markwildyr.com,
Post #82
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| Courtesy of Brillo |
Let’s go
for a short story this time. Not a short, short story, but one that will take
us three installments to finish. I first wrote Lodestar years ago and sold it to the editor of an anthology. I came across it again and decided I’d like to shorten
it and see if it flies today. So here’s the first part of the story It’s far
longer than usual for a blog, but I hope you’ll stick with it.
*****
LODESTAR
( Part One)
A penetrating
chill pulled me from my sleep as the distant rumble of thunder and ghostly
flashes broke the half-light of dawn. I abandoned the bedroll to find my two
companions scanning the Little Humps, a line of low hills to the west.
“Rain?” I
asked, scratching my bum where a rock had rendered it sore.
“Ain’t
thunder,” Hap Auslander replied. “Somebody gittin’ the crap stomped outa ‘em.”
“Military
guns. Big ones,” Henry Nettles added. “They’s a Injun town over yonder.”
Hap tied his
bedroll on Speckles, the Appaloosa he rode. “Best be moving. Keep a sharp eye
out. Stragglers is apt to be tetchy.”
We took
the trail in single file with me bringing up the rear. Half a day on the trail
passed before Nettles hauled up and pointed west.
“By, God,
it’s the troopers that done it!” Hap shouted as horsemen appeared on the
horizon. We waited silently while the blue column approached. As the riders passed,
a man broke ranks and rode over to us. Two others fell in behind him. The fella
in front, a runty man with gold all over his hat and on his shoulders pulled up
and gave us the once over.
“Major
Elijah Raintree, commander of the Southfork Militia at your service. Who might
you be?”
“Hap
Auslander of St. Jo. This here’s Henry Nettles outa Independence Johnson .
You fellers wallop ‘em good?”
“Old
White Hair’s outfit won’t give no more problems.”
“White
Hair?” Nettles asked in surprise. “White Hair was under paint?”
The major’s
eyes went flat. “They’re all under paint, far’s we’re concerned.”
The major
favored us with a personal account of his heroic attack on the red heathens
while his column of two hundred or so blue-clad soldiers and four wheel-mounted
guns passed, leaving a broad trail on the prairie flats. His parting words sent
a chill through my heart and left me wondering what this popinjay did for a
living when he wasn’t murdering human beings.
“Should
you encounter any survivors, you have my authority to dispatch them forthwith. I
want no living heathens left between the Bent Fork and Elk River.”
After the
major and his aides were out of earshot, Nettles turned to us. “Hell, White
Hair wasn’t no war chief. That’s why them bluebellies had such a easy time.”
“A
Injun’s a Injun, Nettles. Wouldn’t go ‘round takin’ the red man’s side, I was
you,” Auslander cautioned. “Let’s be on our way.”
As we
crossed the trampled earth marking the column’s passing, Henry Nettles’s head
wobbled on his thin, wrinkled neck. Auslander, a thick, squat man of grizzled
hair and beard, gave me the nasty eye, making me wonder once again why I was in
the company of these men. I had never contemplated the frontier until events
conspired to place me here.
Too young
to fight in the War Between the States, I watched helplessly as that bloody
conflict destroyed my family. It killed my brother outright and maimed my
father into a grave two long years coming. My Aunt Bella, a well-settled widow,
took me in when the fever carried off Ma’am. Perversely, life grew easier, but
Providence has a fine set of scales and knows how to balance them.
I would
likely have married Mistress Penelope Greenstem, to my eternal regret, had not
her brother John pursued me into the hayloft where we learned that males can
pleasure one another without benefit of the opposite gender. In time, we were
discovered, and I was loudly proclaimed a pederast—one of Satan’s foulest
demons. Aunt Bella hastily sent me on my way with a small packet of coins, the
law and the rector of the Puritan
Church
The
fabled Santa Fe Trail beckoned until a chance
encounter with skinny-shanked, pot-bellied Henry Nettles inclined me toward
accompanying him to Ft.
Johnson
A week
out of Independence
Two hours
down the trail Nettles hauled his horse to a stop. The hair on my neck
bristled. Even to my tenderfoot eyes, the pony grazing on the trail ahead was
an Indian horse. Small, spotted, and haltered with buffalo hide, it had a
bright blanket tied across its back and a vivid red hand painted on one rump. Rifle
in hand, Nettles reined to the right as Auslander continued up the trail,
leaving the left to me. My mouth went dry as we crept through belly-high grass.
My heart tumbled into my bowels when Nellie broke the pinto’s trail. Something
lay on the ground. I dismounted and crept forward. An Indian lay face down, his
head obscured by long, black hair. I judged him to be tall and slender, yet well-built.
Suddenly, someone shoved me roughly aside. I struggled to bring my rifle to
bear.
“Hold
it!” Hap snarled, kneeling beside the body. “I ain’t no red devil.”
“Damn,
Hap!” I gasped, indulging in a rare vulgarity. “Give a body some warning.”
“A man
gives warning in this country, he’s apt to meet his maker.” He turned the body
over, drawing a gasp from both of us. “This heathen’s still breathin’.”
The
Indian was young and comely. I would have thought him a beautiful woman, but his
manhood was scarcely concealed by a loincloth. The only other articles of
clothing were short, deerskin moccasins. A bloody bruise marred the right side
of his broad forehead.
“Hellfire
and damnation!” Nettles exclaimed as he joined us. “He alive?”
“Yep,”
Auslander replied, his piggish eyes sweeping the inert form. My examination was
little better. I was seized by the same emotion as when John first exposed himself
to me.
“Lordy! He’s
purty as a woman!” Nettles chortled.
Auslander’s
stubby fingers prodded the youth’s breast. One finger rested on a dark brown
aureole. “Help me get him on that pinto.”
“Ain’t ya
gonna scalp him?” Nettles asked as they bound the unconscious Indian and slung him
belly down on his pony. Auslander made no reply.
We
traveled perhaps another hour before a grove of trees in the distance signaled
water. Hap led the pinto to a shallow pool and shoved the Indian over the side.
He hit the water on his back and sat up without uttering a sound.
“Playin’
possum, you miserable whoreson! I oughta take your scalp right now!”
The
bronzed youth sitting in a foot of water held his tongue.
“He don’t
talk American, Hap,” Nettles opined.
Auslander
waded into the water and grabbed a handful of the Indian’s hair, placing his
knife to the scalp. “Ya unnerstand this?”
The young
man sat absolutely motionless. Overcoming his blood lust, Hap hauled his
prisoner onto the bank. The bound Indian fell against a tree, opening the bruised
cut on his forehead. I rushed forward and pulled him upright, feeling the
strength in the muscles beneath my hands as I worked to staunch the flow of
blood.
“How come
we ain’t killing him?” The longer Henry Nettles was around Hap Auslander, the
more offensive he became. Only a few hours back, he was concerned by the attack
on White Hair’s camp. Now he seemed anxious to kill one of the chief’s people.
“I aim to
take his crown, Henry. And I’m gonna make a traveling bag outa that pretty hide.
But I got plans for him first. Like you said, he’s looks womanly.”
“That I
did,” Nettles said. “A pretty woman was what I said. We gonna leap him, Hap?”
“I reckon
that’s the idea in my head. But I ain’t in no hurry.”
I looked
down at my patient. My hand still held a tattered rag against his forehead. My
leg touched his shoulder. “I gotta get that head wound to stop bleeding.”
“That you
do. I don’t want him bleeding all over me.”
Nettles
stepped in before things deteriorated further, declaring he wasn’t having a
cold cap tonight, Indians or no Indians. He wanted hot food even if it was the
death of him. The fire he laid cooked victuals but provided scant protection
from the elements.
I spread
my blankets on the far side of a little rise in the glen to put distance
between me and a probable rape. Wrapped in my blankets, I peered over the
hillock and recoiled. Auslander had laid the Indian directly on the other side;
I stared into his alert black eyes from a distance of less than two feet. Unsettled,
I lay back on my blankets. I don’t know how long I slept before a persistent
hiss woke me. Cautiously, I lifted my head. A stray shaft of moonlight
reflected in the Indian’s eyes.
“Help me,
and I will lie with you,” he whispered
My mouth
was open in shock when Auslander’s voice called out. “Whut’s goin’ on?” The
Indian immediately uttered something in his own tongue.
“He’s a
prayin’,” Nettles ventured.
Auslander
moved on his prisoner. There was the sound of a struggle, harsh blows on naked
flesh. The Indian began to chant.
“Miserable
bastard,” Hap cursed. “What’s he doing that for?”
Nettles
cackled. “That’s his death song, Hap. He’s telling you you’ll have ta kill him
‘fore you can fuck him.”
The
Indian’s chant faltered as Auslander struck him repeatedly. Without thinking, I
rose and rushed through the darkness, butting into the bully with a loud grunt.
Nettles intervened before the enraged man assaulted me.
“Damnation,
Hap. The kid was coming to help and tripped. Didn’t mean no harm. Let’s get
some sleep. You can cover the Injun later. Better in the daylight anyways.”
The
danger past for the moment, I covered our prisoner’s nearly naked body with one
of my own blankets and lay back on my bedding. The Indian had spoken in
English! He understood what was in store for him. That made him dangerous. I
should have told my companions but did not. This was different from John and
me. This was evil! Nonetheless, the handsome heathen’s words rattled around in
my head. Help me, and I will lie with you.
*****
What
happens when a young man’s sense of decency and fair play collides with his
carnal desires? And how did the young prisoner know what bait to cast? Let’s
see what happens next time.
Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would
like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from
readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact
information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr
The
following are buy links for CUT HAND:
And now my mantra: Keep
on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Until next time.
Mark
New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and
third Thursdays of each month.
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