James Axler - Deathlands 06 Pony Soldiers

/* /*]] */ Dland6a A lone mutie rushed toward them, lashing out with the jagged blade of his knife.

Jak spun like a dervish, trying to dodge the attack, but the creature had the advantage of surprise. The crude knife slashed upward, and Ryan, a little to one side, saw blood spurt from the boy's arm.Krysty stood by the open door of the gateway, and the mutie's eyes were drawn to the dazzling crimson of her hair. It dived toward the girl, but she was too quick, sidestepping neatly. The creature, shrieking its hatred, stumbled on the threshold and fell onto the glowing metal plates of the chamber."You're dead," Ryan snarled, starting forward with his panga raised."No!" Doc shouted, grabbing Ryan by the back of his coat and dragging him out of the entrance. "It's set on chron."The lights danced faster and faster, strobing. The walls were vibrating steadily, and more than one of the six wondered if they were in any danger.The scream that erupted from the gateway chamber was a tearing cry of anguish, so piercing that it felt as if it were scraping the inside of their skulls. The shriek bubbled for a moment, became louder and harsher. Until it suddenly stopped.The chron jump was a killer.A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM WORLDWIDETORONTO NEW YORK LONDON PARIS AMSTERDAM - STOCKHOLM HAMBURG ATHENS MILAN TOKYO SYDNEYThis is for Dave Thomas, who is both my best and my oldest friend. A whole quarter century and it doesn't seem a day too much. This is with my hope that he eventually finds the pot of gold at rainbow's end.First edition May 1988 ISBN: 0373890044Copyright 1988 by Worldwide Library. Philippine copyright 1988. Australian copyright 1988.All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.are Trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.Printed in U. S. A.The frontier is always with us, just a little beyond tomorrow's dawn.J. K. Lobkowitz 1824- THE LAND WAS A SHIMMERING bronze oven. The noonday sun sailed through a clear sky, etching shadows across the desert, edges as sharp as a razor cut. A lone hawk circled on a thermal, eyes searching the barren wastes below for any sign of life. It had seen the clumsy movements of men an hour ago, but they were of no interest. Now the bird's attention focused on a flicker of movement near the base of one of the giant saguaros that sentineled the red-gold earth.It was a diminutive Gila monster, barely six inches long. The coral-and-black patterns dappled its stubby body as it moved slowly, legs splayed, head raised as it watched for any potential enemy.The man beside the cactus flapped a hand at the creature, which hissed angrily and spit venomously in his direction. When the hand was again raised menacingly the lizard scuttled down a narrow arroyo toward the east, its tail snaking a peculiar pattern in the dust.The man hawked, gobbing a ball of orange spittle to his left. He was partly in the shadow of the cactus, but the sun was scorching through his thin cotton breeches. He shuffled his feet in the soft leather moccasins. His thick black hair was greased and tied back in a bandanna of patterned cloth. His face was broad and flat, the eyes brown slits that stared out across the floor of the canyon toward the winding trail a hundred yards off. He wore a loose shirt in pale blue cotton, tucked into a wide leather belt. A hunting knife in a sheath of tanned deerskin was on the left hip. The middle finger of the right hand was missing, and the finger next to it carried a heavy ring of hand-tooled silver, which held a chunk of raw turquoise in a rough claw setting.The man sighed, rolling his head around to ease the neck muscles. He'd been waiting for nearly three hours, ready for someone to come riding along the trail. Just to his right there was a long sliver of petrified wood, its heart rich with purple and red shards of rock. The bones of Yietso, the great giant of the legends of the Navaho. At the thought of the old enemy the man tried to spit again, but the heat had dried his mouth.Nobody had seen any Navaho in the canyons for more years than the fingers on ten hands. This land belonged to "the people." He was eighteen years old and fiercely proud of his warrior heritage, proud of being a fighting man of the Mescalero Apaches.His gun lay beside him, cocked so that the flat click wouldn't betray him to an enemy. It was a stolen rifle, a battered Sharps .50-caliber buffalo gun, its butt patterned with hammered brass tacks in the shapes of the moon and stars.The name of the young Indian was Hears Little Sees Far, references to his deafness, caused by a misfired cartridge in that same gun, and his keen eyesight.There was a small piece of jerky in the pouch at his belt, and he absently chewed at a strip of it. By lying still he was conserving his bodily fluids, holding off from needing water. His pony was tethered in a box canyon three miles east, and there was a metal canteen tied to the blanket. It was covered in canvas and stamped with the letters U.S. and the number 7 on its side.A half hour drifted soundlessly by. The hawk gave up watching the skittering lizard, fearing the closeness of the hiding man. It angled its wings and sailed off southward, across the serrated land. There might be better pickings in the steep-sided valley where the river ran, even at the height of the New Mexico summer.Hears Little Sees Far kept his breathing steady, conserving his energy. The word around the wickiups of his tribe was that a lone man drove his wagon along this trail once every seven days. The white man carried liquor on his wagon. Sometimes he would even have a white woman with him. The Mescalero youth had never had a white woman before, and his loins surged at the thought. His hand crept out and caressed the narrow trigger of the old buffalo rifle at his side."It will be good," he muttered to himself.HE SAW THE DUST CLOUD rising in sinuous curves through the hot, windless air of the afternoon, a pale gray spiral moving toward him. As good as his sight was, the young man couldn't yet make out what was at the center of the cloud.The dust soared higher, and he could make out a pair of ponderous oxen drawing a white-topped wagon. It was the one.Moving with an infinite caution, the Apache drew the Sharps to him and cradled his face against the warm metal, squinting one-eyed along the sights. He drew a careful bead on the nearer of the pair of oxen, his finger settling on the trigger.Something struck him. A smashing blow in the center of his spine, a hand's span above the leather belt. It jerked his whole body, the gun dropping from his nerveless fingers. His head was thrown back in shock, eyes staring blindly into the screaming light of the sun. His legs kicked uncontrollably, and he felt warmth around his thighs where he'd fouled himself. Vaguely, in the far-off distance, the young warrior's ears caught the rumble of a shot being fired, the sound echoing off the cliffs on the farther side of the wide valley."Good shot, trooper," said the tall, lean man on the ridge behind the dying Indian."Thank you, General," the soldier replied, rising from his crouched position, the smoking Springfield .45 carbine in his gloved right hand. It was the reliable 1873 model."Looks like his back's broke. Best go and finish the bastard off.""Yes, sir." The trooper saluted and walked leisurely down the slope, drawing the Colt Navy from his belt. The rest of the troop sat on their horses, waiting quietly. All were dressed in the dusty blue uniforms of the Seventh Cavalry.Their leader brushed at the orange dirt on his yellow-striped breeches with the back of his hand. He was a little above average height and as skinny as a lath. Everything about him was thin and tight narrow eyes, slitted against the New Mexico sun; lips drawn like a line of ink. He had an oddly yellow complexion for a man who spent so much time out of doors, and the corner of his mouth was turned down and seamed with old scar tissue, as though from a vicious blow. Nobody ever asked him how he got the injury. Under the hat there was a cascade of tumbling yellow hair, as gold as Kansas wheat. A brass-hiked saber hung at the officer's left hip, the tip of the scabbard scraping the earth.The afternoon was disturbed a second time as the trooper stooped by the twitching Mescalero and put the muzzle of his well-used pistol just behind the right ear, taking care not to get grease on the gun. He squeezed the trigger and stepped smartly away from the fountain of blood and brains that spurted from the Indian's skull."That's 'nother good Indian, General," called the grizzled sergeant, leaning from the high McClellan army saddle and spitting out a stream of tobacco juice."Yeah. Kill one cub don't mean you got all the family. Day's coming when we need to burn out the nest.""Wanna bring up the dune wag for the body?" the trooper shouted."No, leave him be. Let him rot.""Want me to radio Cutter on the ox cart? Let him know what went down?"The blond officer nodded, then turned on his heel and stalked toward the rest of the detachment of soldiers. He paused from habit, checking that the Stec-kin 9 mm automatic pistol with the laser nightsight was snugly in its holster. The quartz wrist chron, showed seven minutes and eleven seconds before three o'clock. It had been a worthwhile hunt and kill.The puckered lips parted in something near to a smile, but the smile never got within a country mile of the cold, slitted eyes. Next page