The Cutthroat Cannibals (13 page)

“Hey, Chief,” Stone said, turning his head slightly as he was led off. “How about some food. Not that I care that much, but
Hawk Dog here is going to start getting pissed off as hell, I can promise you that. Why, he might even start chewing on some
of those tires.” He moved forward with a slight hop of enthusiasm that he was still among the living. He didn’t see the chief
grind his wooden teeth so hard that they made a crunching, cracking sound as wooden splinters fell out of them.

Back at the Rubber Towers Condo, Stone’s predictions immediately came true. The dog was in a horrible foul temper, snarling
and snapping at everything in sight—Indian ankles, branches along the ground—and when they got inside the tire palace, the
walls themselves. It wasn’t always like this. But from past experience Stone knew that when the dog had been getting a lot
of food for a few days its stomach expanded to quite a large size. And consequently when the source of feasting was removed
the stomach took on such a feeling of swollen emptiness that it drove the animal half to madness. It dove headfirst into the
back wall of the place, its teeth snapping open and closed like the jaws of a thrashing Great White. Huge chunks of rubber
were instantly ripped free and tossed back into the air as if a threshing machine were spitting out black grain.

Stone just sat back and watched in amused amazement as the animal attacked the thick diesel truck tire as if it were its mortal
enemy, snarling and making a great to-do. Maybe the crazy mutt had the right idea, Stone decided after a few minutes of mayhem.
At least the damned dog got to release all its pent-up aggressions this way. Maybe if humanity had learned to do the same
in the past they could have avoided all the bloodshed and war that seemed to follow them through history like a swarm of flesh-eating
locusts. Yeah, he could see it now: men, millions, billions of them, all kicking and shredding and biting at rubber tires.
World peace through the shredding of used tires. Stone knew without question that if the old world were still around he would
have won the Nobel Peace Prize for the idea.

But after about twenty minutes, chow was in fact brought in by two hard-faced Atsana who glared at Stone as if he was Judas
Iscariot in the Pope’s bathroom. Excaliber stopped in its tracks, a huge piece of black oily rubber in its mouth. Suddenly
it was as if the dog realized where it was, what it was doing—and the fact that the stinking rubber tasted like shit. It spat
it out, shook its head violently, and snorted and spat about ten times to rid its mouth and sinuses of the taste. Then it
charged toward the braves like a bull toward a matador.

The Indians, seeing the Hawk Dog’s cousin coming at them with hunger like pure lust in its eyes, dropped the two bowls on
the ground and tore ass out of there, slamming the big diesel tires into place with the help of the other men stationed out
front. But the pit bull wasn’t interested in Indian flesh. It beelined straight for the still wobbling bowl of steaming trout
stew. The pit bull threw its face into the wide gourd as if it was going to try to go swimming in it, emerging seconds later
with its entire head covered with fish chunks, vegetables, and river weeds. But the dog looked quite happy about ingesting
its food this way, half through its mouth, the rest through its ears and fur. It just didn’t eat the way other creatures did.

“Dog, you need a veterinary psychiatrist bad,” Stone grumbled as he hobbled over, got his own bowl of dinner, and retreated
to the far end of the rubber circle about twenty feet off. He didn’t want to be too close to the slurping food-storm that
was erupting on the far side. But Stone knew that finding a good animal shrink was going to be a little hard in these parts.
He tried to eat but found it hard to swallow more than four or five bites. The battle with Crackling Elk had made his stomach
feel as if a football team was doing field drills on it. Being milliseconds from death does wonders for the appetite.

Stone was able to fall asleep after about an hour of tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position between a
cold dirt floor and the hard side of a grooved tractor trailer tire. In his dreams, Stone found to his immense horror that
he had to deal with the dog yet again. Only there were dozens of dogs, and they could all fly like the damned Hawk Dog, and
they were soaring all around his head like pigeons, snapping out at him and howling as they flew by, trying to bite chunks
out of him like the terrier had ripped from the tires. Only Stone wasn’t made of rubber. And suddenly he felt teeth on his
arm, sinking in, grabbing, ripping.

“Stone Man, wake up, be quiet, be quiet,” a voice was saying to him. For a few seconds Stone didn’t know if he was still dreaming.
There was a hand on his arm, a figure in the semidarkness of the space. He reached forward, grabbed the hand, and started
to twist it hard, applying a lock on the wrist. But the shape spoke up.

“No, no, I’m here to help. Stop! The guards will hear us!” Stone kept his own hand on the wrist ready to snap down a hold
that could break it in a flash. But he relaxed just a bit and shifted his weight up against the back of the tire so he was
at least sitting up, not lying down. The dog remained across the floor sound asleep, abrogating as usual its guard dog responsibilities
to the narcotic slumbers of gluttony.

Well, the guy hadn’t killed him already, and he sure as hell could have while he was sleeping. In fact, why wake someone just
to do him in? Even in his half awake state that made sense, and Stone released his hold so the hand pulled away. He reached
with his other for the branch that he kept next to him. No sense being a fool. You never fucking knew.

“I’m not here to harm you, I swear,” the voice said out of the darkness. Suddenly, as Stone’s eyes got fully opened he saw
the face in the dancing shadows from the bonfire in the center of camp as someone had just thrown a pile of fresh dead wood
to fuel the flames higher.

“Cracking Elk,” Stone whispered in amazement, starting to raise his staff. Surely the man was here to assassinate him after
last night.

“Stone Man,” the brave said, his face hard as a piece of sheet steel, “I—I’m here to help you escape. I overheard my father
and his top advisors talking just minutes ago. They’re going to kill you, to avenge the Atsana. It is not permissible that
a white man could defeat a brave of our tribe and live. The Hawk Dog’s relative—it too must die. Both of you. They will take
their chances with the gods.”

Stone’s mouth dropped yet wider. He didn’t know what the hell to believe. “Why the hell are you telling me this, helping me?”
Stone asked, his eyes blazing with suspicion. Across the room, the dog heard Stone’s voice rising and popped open one eye
just a slit to see what was going on, praying that it wasn’t something that would entail getting up and going into battle,
because it had just found a position that made its swollen stomach stop hurting after hours of gas and pains.

“Because, because…” The brave looked down into the darker shadows on the ground. “Because I am a Nadara, a No-Man now. I do
not exist. My loss to you destroyed my status in the tribe. I am less than a worm here now and forever. There is no way to
regain my self. The Ancient Ways say that a man vanquished in battle must either commit suicide or become a slave to his conquering
enemy. I cannot commit suicide, though I wish more than anything that I could, as it is not in the ways of the Atsana. It
is a sin beyond sins, beyond even your white hell. So I must become your Natanyi—your-your—” Stone could see how hard it was
for the man to say the words, and he felt a sudden pity for the bastard. The guy had been the toughest of the tough in the
place, destined for the top, “I cudda been a contender” and all that shit. And now…

“Your slave,” Cracking Elk said at last, his head bowing down in utter and complete defeat like a man heading down the hall
to the execution chamber.

“Hey, lighten up,” Stone said, reaching for a small gourd of water on the ground as his lips suddenly felt dry and hot. Maybe
he was getting feverish from the leg; it seemed to be throbbing painfully. “But I don’t take, need, or want any slaves. You’ll
have to look for work elsewhere.”

“You don’t understand. I
must
follow you, by the Law of the Hawk Dog, until
you
or I die. Besides, if you don’t get out of here within minutes you’re going to be chopped meat anyway,” the brave said, and
Stone saw the slightest trace of smile at the edges of the hard mouth. The Indian, like his father, looked as if he was chiseled
out of the very desert rocks. Stone knew that it was only chance that
he
had won. It had been close, very close.

“Well, that I’ll take you up on,” Stone said, raising himself up to standing position. Somehow he believed the guy. There
was a kind of tragic sincerity about him. As if behind the stoic face that could never show emotion there were so many tears
that it was like a dam about to burst, forcing the face to become even harder, more set in concrete, the impenetrable cloudy
black eyes motionless as the rocks on the bottom of a crystal stream.

“But how the hell can we get out of here?” Stone asked as he got himself together. “There are guards out there and this place
seems impos—”

“The same way I got in,” Cracking Elk said, pointing around behind him. Through the grayness Stone could see that one of the
bottom tires had been removed without disrupting the rest of the stack above it.

“All right then, let’s go,” Stone said suddenly. There was no time to fuck around. He hissed the dog’s name a few times in
the darkness. With a lazy whine the animal declined to get up and turned over on its side away from him.

“Dog, you can stay or go, that’s up to you. Give my regards to the chief. I’m sure you’ll make a tasty stew for him.” With
that, Stone turned and followed the brave as he crawled on hands and knees out through the foot-high opening. In a second
they were both gone, and the dog, casting bored eyes over that way and seeing them gone, suddenly got the message and jumped
to its feet in a flash. The pit bull tore ass straight at the opening, even leaving some food behind, an unprecedented occurrence.
It dove at the opening like a third-base runner sliding home.

“This way,” Cracking Elk motioned to Stone as they emerged into the flame-flickering predawn darkness outside. “We’ve got
to make our way through a set of inner and then outer camp guards. Then we can go to the river.”

“But the river—” Stone began to protest, knowing he couldn’t swim in that damned washing machine of brown liquid.

“Stone Man, I told you relax. Indian way. No heart attack. I have boat stashed there,” the brave whispered over his shoulder
as he led the way forward in a crouch. Stone turned around for a moment to make sure the dog had gotten the message—it had,
as it followed along about ten feet behind in low profile, half crawling along as its head scanned back and forth like the
radar on a battleship. The day was young. A good battle would work up a fine appetite for some fish, perhaps fish and eggs,
in an hour or two. Yes, all things considered the pit bull decided that it was in a good mood, its stomach didn’t hurt too
much, and it was going to have some fun today. Something it hadn’t been getting a hell of a lot of lately thanks to one-legged
Chow Boy over there.

Cracking Elk seemed to know exactly what he was doing as he led his two charges from one bush, one tree to another. They moved
Indian style through the shadows, blending into the darkness and the rise and fall of the fire. It all worked fine until they
were almost at the tree line that led to the river. Suddenly they met two medicine men performing some sort of ungodly spell
at this hour of the morning, bent over a small fire pouring pink and purple powders into the flames so they sparkled up like
the tail of a roman candle. The two rose and came at the escapees, pulling out long blades. Cracking Elk slammed into his
man, knocking him down. But as Stone pulled back his stick to take the sucker’s head off, he saw that it was Nanhanke.

There was no time for bullshit like thank yous or goodbyes. Yet Stone couldn’t just let the guy walk. The chief would suspect
something, especially with the other sucker dead, as Stone could see Cracking Elk pulling the brave’s own blade from his red
chest.

“Sorry,” Stone said softly. He let the stick continue on its trajectory down, but aimed it so it glanced off the side of the
man’s head rather than hitting it full on. The strike did just what Stone hoped it would. It created a lot of blood from the
gash, knocked the doc down to the ground in a daze. But it wouldn’t do any permanent damage. If anything it would be good
for the Medicine Man’s career, Stone thought as he turned to follow Cracking Elk into the deeper woods. The man who survived
the attack of the gringo and the Hawk Dog’s cousin—the Invincible One. Why it would probably lead to the emperorship, the
chiefhood, the Chairman of the River Salvage Committee.

“This way,” Cracking Elk called softly from the trees. “We’ve got to move fast. They’ll find out soon. My people are clever.
They—” But even as he spoke they suddenly heard shouts and then war whoops coming from the camp. The fire roared into life.
The hunt was on.

Cracking Elk tore through the brush and the close-packed trees so that they both scraped and cut their arms and had to shield
their eyes from the poking branches and thorns. Excaliber, being much lower to the ground, was able to avoid the brunt of
the attack, slipping under the lowest branches like doing the limbo. It took only a minute or two and they were out and at
the river’s edge. Stone stared at the foaming waters and gulped hard. He had to admit it, the damned river scared the shit
out of him. He had already been nearly snuffed out in the thing, and now…

“Me and my dog ain’t the greatest swimmers,” Stone started to protest to Cracking Elk, who again put his fingers to his lips.

“Even a slave can criticize, Stone Man, and I tell you patience is the great virtue and reward. Why, that is the first law
of the Hawk Dog. Doesn’t your animal even teach you that?” Before Stone could think of an answer, the brave led him to a strange-looking
object sitting on the rocky shore. It consisted of about eight diesel truck tires all lashed together to form a sort of rough
square shape. And as Cracking Elk began pushing the thing with all his might into the roaring water, Stone realized that it
was a boat, or what passed for one around here. Only he didn’t like the looks of it at all—the vines holding the damned thing
together were all twisted and popping in a lot of places, and some of the rubber on the tires was rotting off, as if they
were about to crumble into shreds. The “boat” might once have had some claim to seaworthiness, but that was about twenty years
before.