Wraiths of the Broken Land (33 page)

The front of Stevie’s forehead burst open.

Dolores shrieked.

“No!” yelled Brent.

The gun flashed a second time. Stevie lurched forward and dropped to his knees. Long Clay fired three shots through the slit, and the shadow outside screamed.

Stevie’s face impacted the stone floor.

“Stevie!” Brent crawled to his brother and turned him over. “Stevie.”

The young man’s eyes were wide with horror and confusion. Gore filled his mouth and drained from the back of his head.

“We’ll get you fixed,” Brent said, “it ain’t as bad as you think.”

The terrified animal that was Stevie Plugford nodded. He moved his mouth and tried to say something.

“And after, you can come with me on the cattle trail. Okay?”

The young man nodded, relaxed and stopped breathing.

Brent looked away from his brother’s piteous face.

“He’s gone.”

“No, no, no, no!” Dolores yelled from her stool. “None of this is fair—none of it is!” She looked up at the ceiling and yelled, “I hate you up there! Come on down so I can claw out your eyes and spit in the holes! I hate you all the way every bit!”

Long Clay looked at Brent. “We need you on the west wall.”

The cowboy rested his brother’s head upon the floor, concealed the young man’s confused eyes with a handkerchief, focused his thoughts upon his living sisters and walked to the assigned slit. He saw the corpse outside and recognized the dead fellow as Jose Pastillo, an affable and kind vaquero with whom he had ridden and played checkers.

“Hell.”

A wounded man who was covered so thoroughly with dirt that he looked wholly wrought from the substance crawled into the cemetery, dragging his detached right foot and long tubes that were his entrails. Brent aimed his gun and fired. The interior of the crawler’s head splashed upon a tombstone that was previously unmarked. Atop dirt that covered old corpses, the dying man collapsed.

The cowboy focused his thoughts upon his sisters and killing the enemy, because all other ruminations had an undertow of despair that would pull him under.

“Roast in Hell!” Dolores fired and flung her trigger guard. The spent shell clinked against the floor, and a man groaned.

Long Clay fired two bullets. A man wept.

Brent saw a dirt-covered vaquero stumble toward the west side of the fort. The earthen being had a lopsided head and clutched a warped revolver with his lone remaining hand.

The cowboy shot him in the skull.

“Hell, Hell, Hell.”

Chapter VI
We Ain’t the Heroes

Something rapped upon the slanted roof of perdition. Brent Plugford pointed his rifle at the ceiling and flung his trigger guard.

“Don’t fire,” said Long Clay. “That’s Deep Lakes.”

“Where the hell’s he been?” hissed Dolores.

“Guarding our back,” said Long Clay. “Both of you get on the south wall and check the landscape.”

Dolores scooted her stool across the floor.

“He’s safe up there?” asked Brent.

“The roof’s inclined away from the terrain so that defenders can go up top.”

Brent walked to a forward slit and surveyed the foggy blue tapestry of corpses and craters that laid in-between the fort and the wall of vehicles.

“It’s like the end of the world out there,” remarked Dolores.

“Seems clear,” said Brent. “And there can’t be more than twenty of ‘em left. Less, maybe.”

“You’re correct.”

“Us Plugfords ain’t easy huntin’,” commented Dolores.

After a moment of silent surveillance, the gunfighter looked at the cowboy. “Get a pen and something to write on.”

“Okay.”

Brent circumnavigated the puddle that surrounded Stevie, walked to the bunk wherein laid Patch Up and John Lawrence Plugford, leaned over to retrieve his father’s fountain pen and felt a painful burning in his head and left arm. Darkness expanded before his eyes, and in it he saw the wailing face of the patriarch, coughing up blood.

“Brent?” questioned Dolores. “You okay?”

The cowboy slammed his right palm to the north wall and regained his equilibrium. “Yeah.” After a dizzy breath, he extracted the fountain pen from his father’s pocket, grabbed a page of Samuel C. Upfield IV’s confessional essay and walked toward the munitions table.

Long Clay strode to an eastern crenellation upon the south wall. “Midwestern Man.”

There was no reply.

“Respond right now or the Indian will cut off one of your toes.”

“I hear you,” the Midwesterner replied from the façade.

Weak and dizzy, Brent reached the munitions table and leaned.

Long Clay asked the captive, “Do you speak Spanish?”

“Yes.” The inverted man coughed and momentarily choked.

“You’re going to translate a message for us to say to the opposition.”

“Most of them speak English.”

“I’d like for every single person to understand every single word.”

“I’ll translate your message.”

Brent uncovered the fountain pen and touched its dripping tip to the blank side of the paper.

Long Clay said, “First part. ‘Listen to me. You have lost.’”

“Escúchame. Usted ha perdido.”

Brent wrote.

Escoochamay. Oosted a perdeedo.

Long Clay said, “Next part. ‘Gris stole and raped my sisters. Gris is a bad man.’”

A heavy silence followed these declarations.

The Midwesterner said, “Gris wouldn’t do that to a woman. He’s—”

“It’s true you dumb fool!” shouted Dolores. “That’s what your amigo’s father done to me and my sister—that’s why all of this terrible stuff’s happenin’!”

“I didn’t know.” The Midwesterner coughed. “I swear I didn’t.” Brent believed that the man was telling the truth.

“Translate,” Long Clay said, “or the Indian will shove a stake through your scrotum.”

“Gris robaton y violaron mi hermanas. Gris es un hombre malo.”

“Again and slower.”

The Midwesterner repeated himself, and Brent wrote.

Gris robaton ee beeolaron me ermanas. Gris es un ombray maloh.

“Next part,” said Long Clay. “Give us Gris and we will let all of you live.”

“Nos dan Gris y vamos a dejar a todos ustedes en vivo.”

Brent wrote.

Nos don Gris ee bamos a dehar a todos oosteades en beebo.

“Last part. If you continue to fight, we will torture these men and kill all of you.”

There was a momentary pause.

The Midwesterner cleared his throat. “Si continúa la lucha, vamos a la tortura a estos hombres y matar a todos ustedes.”

See conteenewa la lewcha, bamos a la tortuda ah estos ombrays ee matar a todos oosteades.

Long Clay looked at Brent. “Say it back to the Midwestern Man so that he can correct your pronunciation.”

“Okay.” The cowboy walked over to the opening that was closest to the dangling Midwesterner and read the message aloud.

“Say, ‘tortura,’ with an ‘r’ sound at the end,” advised the captive. “What you said sounded like tortuga, which mean turtle.”

“Tortura,” repeated the cowboy.

“That’s right.”

tortuda

tortura

Long Clay raised his telescopic rifle and pointed it south. “Call that message through the slit as loud as you can.”

Brent put his left cheek to the stone bricks and yelled the message. ‘Listen to me! You have lost! Gris stole and raped my sisters! Gris is a bad man! Give us Gris and we will let all of you live! If you continue to fight, we will torture these men and kill all of you!’

Upon the façade, one of the inverted captives wailed, “¡Ayudame, por favor, ayudame!”

“Help us!” cried the Midwesterner. “Please, please help us!”

Brent peered through the slit. Outside, the ruined terrain was still, excepting two blind horses that struggled to escape from a deep crater into which they had fallen. The sounds of men engaged in a loud and hostile conversation emanated from behind the line of vehicles.

“Say again how he got me and Yvette,” suggested Dolores.

Brent yelled, “¡Gris beeolaron me ermanas!”

“He raped me!” cried his sister. “He raped me!”

The argument behind the vehicles grew louder, and the soft wings of hope fluttered within the cowboy’s chest.

Footsteps pounded south across the ceiling.

Long Clay looked at Brent. “Take his place on the roof. And bring a couple of iron stakes with you.”

“Okay.”

“Wear a tabard if you think you can manage the extra weight.”

“I can’t.”

“Get up there and stay low.” Long Clay eyed him sternly. “If they don’t yield, you’ll need to get mean.”

“I know we ain’t the heroes.”

The cowboy hung the wooden spyglass by its thong around his neck, slung his rifle over his good shoulder, slid magazines and two iron stakes into the sleeve of his left boot and walked toward the east door. His heart throbbed inside his chest, upon the side of his head and throughout his left arm.

“Brent!” shouted Dolores.

The cowboy looked over at his sister. “I’ll get back safe.”

“I’ve scolded you before ‘bout not givin’ a proper goodbye.”

“I’m hopin’ this ain’t goodbye.”

“Give me a goddamn hug!”

Brent walked to Dolores, leaned over and put his right arm around her shoulders. His gun swung forward and clacked against the stock of her weapon.

Into the cowboy’s blood-soaked shirt, the woman said, “If you get shot…I…I’ll…I’ll—”

“I won’t.” Brent kissed her cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Dolores hugged him fiercely. “You’re my favorite always.”

“You too.”

The cowboy withdrew from his sister and walked to the eastern door, through which the dandy, Stevie and Patch Up had recently carried supplies. Using the tip of his nickel-plated revolver, Brent slid the iron bolt north. He stepped aside, and a gentle wind pushed the door open. From the water well to the distant horizon, the azure terrain appeared tranquil.

Brent followed his outthrust pistol into the open world and hastened to the rear of the fort. No weapons were discharged during his beeline.

In the swath of dirt that laid in-between the edifice and the sunken stable stood Deep Lakes. The azure light of dawn shone eerily in his eyes. From the neck of his unique bow jutted the steel tips of five arrows and stuck into the ground around him like wooden topiary were one hundred more shafts.

Brent holstered his revolver, reached the iron ladder that led to the top of the fort, stepped onto the lowest rung and climbed, sliding his good hand along the outer bar. The north wall sank.

Pained and weak, the cowboy reached the inclined roof (the angle of which blocked his view of the opposition), clambered onto the desiccated wood and crawled. Sweat dripped from curls of his brown hair, and the spyglass that depended from his neck swung back and forth. Four yards from the southern edge, he lowered himself to his belly and slid, serpentine. Splinters pierced his chest and left cheek. “Hell.”

Brent peered over the edge of the roof and saw a blue photograph that was the strange, funereal terrain. Chill winds carried the smells of charcoal, gunpowder, metal and burnt flesh, as well as the sound of the distant argument in which men shouted words that the cowboy did not understand. He considered removing the splinters from his face and body, but decided that they were not worth the effort.

A gunstock knocked thrice upon the ceiling.

“Next time I signal,” Long Clay said from below, “shove a stake deep into a captive’s rectum and leave it in.”

“Not me!” shouted the inverted Midwesterner. “Please. I helped you and…and…I didn’t know what Gris did to your sisters, I swear to—”

“It ain’t gonna be you,” said the cowboy.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Brent slid to the southwest corner of the roof and peered over the edge. Suspended from an iron stake were filthy feet, shredded ankles, a gory phallus and a pale belly that hid the inverted man’s top half. The cowboy poked the captive’s left heel with the tip of his revolver.

“¡No! ¡Por favor, no!”

The man jerked and twisted, and Brent glimpsed his very distinct handlebar mustache.

This creature had raped Dolores.

“I ain’t gonna hesitate with you.” The cowboy withdrew from the edge of the roof, prostrated himself behind the incline and arrayed his stakes, magazines, repeater rifle and spyglass. He knocked thrice upon the ceiling. “Ready.”

“¡Escúchame!” shouted Long Clay. “¡Danos Gris!”

On the far side of the battlefield, the bickering opposition quietened.

A man with a heavy accent said, “We want our mens first. Trade.”

“No,” replied Long Clay. “Give us Gris and go home. After you’re gone, we’ll send the men. There will be no trade.”

“Then no Gris.”

Three knocks sounded upon the ceiling.

Brent thought of Dolores’s agony, gripped the two-foot long iron stake, went to the edge of the roof, placed the narrow end in-between the captive’s pale buttocks, poked his hairy rectum and thrust through rubbery guts until the sharp tip clicked against a hip bone.

The man’s shriek was an inhuman skirl.

Repulsed, Brent released the rod, retreated to safety and prostrated himself upon the wood. His hands were shaking, and his heart was pounding. A moment later, the protruding half of the iron stake clanked against the stone façade, and the mortally-sodomized captive shrieked anew.

The opposition yelled across the nascent graveyard, “¡Diablo! ¡Eres el Diablo!”

“Barbarian!”

“Evil gringo!”

The captive’s vocal cords ruptured, and his voice cut out.

Guns exploded. Bullets whistled over Brent’s head and cracked into the mountain wall. He flung his trigger guard and inched forward on his belly. Invisible death whistled above his back, while below his chest, Long Clay and Dolores fired through their slits.

Brent reached the southern edge and looked for a clear shot.

The iron clanked against the façade, and the mute man hissed.

“I got one,” Dolores called up from below.

Five arrows plummeted from the sky, directly behind the line of vehicles. A man screamed. Underneath the wagons and between the stagecoaches, guns thundered a reverberant polyrhythm.

Long Clay and Dolores fired continually.

A gun flashed inside of the turquoise stagecoach, and Brent aimed at the open window. He squeezed, flung his trigger guard and sent a second bullet after the first. A long rifle fell from the vehicle into the trench and was followed by the shootist.

Behind the cowboy, Deep Lakes released another quintet of arrows. The shafts flew into the sky, arced downward and fell behind enemy lines. A man yelled, “¡Puta, puta, puta!”

The wagons and stagecoaches shimmied upon their wheels.

Brent turned back to the Indian and yelled, “They’ve hid for cover in the vehicles!”

Deep Lakes adjusted his aim, sent arrows into the sky, notched five more and released.

The cowboy flung his trigger guard. As the spent shell clinked to the roof and rolled past his elbow, waist and feet he surveyed the vehicles through his spyglass, looking for a solid shot. In the middle of the line, the crimson stagecoach sank and rocked ponderously on its wheels.

“Watch the red one, far left,” Brent shouted, “it’s full up and I’m gonna tip it!” He aimed at the vehicle’s large rear wheel, fired, expelled the used cartridge and sent a second shot. Wooden spokes shattered, and the hub cracked loose. The vehicle sagged, jerked like a living animal and tilted toward the trench.

The door swung open.

Into the gaping portal, Brent, Dolores and Long Clay sent a twenty shot barrage. Two men wearing dark cherry suits spilled outside and fell into the trench.

“¡Roberto!” cried a bereft man. “¡Francisco!”

“Those’re Gris’s sons,” remarked Dolores from below. “We’ll get your whole goddamn family!” she yelled across the terrain. “We’ll kill all of you!”

Two shafts plummeted into the trench, five thudded into stagecoach roofs and three pierced wagon canopies. A man stumbled out into the open, unable to yell past the feathers of the arrow that he had swallowed.

“Hold fire,” ordered Long Clay.

Brent flung his trigger guard. The ejected shell clinked to the roof and rolled north.

“¡Escúchame!” shouted Long Clay. “¡Danos Gris!” The demand echoed across the battlefield and smelled like gunpowder. “Give us Gris or we’ll massacre all of you!”

“I will be out presently,” said a man who spoke English as precisely as the dandy and Samuel C. Upfield IV.

“That’s his voice,” Dolores said through her opening. “That’s Gris.”