted owls and turning the survivors over to some local zoos, when I got a request from down here for three hundred jaguar skins. I made sure that the jaguars didn’t still have to be in ’em, we hit upon a price, and I put together a safari and came down here on the double, figgering them what I only winged could be shipped back home to the Capturin’ Clyde Calhoun Circus.”

  “Why does some guy want three hundred jaguar skins?” I said. “And what’s all this got to do with politics?”

  “My very questions,” replied Clyde. “Well, after my first ques-tion, which was what did the job pay?”

  “And what’s the answer?”

  “Well, it’s kind of complex,” said Clyde. “Maybe not for a sophisticated preacher like yourself, but for a simple world-traveling sportsman like me. You ever hear of the Leopard Men?”

  I shook my head. “Sounds like a bunch of men what picked up some disease that left ’em covered with spots.”

  “Funny,” said Clyde. “That was my first thought, too. But the Leopard Men are a cult back in Africa, and the way you can tell they’re Leopard Men is that each of ’em wears a mask and cloak made of leopard skins.”

  “What do they do once they get decked out in their leopard skins?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Beats me. Probably engage in a bunch of fun and fascinatin’ acts against God and Nature.”

  “So you’re killing all these jaguars so some local tribe can indulge in some obscene sexual orgy?” I said, and then added: “Can we join in?”

  “T’ain’t that simple, Lucifer,” said Clyde. “Near as I can tell, this particular tribe of Injuns plans on overthrowing the government and grabbing political power.”

  “And they don’t want to share it with no jaguars?” I said, trying to follow his line of reasoning.

  “They don’t want no one to identify ’em, so they’re going to wear these here skins as a disguise and call themselves the Jaguar Men.”

  “That don’t make no sense at all, Clyde,” I said. “If I was the government, I’d just shoot anyone wearing a jaguar skin. I think they’d be better off dressing like any other savage out here.”

  “Well, I ain’t privy to their plans, except of course for supplying their wardrobes,” he answered, “but I figger the reason they want the skins is so no one can finger ’em in case they got an informer in the group.”

  “And how big is this government they plan to overthrow with just three hundred Jaguar Men?” I asked.

  “It better not be much more then two hundred,” opined Clyde. “I mean, hell, if they can’t kill their own jaguars, it don’t say much about their ability to kill the enemy, does it?”

  “Sounds like you better make sure you get your money before the revolution gets out of the starting gate,” I agreed.

  “Yeah, that’s been my thinking on the matter too,” said Clyde. “In fact, payday’s coming up pretty soon.” He turned to one of his trackers. “How many did we bag today?”

  “Sixteen,” said the man.

  “We’re getting close,” said Clyde. “I figger we’re gonna run out of jaguars just about the time I run out of bullets.” He turned back to me. “You want to see what one of these here Jaguar Men is gonna look like?”

  “Why not?” I said.

  “Then follow me,” he said, getting up and walking to one of the tents his men had pitched.

  We entered it, and there, laid out in near piles, were a few hundred jaguar skins.

  “The heads are still attached,” I said. “Come to think of it, so are the claws.”

  “The heads are the masks,” said Clyde. “The claws are just for show, though I imagine you could scratch your back with ’em.” He picked one of the skins up and handed it to me. “Here, try one on. You’ll see how comfortable it is.”

  I picked up a skin, gathered it around my shoulder, slid my arms into the little loops that his skinners had attached, and then I fitted the head over my face.

  “Can you see okay?” asked Clyde.

  “Plain as day,” I said. “You know, if they decide to cancel the revolution, you could cart these here things to Paris and start a new fashion trend.”

  “Or export ’em to Africa for when they run out of leopards to skin,” added Clyde.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I’m beginning to see that there’s no end of things you can do with three hundred jaguar skins—except breed more jaguars.”

  Suddenly we heard a commotion from the center of camp, and we left the tent and walked over to see what was going on.

  There were a couple of dozen armed natives, who Clyde kept calling Injuns though they didn’t look nothing like the drawings of Geronimo and Crazy Horse I’d seen on dime novels when I was growing up. They were little guys in loincloths who obviously weren’t on speaking terms with the local barber, and they were carrying spears and knives.

  “What’s the problem here?” demanded Clyde, signaling five or six of his gunbearers to get some weapons loaded and ready.

  “We hear you have gone to work for Mudapa!” said one of the Injuns accusingly.

  “Ain’t a word of truth to it,” said Clyde. “I’m working for some half-naked little guy with bad breath and rotten teeth.”

  “That is Mudapa!” said the Injun. “He is the enemy of our blood.”

  Which guv me a new respect for these little fellers. I mean, most of us just choose an enemy and that’s that—but here were these guys saying that their blood chose its own enemies, and that led me to wonder if their kidneys and livers and spleens also took dislikes to certain folk, and if so, what they were inclined to do about it.

  “Not to worry,” said Clyde. “He’s just out to overthrow the government, not to make war with ugly little runts like you.”

  “We are the government!” yelled the Injun.

  “You don’t say,” replied Clyde, and I could tell he was surprised. “I didn’t figger you Injuns had evolved enough to develop greed and corruption. Just goes to show you.”

  “We are here to destroy the skins,” said the Injun. “Where are they?”

  “You leave the skins alone, I’ll leave you alone, and we’ll all be happy,” said Clyde.

  “Grab him!” said the Injun, and a bunch of his companions grabbed hold of Clyde before he could reach for one of his guns.

  “I haven’t tortured a white man in weeks,” said the head Injun. “This is going to be fun.”

  Well, I’d been standing in the shadows during all this, but I figured it was time to come to Clyde’s aid, so I stepped out into the light of the campfire.

  “Unhand that man!” I said. “I, the kin
g of the Jaguar Men, have spoke!”

  Everyone turned to me and just kind of stared for awhile.

  “Who are you?” demanded the head Injun.

  “I just told you,” I said.

  “You must have a name,” he said.

  I was thinking of telling him it was Tarzan, or maybe Teddy Roosevelt, but then I realized that I was in South America and I ought to give him a name that would be appreciated down here, so I looked him in the eye and said, “I’m Simon de Bolivar, and that there man you’re about to torture is my friend.”

  “Simon de Bolivar?” he repeated.

  “No need to be formal,” I said. “You can call me Simon de.”

  “This man has made a pact with our enemies,” said the Injun. “Our laws demand that we torture him.”

  “I make the laws around here,” I said. “Unhand him.”

  “Unhand him?”

  “You heard me,” I said.

  He shrugged, pulled out a knife, and was about to set to work sawing off Clyde’s left hand when I told him to stop.

  “We got a little communication problem here,” I explained.

  “You want the other hand?” he asked. “No problem.”

  “I don’t want neither hand,” I said.

  “Maybe an ear?” he suggested.

  “Set him loose,” I ordered.

  “Why should we listen to you?” demanded another Injun. “You’re one of the Jaguar Men.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “But you guys ain’t thinking this through. There ain’t no reason why I shouldn’t be one of your Jaguar Men.”

  The head Injun frowned, like he was struggling with the concept. “I don’t like dealing with people who have no loyalties.”

  “I got loyalties, and to spare,” I told him. “They just happen to be for rent.”

  “Explain,” he said.

  “Can you see my face under this here mask?” I said.

  “No,” he answered.

  “Then the only reason you know I’m a white man instead of one of you godless brown heathen, meaning no offense, is because I sound so cultured, right?”

  “We’ll come back to that,” he said. “Continue.”

  “What if my friend Clyde here was to tell the illiterate savages he killed the jaguars for that he’d shot out the area and only came up with a hundred and fifty skins?” I said. “And what if he gave the other hundred and fifty to your illiterate savages? How would anyone know that one of your guys wasn’t a real Jaguar Man? Think of the confusion you could cause and the orders you could contradict.”

  The head Injun stared at me kind of thoughtfully. “You interest me, white man,” he said at last.

  “I don’t blame you, me being the good-looking young buck that I am,” I said, “but I got to warn you that us men of the cloth don’t do nothing degenerate, except on special occasions and then only with partners of the female persuasion.”

  “You misunderstand me,” he said.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I said. “So what do you say, Tonto. Have we got a deal?”

  “What do you want for the skins, and my name isn’t Tonto.”

  “Tonto’s a perfectly good Injun name, and it’s probably easier to remember than whatever you call yourself. And now that we’re going to be partners, you can stop calling me Simon de Bolivar and start calling me Kemosabe.”

  “What does it mean?” he asked.

  “Great white preacher who speaks for God,” I told him.

  Tonto made a face. “What do you want for half the skins?”

  “First, you got to let my friend go,” I said.

  He nodded to his men, and they released their grip on Clyde.

  “Second, have you got a high priest or a chief medicine man or anything like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s fired and I’m the new one.”

  He considered it for a minute, then nodded his agreement.

  “And third, my friend Clyde here gets a free lifetime hunting license.”

  “Lucifer, they ain’t got no hunting licenses in the Matto Grasso,” said Clyde.

  “Okay,” I said. “Fire your top general and put Clyde in charge of your army.”

  “Has he had any experience?” asked Tonto.

  “He’s sent more men and beasts to the Happy Hunting Grounds than any ten warriors you can name,” I said.

  “What does that have to do with fighting a war?”

  “Same principle,” said Clyde. “Anything what’s moving within rifle range soon finds out that moving ain’t no permanent condition.”

  “Have you any more conditions?” asked Tonto.

  “I ain’t sure,” I said. “Your temple got any good-looking virgin handmaidens?”

  “No.”

  “Then I got no more conditions.”

  “I agree to your terms,” said Tonto.

  “Now that we’re all going to be friends and partners,” said Clyde, “let’s pull out a bottle of fine drinkin’ stuff and seal the deal.”

  I could tell Tonto didn’t know quite what Clyde was talking about, and my explaining that it was heap good firewater and much beloved by us palefaces didn’t seem to add much to his understanding, but when Clyde actually produced the bottle he smiled and took a healthy swig.

  We drank and shot the breeze for half an hour, and then all the Injuns staggered off to their camp, swearing eternal friendship and promising to come back the next morning to pick up the skins and make plans for putting down the revolution.

  “That was quick thinking, Lucifer,” said Clyde after they’d gone. “And don’t think I ain’t grateful. But I can’t meet expenses if I only sell a hundred and fifty of the skins.”

  “You ain’t thinking this through, Clyde,” I said.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “We’re going to war with Mudapa’s tribe, right?” I said. “And we’re the only side what’s got guns. After we win, we’ll keep the spoils of war, which means the skins.”

  “I never thought of that,” said Clyde. “I feel much better now. You got a real head on your shoulders, Lucifer.”

  It was certainly a better head than Clyde’s, because I’d already figgered out that even if we won he was going to be stuck with three hundred skins and no buyers, but I didn’t want to trouble his sleep none, so I decided not to mention it as he was dozing off.

  As for me, I wasn’t quite sure about all the angles and intricacies of being the high priest out here in the middle of nowhere, but once I arranged a steady flow of good-looking handmaidens and tributes from all the neighboring tribes, I figgered I’d send Clyde off to civilization to sell his skins and while he was gone I’d find some way to confiscate all the money that Mudapa’s tribe was going to pay him, which was another thing I was pretty sure Clyde hadn’t thunk of, as a lifetime of having his ears just inches from the explosions of his rifles had kind of dulled his brain, which in truth didn’t have a lot of sharp edges to begin with.

  Well, morning came, and with it came about a hundred little fellers in loincloths. I expected ’em all to have big toothy grins, since we’d made our deal and they knew all the guns were on their side of the fence, so to speak, but this group looked mighty sour, like something they’d et disagreed with ’em.

  I could hear ’em mumbling and grumbling to themselves, and I looked around for Tonto to tell me what the problem was, but I couldn’t spot him nowhere, and as I stared at these Injuns it dawned on me that they was wearing different ornaments on their almost-naked little bodies than Tonto’s warriors, and I realized that these had to be Mudapa’s men, and you didn’t have to be no brighter than Clyde to take a look and figger out that at least one of ’em had had a little pow-wow with at least one of Tonto’s braves, and the cat was out of the bag. Or in this case, three hundred cats, all of ’em recently deceased and ready to wear.

  Clyde burst out of his tent when he heard the commotion, and found himself facing a few dozen spears.

  “You have betrayed us
!” yelled the leader, who I took to be Mudapa. “You have dealt with the enemy!”

  “T’ain’t so!” said Clyde. “Do I look like a double-dealing back-stabbing traitor to you?” Then he added, right quickly: “Don’t answer that question. Ain’t important nohow. I got all your skins over in this tent here. You got your money?”

  Which was the first time I wondered where they carried their wallets, since no one was wearing any pants.

  Mudapa signaled for one of his warriors to step forward, and the feller handed Mudapa a little bag which he help up in front of Clyde.

  “Twenty-five flawless emeralds from the mines of Columbia,” announced Mudapa. “Now where are the skins? And if you are lying to me, I will be wearing a Calhoun skin before noon.”

  I figgered they wouldn’t welcome no distractions at that particular moment, so I just stayed in my tent. I noticed that I still had the jaguar skin I’d wore the night before, but I couldn’t imagine Mudapa would get too riled over Clyde’s total being one short, and besides I thunk it might come in handy before long, so I just tucked it under my cot, and I sat down and listened.

  There was a lot of excited jabbering in some strange language that was even more incomprehensible than French, and I figured that was Mudapa and his men talking back and forth. Finally I heard Clyde say, “Now how about my emeralds?” and suddenly there was some wild laughter, but one voice drowned it out, and that was Clyde cursing a blue streak.

  I heard Mudapa and his men all leave, and I came out of the tent. Clyde looked up, and I don’t think I’d ever seen him so mad, even that time back in Africa when his gun jammed right before he could set a record for the most innocent elephants slaughtered in an afternoon.

  “That dirty bastard!” he growled.

  “Mudapa?” I asked.

  He held out his fist and opened it, and I saw he was holding a bunch of stones like you find on the bottoms of rivers, especially when you’re walking barefooted. “Do these look like emeralds to you?” he demanded.

  “No,” I admitted. “But there’s a lot I don’t know about emeralds. Maybe you should leave ’em out in the sun to ripen.”