Chapter Nine

 

 

They moved fast along the track, closing up, J.B. right behind Ryan.

 

"Smell the black-powder smoke," he said. "Sound like muskets. And could be those Portuguese Mauser-Vergueiro rifles. Might be the second party of slavers."

 

Ryan nodded. They were jogging fast, raising the sweat so that it trickled down faces and necks, across chests and stomachs, down legs.

 

The sun was well sunk toward the western horizon, and the shadows grew longer.

 

The trail was climbing steeply. It was obvious from the noise of the firefight that it lay in a dip beyond the next rise, less than fifty paces ahead of them.

 

Ryan held up a hand, slowing to a walk, not wanting to burst over the crest of the small hill and find himself smack in the middle of the shooting.

 

He moved to the left side of the wide track, slipping the last few yards through low bushes covered with tiny yellow berries that burst as he brushed against them, filling the air with the scent of apples.

 

The scene unfolded in front of him as though he were looking down on a stage. But the players weren't actors and the spilled blood, crimson against the vivid green of the grass, was real.

 

It was obvious what had happened.

 

A group of six natives cowered behind a huge fallen tree near a small lake. They had been caught out in the open by the slaver's sneak attack, and three bodies lay stretched on the lush turf.

 

The natives had two rifles between them and one handblaster, but it was clear that they were running short of ammo. The shots were coming slower.

 

The slavers were directly below Ryan, their backs to him. There were eight of them, well concealed from the natives by a stack of felled timber. Most had single-shot muskets, though one was using an M-16, keeping up a steady fire against the natives.

 

"Just matter time," said Jak, at Ryan's side. "Nowhere to run."

 

Krysty touched Ryan's arm. "What do you think this time, lover?"

 

The one-eyed man reached and slid the Steyr SSG-70 off his back, bringing the polished walnut stock to his shoulder. He peered through the Starlite scope, using the powerful laser image enhancer, working the bolt action and levering a 7.62 mm round into the oiled breech.

 

"I think it's time to take a hand," he said.

 

The others drew their blasters, J.B. moving a few steps to the left of the others to give himself a clear field of fire with the Uzi.

 

Mildred held the Czech target pistol in her right hand, down at her side. "I'll take the pair on the extreme right," she said. "Leave the rest to y'all."

 

The slavers were fish in a barrel.

 

At less than forty yards' range, even Doc had a reasonable hope of doing damage with the ponderous Le Mat.

 

The execution lasted barely five seconds.

 

Mildred took her first man through the base of the skull, the second one just behind the left ear as he started to turn. Both were instant kills.

 

Ryan took out the man on the left with the first shot from the rifle, the big full-metal-jacket round smashing into his back, a little below the left shoulder. He levered in a second round and killed the skinniest of the slavers, who'd been quickest to react to the ambush, starting to run in a crouch to the right toward the thick cover of the forest. It wasn't a good idea to leave any survivors running free. The 7.62 mm slug hit him in the side of the throat, leaving a blood-spurting exit hole the other side of his neck the size of a fist, almost ripping his head off his shoulders.

 

The other four perished where they lay, their bodies twisting and jerking, fountaining scarlet blood under the impact of the lethal hail.

 

Ryan didn't need to call out for everyone to hold their fire. The stillness of death made it obvious enough.

 

The stink of the shooting faded as the wind carried it away, and the clearing below was quiet.

 

Ryan took a chance and stood, empty-handed. "We're friends. Anyone speak American?"

 

There was no answer from the cowering natives.

 

"The men who were shooting at you are all dead," Ryan called. "Danger's gone."

 

"You friends them?"

 

The voice was harsh and guttural, the accent difficult to understand. But it was definitely a kind of American.

 

"No. We chilled them to save you. Can we come down and talk to you?"

 

One of the natives stood, holding a bullet wound in his left forearm. "Come down kill?"

 

Ryan shook his head. "Course not, you stupe," he muttered under his breath, then he raised his voice. "No. We have killed your enemies. We will not kill you or hurt you."

 

"Come," the man said, beckoning to Ryan with his good hand. The other natives also stood, a woman running clumsily across the clearing and throwing herself onto one of the bodies of her people, weeping loudly.

 

"Let's go, friends," Ryan said.

 

 

 

THE NATIVE INDIANS WERE, understandably, still on the ragged edge of panic, all of them trembling and almost all of them gray with shock.

 

They were obviously the same tribe as the others that the companions had seen earlier, with the same oiled hair, tattoos and heavy golden earrings.

 

Mildred tore a strip off the sleeve of one of the dead slavers and offered to bandage the arm of the wounded native. But he backed away, shaking his head.

 

"I mean to help you," she said briskly. "Now just stand still and I'll bandage it. Clean wound. Looks like it was a musket ball, and it's gone clean on through."

 

Jak had paused on the hillside to reload his Python and was the last of the group to walk into the clearing, picking his way past the puddles of blood.

 

His appearance had a startling effect.

 

The leader of the group, who'd been hurriedly backing away from Mildred, dropped to his knees, mouth open, then fell facedown in the grass.

 

Each of the others, as they saw the teenager, followed suit and prostrated themselves.

 

"What fuck they do?" Jak said crossly. "Stupes!"

 

The Indians were chanting, repeating a single word over and over again, but it was in a foreign tongue and made no sense at all to Ryan. He turned to J.B., who'd just finished reloading the 20-round Uzi. "How do we stop them? I don't want to stay here for long, just in case Bivar and his men heard the firefight and come running to see what's happened."

 

"Try," Jak said, stepping forward and stamping his foot, gaining the attention of the natives. He gestured to them with his hand. "Get up. Now."

 

They all stared at him, hesitating.

 

"Try again," Krysty suggested.

 

"Get up," the teenager repeated, lifting a hand to flick a few strands of the snow-white hair from over his red eyes. "Come on. Get up, now."

 

Slowly, not looking at Ryan or the others, the natives rose to their feet.

 

"What is this?" Ryan asked. "You all understand me, and you can speak American. What is it about Jak?" He pointed to the young man. "Why's he special?"

 

The wounded man, blood still trickling from his fingers, muttered something, repeating it at Ryan's insistence. "He is like a god in old stories. Back in oldest times, before time of black skies and air that choked."

 

"A god!" Dean exclaimed, gurgling with laughter. "That's a hot pipe, Jak. Can you make miracles like gods do? Turn water into whiskey?"

 

"Shut up," Ryan snapped. "You might think it's funny, son, but these people don't."

 

"I suspect that it must be the color of our young friend's hair," Doc offered.

 

Mildred nodded. "If these people have roots back to the Aztecs or Mayas or Incas, then there could easily be some myth of a stranger with hair like dazzling snow and eyes like rubies, come to lead them to a better world. That kind of thing. It's a common thread in legends of many civilizations."

 

"Cargo cults of the Pacific," Doc said runically. "There are peoples on obscure islands who once, in wartime, had airplanes bring supplies and the specious trappings of civilization. Then wars ended and the planes went away. These poor superstitious natives built model planes of branches to try to lure the real thing back and give them prosperity once more."

 

"Why is Jak special?" Ryan asked, tapping the teenager on the shoulder.

 

For a crazed moment he thought that the stocky native was going to take a swing at him, but the man checked his movement. "Can't tell. Tell breaks circle. But he is the waited one. Can't tell you more."

 

Mildred stepped forward again, still holding the strip of torn cotton. "Jak?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Make him stand still while I bandage that bullet wound. Stop the bleeding."

 

The albino teenager nodded. "Sure."

 

He turned to the native. "Stand still and she puts on bandage on arm. Make better."

 

The man shrank from the advancing woman, but his nerve held and he finally stood still for the bandaging, wincing as though Mildred were applying a poultice of pure acid.

 

"Ask him where his village is, Jak. Tell him we'd like to visit and mebbe stay a night or two. Get some food." Ryan glanced at the sky. "Soon be dusk."

 

"You ask. Speaks all right."

 

Krysty smiled. "You even sound like they do, Jak. Way you talk, sort of clipped and What's the word, Doc?"

 

"Elliptical. Meaning that certain words are missing from the dear boy's sentences."

 

Ryan sighed. "Fireblast! Can we get this done? Dark's not far off. If they'll house us for a while, we need to know. Just ask them, Jak."

 

The teenager looked at the natives. "Need shelter and food. Can we come back your village?"

 

"All of them?" The man with the bandaged arm didn't seem enthusiastic at the idea of bringing seven strangers to his village. "Just you."

 

Jak shook his head. "No. We are all friends."

 

"They are friends of you?" He sounded disbelieving. "You do not have friends. Only those who" He struggled for a word. "Who kneel to you."

 

Jak shook his head, making his hair froth out like a blizzard. "No! Fucking listen me. These my friends. You take us your village. Find houses for us. Food."

 

"Just you," the man repeated stubbornly.

 

"No, for If you think I'm powerful, then best do what I say."

 

The native turned to his companions, drawing them close, speaking to them quickly and quietly in the strange foreign language.

 

"If they decide against us, then I reckon we might do well to go back to the gateway," Ryan said. "Take a chance on running into Rodrigo Bivar and his gang."

 

But the native preempted him. Facing Jak, he bowed his head. "You and friends welcome us village."