Once again he played out the scene in his mind and fear laid icy hands on his back, causing him to shiver.
Remembering how… it was so much clearer than any dream he'd ever had before. Remembering… standing on a vast plain that was without life of any kind, and beneath his feet, the earth was cracked and dry, untouched by even the memory of rain.
Overhead, the sky was a sullen brass color, cloudless, holding a sun that burned down much too brightly. When he stared at the mountains on the horizon, he saw a distant shadowy figure no larger than a speck moving toward him. The figure appeared to be walking slowly, yet it closed the distance between them with incredible speed as though each step covered many miles.
Then somewhere, farther back, came a sound like distant thunder rolling across the plain, and Matt could make out clouds of darkness billowing up behind the walking man. A huge storm was brewing out there and it, too, was coming toward him with unnatural speed… and Matt had awakened before he could quite make out the distant figure or the blackness moving his way.
He was glad of it, because there was something unnerving about the whole thing, something that left the taste of dust in his throat.
Maybe his mind was going, maybe he didn't sleep too good at night, but right now he had a job to do. He laid the rifle on the tripod. With a motion borne of long practice, he licked his thumb, rubbed it across the bead and sighted in on the shaggy old bull that led the herd.
He squeezed the trigger, hearing the rifle give a flat crack that carried across the prairie. A puff of dust erupted from the animal's hide. The bull, mortally wounded with a bullet through the heart, staggered forward a few feet. Streaks of red spurted from the animal's nose before his legs gave way and he collapsed into a boneless heap.
The rest began bawling and milling around, spooked by the smell of blood, but without a leader they would do nothing.
They kept milling, and Matt kept shooting, picking off the ones standing at the edge of the herd with an almost mechanical accuracy, until they were all dead. He felt no pride in what he had done. A lot of meat was needed to feed the railroad work crews; he was paid to deliver that meat.
Before riding back to camp and sending out the skinners, he thought he might ride over and get himself a tongue or two for cooking. He was tired of beans. His movements were slow as he swung down and hobbled his horse. Too many winters spent wading through icy streams during his days as a trapper had stiffened up his legs. Sitting on the ground made them worse.
He picked out a likely animal, pulled out his knife and started cutting.
A sound floated through the stillness, died. Pausing, he straightened up and looked around. Nothing. His ears must be playing tricks. That old Sharps always made his ears ring, sometimes for days after. He went back to work and after he had the first tongue wrapped, he started in on the second.
After he finished, he started to mount up, but he realized he had to take care of some business. He walked out a discreet distance from the buffalo carcasses, pulled down his pants, and squatted. He knew he might be here awhile. Those damned beans of Corky's bound a man up something awful. He hoped he didn't get his ass sunburned.
A feeling of unease curled up between his shoulder blades. A man didn't get to be old in this part of the country by being careless.
"Damn it, something's wrong." He jabbed the knife into the hard ground and raised up from his task.
Scanned the area.
Dead buffalo carcasses strewn all about. Carrion birds already picking at them.
He pulled out his handkerchief, wiped the sweat from his eyes and saw a huge bull climb to its feet.
The animal was hurt, hurt bad, the fur along its right side was covered by dust and blood appeared from beneath the dust, welling up from a jagged tear on the shoulder like water from an underground spring.
Dazed, Matt watched as it trailed down to spatter softly onto the ground.
Somewhere, far removed, he could hear the sound of flies buzzing. One of the carrion birds raised its wings and screeched in triumph as it took flight with its bloody cargo.
Matt risked a look at his horse, calculating the distance. Too far. Besides, he'd never get the hobbles off in time, but if he could get closer, he might have some chance. He took a step in that direction, realized his pants were still down around his ankles.
His movement was enough to goad the animal into action.
He picked the .44 off the ground and thumbed back the hammer. Taking aim at the bull, he realized there was no chance for a killing shot, especially with his old revolver. He'd be better off throwing rocks. To make matters worse, the animal had its head lowered, protecting the heart and lungs with a skull that was massive bone and almost impossible to penetrate. But the head was the only target he had. The pistol jumped in his hand and the bullet smacked into the skull with a thud, like an axe biting into hard wood. He would have taken a moment to admire his own shooting—except that old bull was still coming on like a high-balling locomotive and Matt figured he looked like the next stop.
"Matt, old son, looks like you done stepped in it good this time." He leveled the pistol back onto its target, pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger again. The bullet struck home and still the bull came forward.
The animal's ragged breathing filled Matt's ears as it chewed up the distance between them. More carrion birds took to the air. Matt hoped the skinning crew found him before the birds got his eyes.
Matt had three shots left. Taking careful aim, he placed them as close as he could to the first two. No good. He was going to be gored or, most likely, trampled … when the buffalo missed a step, staggered, missed another step, and pitched forward. The old bull almost recovered for a moment, then faltered and sank slowly to its knees, a felled tree swaying in the wind before finally toppling over onto its side. Dust geysered upward.
Several seconds passed before Matt realized his .44 was empty. He quit cocking and firing it.
Holding his unfastened pants, Matt warily approaching the downed animal, gave the carcass a vicious kick. He was angry at himself for being so careless.
"I think it's about time to get into another line of work." Matt took a deep breath and walked away from the dead bull. He almost got to his horse before his knees gave way and he sank to the ground. He yanked off his hat and wiped his forehead with a sleeve, letting his held breath pass through clenched lips.
That had been close. Way too close. He stood there with the .44 dangling from fingers that twitched and jerked with a life all their own. He dropped the pistol to the ground and tried to fasten his pants, but his hands refused to cooperate. The buttons kept evading his thick fingers.
After a few minutes, his breathing returned to normal and his hands quit shaking enough to shake the cartridge casings out of his revolver. To hell with the tongue, he wasn't that hungry anymore. He went over to his horse, bent to cut the hobbles. The rawhide thongs had been drawn tight by the skittish animal and there was no way Matt could untie them.
The horse squealed and leaped sideways, leaving Matt squatting in the dust.
Before Matt turned he knew what had happened it was impossible but the blood-splattered animal was on its feet and coming at him again.
"Son of a bitch," was all he could say. A precious moment was lost as Matt straightened from his crouch. He stood nailed to the spot, staring in disbelief before his hand darted into his pocket, trying to dig out more shells.
Wrong pocket. Wrong god damned pocket.
He always put them in the left pocket.
(Did he even have any more shells?)
He yanked his hand out and his pants pooled around his ankles. He pulled them up, reached into the other pocket —his fingers closed around one—
He dropped it, found another.
His hand came out, his pants went down.
Racing against time, he desperately tried to reload, fumbling with a cartridge that seemed too big to slide into the cylinder. He risked a look out of the corner of his eye and saw the animal was nearly on top of him. Cursing his stiff joints, he managed at last to jam a shell into the chamber. Snapping the cylinder into place, he raised the gun and fired, all in one motion. No way he could miss. He was shooting point blank.
The bull was rocked back as though poleaxed by a hammer, caving in at the knees, yet Matt knew the slug wouldn't be enough to stop the headlong charge.
Matt attempted to throw himself out of the way, but he was out of time and he was hobbled by his pants around his ankles. All he could do was watch. For some strange reason he expected it to hurt more than it did, because he heard more than felt something snap in his right leg.
Darkness swallowed him and Matt shaded his eyes and looked for the walking man, but the strange shadowy figure was nowhere to be found, and then to his amazement he saw the blackness gathering on the horizon wasn't a storm—it was a giant herd of buffalo; countless, untold numbers of buffalo stretching across the prairie, a herd so large he couldn't see the end of it. The earth began to tremble at their approach as they swept toward him like wildfire driven before the wind, chasing the daylight from the sky.
Mesmerized by the enormity of what he was witnessing, he stood rooted on that dry, cracked earth watching their progress for what seemed an eternity, and all during that time the herd kept moving toward him, becoming clearer and clearer. Gradually they drew near enough for him to see there was something wrong with them, dreadfully wrong. As he stared at the animals, his gaze widened. Somehow, they were all wounded, terrible gaping wounds that streamed blood, until the ground was soaked, until the very air became filled with the sickly sweet scent of copper.
In a moment Matt knew he would be crushed in the stampede. He raised his hands in an effort to fend off the inevitable, and when his fingers closed around the coarse fur of the first animal—his eyes jerked open—and he stared uncomprehendingly at the fur clutched in his hands. After a moment he realized it belonged to the buffalo he'd killed earlier. As he lay pinned beneath the carcass, he could still hear the thunder of the giant herd echoing in his head. Finally the sound died and he saw he had been unconscious for hours, because while he'd been dreaming, the night had crept close.
He took quick inventory. Everything seemed to be in working order, except his right leg, which no longer felt like it belonged to him. When he tried to move, he found he couldn't, and for the first time today a grim smile touched his lips. "This is one fine howdy-do," he said to the dead buffalo. "Just fine. I can see the marker, now. Here lies Matt Thomas, bare ass naked, first man to be kilt by a buffalo while taking a shit. Probably get me in all the history books."
Matt spat blood and began working his leg from beneath the crushing weight, fighting pain so intense he bit into his lip to keep from crying out. Getting out was slow going. But after nearly an hour of digging, he managed to work his leg free. He studied the damage; it was bad, no doubt about that, his foot hung at an unnatural angle, and when he pulled up his pants leg, he could see red-edged shards of bone poking through. The trip to his horse seemed to take slightly less than a hundred years and he was bathed in blood and sweat by the time he pulled himself into the saddle.
Each time his horse took a step, a slow rhythmic drumbeat of agony marched up his leg, and he couldn't say it was a tune he enjoyed. But at least it kept him from passing out. By the time the campfires finally swam into view, he felt as though he'd ridden halfway across Kansas. When he went to swing down, he found he couldn't lift his leg.
"Would somebody mind getting me down from here?" he said. "I think my ass is stuck to the saddle."
A buzz of indistinct voices was his answer, and then hands reached out and pulled him from his horse. As they lowered him to the ground, he tried to give them directions to the dead buffalo. If they didn't get there soon, a lot of meat would be ruined by scavengers.
A bottle found its way into his hands and he tipped it up, taking a long pull. When the whiskey hit bottom in his stomach, it felt as if a fire had been built down there. Warmth spread through him and the pain was starting to recede a little when somebody grabbed his arms. Somebody else began tugging on his broken leg. White-hot agony lanced through Matt, and he did the only sensible thing he'd done all day; he fainted dead away… and the herd of wounded buffalo passed right through him—a dark, swiftly flowing river that could not be touched. He realized they were no more than shadows, yet the earth shook and he heard the heaving sounds they made when they galloped past. Fear drove them. Their eyes were rolled back in their heads, showing only the whites, and strings of saliva dripped from their straining mouths.
From out of their midst, the shadowy speck he'd first seen appeared, moving toward him like a swimmer fighting a strong current. As the speck neared, he saw it was an Indian, dressed in nothing but gray tattered buckskins and a stovepipe hat, like some kind of make-believe wooden figure that shopkeepers put out front to hold cigars.
No tribal markings of any sort decorated the copper-skinned body except for a blood red feathered serpent on its chest.
When Matt looked at the face, he saw it was rigid, unmoving, as though the face weren't real, as though it were a mask meant to conceal what the figure really looked like. The Indian, neither young nor old, approached to within a few feet, doffed its hat and began capering and prancing about like some kind of puppet he had seen at a carnival when he was a child.
The effect should have been comical, yet there was nothing funny about the disjointed scarecrow who confronted him.
And there was nothing funny about the knife that caught the rays of the sun in a blinding flash.
At first Matt thought the man meant to attack him, instead the Indian placed the blade against his own copper-skinned chest and slid it downward, slicing off a strip of skin, which he held out to Matt. The bloody skin held the feathered serpent. There was still no expression on the man's face, though Matt somehow sensed great anger.