Only Killers and Thieves(57)
It could never have been so simple: within two hours they had run them down, tiny ant-like shadows appearing on the trembling plain. Noone gave a cry and all spurred their horses and drove them mercilessly across that broken ground, riding high in the saddle and keen with the whip, Billy waving his revolver above his head while Tommy struggled to keep pace with the stampede, clinging to the reins and to Beau’s body with his knees, eyes blurring, gasping at the air, a confusion of wind and glare and dust. He dipped his head against it and saw Billy’s face peeled open in a joyful howl. Billy shouted something, whooped, pumped his revolver in the air, as all the while the figures grew closer on the plain. Their arms flailing, heads twisting, glancing behind them as they fled: five desperate natives and a scattered pack of dogs. The posse roared in unison and sent their calling on the wind. A calling of hatred and of bloodlust, and of thirty-six hooves pounding the red earth, which shook like the skin of a drum.
They overtook the natives and corralled them by circling the horses head to tail. Three men, two women, one of them very young, cowering together in a melee of wild dogs. All of them were naked, the women holding each other tightly by the arms, as if preparing to dance, and the men crouching with their spears raised ready to throw. They turned as the horses turned, bare feet shuffling in the dirt, eyes flashing around the circle as it closed and closed and closed.
Tommy scanned the men’s faces: Joseph wasn’t there.
The corral stopped revolving and the posse faced them front on. Everything was still. The horses panted from the chase, frothing at their mouths, bodies heaving with each breath, and the riders panted also, recovering themselves, rifles lowered or propped in the crook of an arm. The natives moved only their heads, twitching man to man. Tommy felt their eyes pass over him, felt their terror just the same, and realized that to them he was no different from Noone or anyone. He had drawn his rifle obediently; now he let it hang.
Some of the dogs began growling and barking. Maybe ten dogs in all, mangy and piebald, ribs jutting beneath their scarred coats. Not full dingo, not full anything, just dogs. A brown-haired thing, its yellow teeth bared, snapped at the shins of Locke’s horse. The horse drew back, startled, nearly threw its mount. Locke righted him and leveled his carbine at the dog, then thought better of it and drew his sword instead. The blade was slightly curved and it glinted in the sun. Locke taunted the dog, waited for it to lunge again, and when it did so he leaned and ran the sword through its neck. A quick thrust, in and out: the dog keeled onto its side, bright blood spurting, and sniggering rippled briefly around the corral.
Locke examined his bloodstained blade, ceremoniously turning it this way and that, then he stared at the natives and settled on the nearest man. The man still had his spear raised. It was aimed directly at Locke. Locke pointed the bloodied sword at him and roared, held it until his breath gave, the only sound out there, echoing all around. His face turning red, his chest swollen, purple veins bulging on his skull. When finally the roar left him, he took a long breath, glanced at Sullivan beside him, and laughed.
The native threw his spear.
He launched it without warning, without back lift, the shaft quivering softly as it flew, followed by a hushed tearing sound as it pierced Locke’s skin. Barely a sound at all. Like a knife through an unripe pear. Locke reeled from the blow and for a second sat there looking at the spear. It was embedded in his shoulder, a few inches above his heart. He tried to cry out but hadn’t the breath; the cry gargled in his throat. He looked at the native. The man was crouched as if ready to run. Locke dropped his sword. It landed beside the dead dog. He reached for his carbine but struggled to free it from the strap. The spear wagged as he moved. He took hold of the shaft with both hands, as if to pull it out, then in one quick jolt he snapped it and seethed with pain. Spittle foamed between his teeth. His face was damp and pale. Only the surge of his breathing in the silence of the tight corral. The others watching on, their rifles aimed at the spear carriers, whose spears sagged slightly in their hands.
Locke unstrapped his carbine, wheeled it around, and took aim. His face and head glistened. Sweat streamed into his eyes. The carbine trembled in his hand and he tried to steady it with his left forearm but the arm wouldn’t fully raise.
“Well?” he shouted, wiping his brow with his sleeve. He stared at the native and the native returned the stare.
Noone rolled his eyes and nodded.
“Aye, get on with it,” Sullivan said.
Locke leveled the carbine again. The barrel wavered horribly. Still the man didn’t move. Facing his assassin down. Locke drew the air hard and fast through his nose, breath after surging breath, then suddenly the breathing stalled. His trigger finger clenched. An almighty noise spewed from the rifle’s maw and the recoil threw Locke’s arm high above his head. There was screaming. A flurry of canine howls. Locke straightened and peered at the native but the native crouched before him, unhurt. Another dog collapsed to the ground, half its side blown out.
“Christ in hell,” Sullivan said. “Can’t you just shoot the bloody thing?”
Locke cursed and tried to reload, fumbling a cartridge from his belt, pinning the carbine in his armpit and pawing at the chamber bolt. Blood seeped from his shoulder and spread on his shirt. His hands trembled. Grunting darkly as he worked. The woman began talking, high-pitched and desperate, pleading for mercy, maybe. She spoke to the troopers, the whites; all ignored her. Everyone waiting for Locke. But he fumbled the new cartridge and dropped it on the ground, and as he fished out another Sullivan groaned and lit a cigarette, and on the far side of the corral Noone swung over a leg and jumped down from his horse.