James Axler - Deathlands 006 - Pony Soldier

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Dland6a

A lone mutie rushed toward them, lashing out with the jagged blade of his

knife.

Jak spun like a dervish, trying to dodge the attack, but the creature had the

advantage of surprise. The crude knife slashed upward, and Ryan, a little to one

side, saw blood spurt from the boy's arm.

Krysty stood by the open door of the gateway, and the mutie's eyes were drawn to

the dazzling crimson of her hair. It dived toward the girl, but she was too quick,

sidestepping neatly. The creature, shrieking its hatred, stumbled on the threshold

and fell onto the glowing metal plates of the chamber.

"You're dead," Ryan snarled, starting forward with his panga raised.

"No!" Doc shouted, grabbing Ryan by the back of his coat and dragging him out

of the entrance. "It's set on chron."

The lights danced faster and faster, strobing. The walls were vibrating steadily,

and more than one of the six wondered if they were in any danger.

The scream that erupted from the gateway chamber was a tearing cry of anguish,

so piercing that it felt as if it were scraping the inside of their skulls. The shriek

bubbled for a moment, became louder and harsher. Until it suddenly… stopped.

The chron jump was a killer.

A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM WORLDWIDE

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON • PARIS • AMSTERDAM -

STOCKHOLM • HAMBURG • ATHENS • MILAN • TOKYO • SYDNEY

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This is for Dave Thomas, who is both my best and my oldest friend. A whole

quarter century and it doesn't seem a day too much. This is with my hope that he

eventually finds the pot of gold at rainbow's end.

First edition May 1988 ISBN 0-373-62506-

of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or

other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography,

photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is

forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225

Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the

author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or

names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown

to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

® are Trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office

and in other countries.

Printed in U. S. A.

The frontier is always with us, just a little beyond tomorrow's dawn.

—J. K. Lobkowitz 1824-

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Dland6a

Prologue

THE LAND WAS A SHIMMERING bronze oven. The noonday sun sailed

through a clear sky, etching shad-ows across the desert, edges as sharp as a razor

cut. A lone hawk circled on a thermal, eyes searching the barren wastes below for

any sign of life. It had seen the clumsy movements of men an hour ago, but they

were of no interest. Now the bird's attention focused on a flicker of movement

near the base of one of the giant saguaros that sentineled the red-gold earth.

It was a diminutive Gila monster, barely six inches long. The coral-and-black

patterns dappled its stubby body as it moved slowly, legs splayed, head raised as

it watched for any potential enemy.

The man beside the cactus flapped a hand at the creature, which hissed angrily

and spit venomously in his direction. When the hand was again raised

men-acingly the lizard scuttled down a narrow arroyo to-ward the east, its tail

snaking a peculiar pattern in the dust.

The man hawked, gobbing a ball of orange spittle to his left. He was partly in the

shadow of the cactus, but the sun was scorching through his thin cotton breeches.

He shuffled his feet in the soft leather moc-casins. His thick black hair was

greased and tied back in a bandanna of patterned cloth. His face was broad and

flat, the eyes brown slits that stared out across the floor of the canyon toward the

winding trail a hundred yards off. He wore a loose shirt in pale blue cotton,

tucked into a wide leather belt. A hunting knife in a sheath of tanned deerskin was

on the left hip. The middle finger of the right hand was missing, and the finger

next to it carried a heavy ring of hand-tooled silver, which held a chunk of raw

turquoise in a rough claw setting.

The man sighed, rolling his head around to ease the neck muscles. He'd been

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waiting for nearly three hours, ready for someone to come riding along the trail.

Just to his right there was a long sliver of petri-fied wood, its heart rich with

purple and red shards of rock. The bones of Yietso, the great giant of the leg-ends

of the Navaho. At the thought of the old enemy the man tried to spit again, but the

heat had dried his mouth.

Nobody had seen any Navaho in the canyons for more years than the fingers on

ten hands. This land belonged to "the people." He was eighteen years old and

fiercely proud of his warrior heritage, proud of being a fighting man of the

Mescalero Apaches.

His gun lay beside him, cocked so that the flat click wouldn't betray him to an

enemy. It was a stolen ri-fle, a battered Sharps .50-caliber buffalo gun, its butt

patterned with hammered brass tacks in the shapes of the moon and stars.

The name of the young Indian was Hears Little Sees Far, references to his

deafness, caused by a misfired cartridge in that same gun, and his keen eyesight.

There was a small piece of jerky in the pouch at his belt, and he absently chewed

at a strip of it. By lying still he was conserving his bodily fluids, holding off from

needing water. His pony was tethered in a box canyon three miles east, and there

was a metal can-teen tied to the blanket. It was covered in canvas and stamped

with the letters U.S. and the number 7 on its side.

A half hour drifted soundlessly by. The hawk gave up watching the skittering

lizard, fearing the close-ness of the hiding man. It angled its wings and sailed off

southward, across the serrated land. There might be better pickings in the steep-

sided valley where the river ran, even at the height of the New Mexico sum-mer.

Hears Little Sees Far kept his breathing steady, conserving his energy. The word

around the wickiups of his tribe was that a lone man drove his wagon along this

trail once every seven days. The white man car-ried liquor on his wagon.

Sometimes he would even have a white woman with him. The Mescalero youth

had never had a white woman before, and his loins surged at the thought. His

hand crept out and ca-ressed the narrow trigger of the old buffalo rifle at his side.

"It will be good," he muttered to himself.

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HE SAW THE DUST CLOUD rising in sinuous curves through the hot, windless

air of the afternoon, a pale gray spiral moving toward him. As good as his sight

was, the young man couldn't yet make out what was at the center of the cloud.

The dust soared higher, and he could make out a pair of ponderous oxen drawing

a white-topped wagon. It was the one.

Moving with an infinite caution, the Apache drew the Sharps to him and cradled

his face against the warm metal, squinting one-eyed along the sights. He drew a

careful bead on the nearer of the pair of oxen, his finger settling on the trigger.

Something struck him. A smashing blow in the center of his spine, a hand's span

above the leather belt. It jerked his whole body, the gun dropping from his

nerveless fingers. His head was thrown back in shock, eyes staring blindly into

the screaming light of the sun. His legs kicked uncontrollably, and he felt warmth

around his thighs where he'd fouled himself. Vaguely, in the far-off distance, the

young warrior's ears caught the rumble of a shot being fired, the sound echoing

off the cliffs on the farther side of the wide valley.

"Good shot, trooper," said the tall, lean man on the ridge behind the dying Indian.

"Thank you, General," the soldier replied, rising from his crouched position, the

smoking Springfield .45 carbine in his gloved right hand. It was the reli-able 1873

model.

"Looks like his back's broke. Best go and finish the bastard off."

"Yes, sir." The trooper saluted and walked lei-surely down the slope, drawing the

Colt Navy from his belt. The rest of the troop sat on their horses, waiting quietly.

All were dressed in the dusty blue uniforms of the Seventh Cavalry.

Their leader brushed at the orange dirt on his yel-low-striped breeches with the

back of his hand. He was a little above average height and as skinny as a lath.

Everything about him was thin and tight: narrow eyes, slitted against the New

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Dland6aAlonemutierushedtowardthem,lashingoutwiththejaggedbladeofhi\sknife.Jakspunlikeadervish,tryingtododgetheattack,butthecreatureha\dtheadvantageofsurprise.Thecrudeknifeslashedupward,andRyan,alittl\etooneside,sawbloodspurtfromtheboy'sarm.Krystystoodbytheopendoorofthegateway,andthemutie'seyeswere\d...

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James Axler - Deathlands 006 - Pony Soldier

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