Pony Soldiers Read online

  "It was a mistake by my father," said Cuchillo Oro. "Man Whose Eyes See More urged him to attack the Anglos as soon as they came into our hunting lands. But Pony Rides Far wanted peace. For that wish my father died. They caught him when his horse fell and he… I will not talk of his passing. But they will be paid. One day, they will be paid."

  Equally the whites could find no way of taking on the Apaches in their box canyon. Twice they'd come out against the Mescalero, and twice they'd been beaten back with heavy losses. Cuchillo thought that one day they would come again.

  Because there had been a change.

  After the uneasy years of quasi peace, the Anglos had suddenly found a new leader. The man they now called General Yellowhair.

  "Where'd he come from?" Ryan asked, leaning forward. "I've gotten the idea I've seen that bastard before. Someplace. Some time. But I can't be sure."

  "No man knows. Some say he was found in a box of glass within the mesa, sitting astride his black stal­lion. Frozen in time. And they woke him and he rides again for the pony soldiers."

  "Bullshit!" Doc snorted. "Truth to tell there was a moment when I wondered if we'd chron-jumped, seeing Autie Custer there, all yellow hair streaming in the wind. Like he'd just left Reno and Benteen and Miles and Keogh and the rest and come like a grin­ning demon from Hades."

  Ryan had never heard any of the names that Doc was mentioning, but he figured they had to be linked with this strange General Custer.

  "But I knew then he wasn't. There is something phonier than a three-dollar bill about him. You mark my words, friends."

  Cuchillo could shed no light at all on the problem. All he knew was that things had become immeasur­ably worse since the appearance of the General. That was what his men called him. No other name. Just "the General." And he'd brought cunning and an iron discipline to what had been a bloody-minded rabble of mercies and hired killers.

  Now they all wore uniforms. Had parades. Disci­pline tougher than it had been even in the days of the original Seventh Cavalry, when there were more de­serters than fleas on a dog.

  "We have fought with them in a dozen short firefights. Each time we have been beaten. They have taken prisoners from our young men. Several. And then there is nothing. We see and hear nothing. They are taken and never return. It is as if the spirits have devoured them."

  It was a fairly familiar story around the Deathlands. Not with the unique flavoring of the Cavalry Museum and the mysterious stranger with the blond hair. But the tale of a local balance being upended by the arrival of a gang of guerrilla butchers. Often that was the way local barons arose, taking power with the blaster. And holding it by maintaining the balance of terror on their side.

  "What are you going to do?" J.B. asked, picking up a burning length of wood and using its glowing end to relight the pipe he'd been smoking.

  The Apache shook his head. "We have talked much of it. There have been councils with the old men. Our shaman has asked the spirits for help. But there is lit­tle hope. They are stronger than us. Unless there is some aid, we shall have to leave this place. It will be stained with blood."

  "Could be a way to beat the sec men," Ryan said thoughtfully.

  "How?" the chief asked, which for some unac­countable reason made Doc start to snigger, turning it clumsily into an undignified coughing fit.

  "I don't know, Cuchillo Oro," Ryan replied. "Don't know enough about them. Or you. But the Trader used to say that you could always find a way."

  "Right," J.B. agreed. "Over, under, around or through. There's always a way."

  THE MOON DRIFTED STEADILY across the top of the cliffs, showing the time to be approaching midnight. Ryan's wrist chron flicked on at 1:17. The fire was sinking. For at least a half hour there had been no sound from the part of the camp where the Apache shaman was battling to save the life of the boy.

  Lori had fallen asleep on Doc's lap, sucking her thumb like a little girl. J.B. had dozed, then jerked awake, grinning sheepishly at Ryan. Krysty sat, el­bows on knees, staring into the softly tumbling em­bers of the fire. Ryan was sitting quietly with his arm around her, occasionally asking Cuchillo Oro a ques­tion about the strength of the sec men. Where did they ride on patrol? How many at a time? Did they have any grens? Guards around their fortress?

  He returned again and again to their leader.

  "I can tell you no more, Ryan Cawdor," the Mescalero eventually said. "It is late. Our sister the moon will soon be at her slumbers and her brother will stir himself for a new day."

  "Yeah. I'm ready for bed myself. You say we can have that hut there?" He pointed to a low-roofed shack to the left of the canyon.

  "Yes. You have seen many fights, Ryan Cawdor?"

  "Too many."

  "Most against Anglos?"

  "Anglos. Blacks. Women. Muties. Animals. You name it, and I guess I've fought it."

  The Apache pressed him, and Ryan's secret suspi­cions were confirmed. "But you know the way of chilling men like these pony soldiers?"

  "Some."

  "And your blasters… they are better. Better than what we have and better than the Springfield carbines of the dog-faces?"

  "Cuchillo, you want us to throw in with you against Yellowhair and fifty or more sec men? If that's what you want, then let's have it out on the table so we can all see it."

  "There are three of you… if I count the old man."

  "Five, mister," Krysty said.

  "But only J.B. and me got blasters that'd be much use."

  Cuchillo Oro rose to his feet. "The people do not beg for help, Ryan Cawdor."

  "I don't expect you to beg. I'll talk to the others about it first thing in the morning and let you know what we decide."

  "This land is…"

  "Your land," Ryan finished. "Heard that before, Cuchillo Oro. I told you. I'll let you know. Right now I'll go look at the kid and see if—"

  "There is no need. Ysun, life-giver, aided me in my work."

  Man Whose Eyes See More stood behind them, na­ked above the waist, eyes hidden behind an antique pair of mirrored sunglasses. He looked drained and frail.

  "Jak?" Krysty asked.

  The shaman gave a half smile. "He will live."

  Chapter Fourteen

  "BASTARD TIRED, RYAN. Feel like been long journey. Tired."

  Dawn had tiptoed over the crest of the towering cliffs at the head of the canyon, above the pool of calm water, spilling down in a cascade of golden-pink light. Ryan had snatched three hours' sleep, waking early and crawling from under the pile of musty blan­kets, leaving Krysty, J.B., Lori and Doc still dozing.

  The shaman was lying on a disgustingly dirty old mattress at the side of the bed where Jak was resting, out in the open air. Man Whose Eyes See More was reading a cracked and faded old book with a torn cover. Ryan could just make out that it was called Backflash. It seemed to be a kind of future fic book— back in the days when people thought that there would be a future.

  Jak looked up, eyes creaking open, showing the pale pink coloring. The shaman ignored them both.

  "Bastard tired," the young boy repeated.

  The shaman had brushed through the long white hair, removing the tangles and burrs, cleaning out the orange dust. Jak, because of his albino coloring, never looked anything that remotely approached healthy.

  Now he looked more like a bathed corpse, resting on its funeral bier.

  The skin, taut across the sharp cheekbones, was al­most transparent, but the thin smile was still Jak Lauren.

  "Ready kick ass, huh?" he said.

  "If you feel as bad as you look," Ryan joked, "then you should have been nailed in the long wooden box a week ago."

  "Thought gone, Ryan."

  "Thought so, too, son." He looked at the shaman. "How d'you do it?"

  "What?"

  "Bring him back."

  Man Whose Eyes See More nodded. "It's true that he was already walking with the spirits, but he wished to return to this world."

  The camp was stil
l silent. Most small settlements like this would have had a number of stark-rib mon­grels, scavenging and fighting for scraps. There wasn't an animal in the canyon, except for the string of po­nies tethered near the water. The sun was creeping higher, and Ryan could begin to make out the texture of the sheared rocks above the pool. Part of his fight­ing instincts was always to make sure he knew all the ways out of anywhere. As far as he could see, Drowned Squaw Canyon didn't leave a man much choice. The cliff seemed to rise almost vertically, with no obvious holds for a climber.

  The Apache watched him from behind the silver, reflective lenses. "No man ever made it."

  "The rocks?"

  "Yeah. There's old Mescalero stories about a time we were attacked by a bunch of Cheyenne, looking for new hunting lands. They tried a trick and set fire to the canyon floor. There was a young man, called Wings on Feet, who was supposed to have gotten up there and hauled up the whole tribe. Then they looped around the Cheyenne—or it could have been Comanche—and drove them into their own trap."

  "You believe that?" Ryan asked.

  There was the hint of a smile. "I believe in the old magic, Ryan Cawdor. I have the power. I can see. I can heal. I've seen things you wouldn't believe."

  Ryan shook his head, brushing dust off the knees of his pants. "I've seen you bring the boy back from the wrong side of a chilling. I believe you."

  "He has broken ribs. And there was…was an­other thing wrong with him. That is now well. He must rest for three or four days. I have strapped his ribs for him."

  "Feels tighter'n jump in chamber. But doesn't pain."

  Ryan grinned down at the pale boy. "Good to see you, Jak. Take it real easy now."

  "Ryan."

  "What?"

  "When… Heard firefight. Who? Not them here? Who?"

  "Sec men, Jak. But it's kind of a long story. Get Man Whose Eyes See More to tell you."

  He nodded to the shaman and patted Jak on the shoulder.

  "Ask women for food," the Apache said. "Will your women not make it?"

  "Wouldn't like to ask them. I'll get something later." He took a couple of steps and then turned back to face the shaman. "Oh, there's one other thing."

  "I know, Ryan Cawdor. 'Thanks' is not a word that sets easy on your mouth. But I see it in your heart. And that is enough."

  The others were awake, eager for news of the boy. Cuchillo Oro appeared as Ryan was telling them the good news.

  "But he will not be well to ride for some days. You must stay here."

  Ryan and the others had talked about the words of the Apache war chief before they all went to sleep. Though J.B. wasn't sure how they'd do it, he agreed with Ryan that they should try to help the Indians against the sec men. "I'd help a froth-mouth wolf against a sec man," he'd said, grinning.

  Both women had also given their agreement to of­fering aid to Cuchillo Oro and the Mescalero.

  Only Doc Tanner had hesitated. "I fear that I must appear rather a pantywaist, friends. Yet I am no Caspar Milquetoast. But I ask everyone here present to give their thoughts to what we are here for. We travel and arrive through the gateway, not knowing where we'll end up. We are like the desert wind that blows across the land."

  Krysty had spoken then. "Sure. But the wind cleanses and purges. Drives out sickness, Doc. That's what we do. Or try to do. We get somewhere and there's wrong… we do what we can. Don't you see that?"

  The old man had finally nodded his agreement. "You sounded like an old-time river-crossing preacher. Indeed you did. But I suppose we must all try and stand up for what's right. Very well, I agree."

  RYAN TOLD THE WARRIOR with the golden knife of their decision.

  Cuchillo Oro sat, cross-legged, hugging a battered Winchester rifle. He said nothing for a long minute, staring at the ground. Finally he looked up at Ryan.

  "You do this because our shaman saved the life of the boy?"

  "That's part of it. Seems like the General and those renegade chillers of his would be better off if someone stopped their breathing. But I don't know yet how we can do it."

  "Won't be quick, won't be easy and there'll be a lot of dying." J.B. flicked at his eyes, batting away a stubborn insect. "You got to know that. It costs, Cuchillo Oro."

  "My people have paid that price for fifty generations."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "WE GOT TO KNOW MORE about them if we're going to have a chance of chilling them," J.B. said, sitting around the blazing fire. The others were with him, in­cluding the pallid Jak Lauren, who was propped up on a straw mattress, red eyes following the council of war.

  Cuchillo Oro was on the far side of the circle, flanked by a half dozen of his oldest and most expe­rienced warriors. The shaman, Man Whose Eyes See More, squatted immediately behind his chief.

  The day had meandered by for Ryan and his com­rades. Every couple of hours the shaman would pre­pare various infusions of herbs to speed the boy's healing—red alder and green hellebore with a sliced corm of a jack-in-the-pulpit.

  "That plant always reminds me of Georgia," Doc said.

  "What's Georgia?" Lori asked.

  The old man assumed his baffled expression. "I'm damned if I know, my dear. Georgia…Georgia…on my mind, perhaps. I'm so sorry…"

  The ensuing unguent, when the shaman poured it from the small copper cauldron, was thick and oily, and had a dreadful smell.

  "Fireblast!" Ryan gagged. "Smells like a swampie's outhouse! That's triple-gross."

  "It is a handful of crushed seeds from a secret herb that makes the smell," said Man Whose Eyes See More, carefully ladling out a cup of the liquid to take over to the boy.

  "Sure must be good stuff," Krysty said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

  The Mescalero wise man smiled, actually cracked his cheeks and laughed. "It smells. That is all it adds to the medicine."

  "Then why… ?" asked Ryan.

  "If a medicine tastes of honey and sweetness, then the man does not believe it does good. To become well means you must suffer."

  THE WORD HAD GONE SWIFTLY around the Apache camp in the box canyon that the Anglo strangers were going to fight with the people against Yellowhair.

  Everywhere they went they found smiles. Directed by one of the young women, Krysty discovered that she was being followed. Even when she went behind a small grove of mesquite bushes to relieve herself a gaggle of girls, watching her every move, stooped to try to see how she was made. They giggled when she shook a furious fist at them.

  "Gaia!" she exclaimed when she rejoined Ryan and the others. "Be good to have some privacy when you want to take a leak!"

  Her long hair, tied in a ponytail, swished from side to side in time with her anger. The Apache shaman noticed, and his mouth gaped in wonderment.

  In the middle of the day, the whites were all brought food, though it was again obvious that the women re­sented serving Lori and Krysty.

  They began with a spiced soup that had small pieces of gristly meat floating in it. All of them tried it, though Doc only sipped suspiciously at his brown bowl.

  "Good," J.B. pronounced. "What was in it?"

  Cuchiflo Oro and the inner council of the tribe were eating with them. His dark eyes were veiled as he glanced around at the five Anglos. Jak was still rest­ing under the care of Man Whose Eyes See More.

  "It is a rarity."

  "Why?" Ryan asked, suddenly sharing Doc's wariness about the soup.

  "The women take many hours to collect enough of the grubs from the yellow jackets to heat and then boil up."

  "Oh, dark night!" the Armorer exclaimed, taking off his beloved fedora and laying it carefully to one side.

  "Why d'you do that?" Lori asked, her own face a couple of shades paler than normal.

  "When I throw up I don't want it falling in my puke," J.B. replied grimly.

  The second course was a whole lot safer—green pumpkin stew and chili fritters, served with corn bread. Ryan whistled at the strength of the peppers. "Don't the people eat anything that has
n't got chilies in it, Cuchillo Oro?" he asked.

  "Yes, of course." He paused. "But not often."

  To keep cool in the heat of the day they all drank deeply from pitchers of mesquite bean juice, savoring the piquant flavor.

  "Better," Ryan said. "Lots better."

  Cuchillo picked shreds of the stew from between his teeth with the needle tip of the great golden knife.

  "Now that we have eaten we must talk. Talk now of war."

  "Yes," Ryan agreed, feeling a buildup of gas and wondering whether it would be good or bad manners to let it out. It was probably better to keep it in.

  "Will your women stay to talk of war?" asked the oldest of the Apache council, a grizzled veteran, lack­ing a hand at the end of his left arm. He was called Fights Two Lions, Ryan recollected. He hadn't asked the Apache which of the two lions had taken his hand.

  Doc answered the question, lapsing into the tongue of the Mescalero, bring a snort from the old men around the embers of the fire—a snort that could have been either anger or amusement.

  "What did you say, Doc?" Krysty asked.

  "That you did not just talk of war, that you also were both skilled in the making of war. And if any doubted it then they might find… well…"

  "What, heart of my heart?" Lori asked, touching him on the back of his hand.

  "Well…that they might find their winkle was missing from its usual location, next time they woke up."

  Ryan still didn't know whether the Mescalero eld­ers had been angry or amused.

  But none of them again raised the issue of whether Krysty and Lori should be there with them.

  Ryan launched in, outlining the discussion he'd had with the others. Strategically he'd mainly spoken with J.B.

  "We have to know everything there is to know about these sec men. The pony soldiers, as you call them, and their leader. We must see their fort and this museum. See them on patrol. Test them a little. See how they react. Only then can we work out what must be done to beat them."

  "So easy, white eyes!" mocked another of the eld­ers, a man with a face deeply scarred by smallpox, whose name Ryan didn't know. "We have done this. This and more. We know their power. Know their camp. We have… we have tested them a little, as you say. And we do not know how to beat them. But you…the great Anglo with one eye can see more than all the people!"