Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

“Holy Jesus!” Webster exclaimed when he got to the top.

Paulson followed and went white, despite his leather-like tan.

Webster considered the parts of Jack that remained recognizable as human. “But how? The Indians would have had to grab Jack, throw him on a horse and ride over here… all without us seeing.”

“Then that’s what happened.” Grant saw little point in questioning the horsemanship of the Indians. Ever since the Spanish introduced the animals to North America, the Indians had taken advantage of their benefits, which changed their whole culture. Horses enabled Indians to trade with tribes hundreds of miles away, uproot entire camps and hunt with greater efficiency. Grant had seen cavalrymen ride their own horses to death trying to keep up with Indians who didn’t want to be kept up with. “We don’t need to worry about how they did it,” Grant said. “We need to worry about whether or not they’re still out there. We’ll stay here for the night. If any Indians are still around, they’ll have a hard time getting to us.”

“We should keep moving,” Breckenridge disagreed. “We’re just four men, and the Indians got bigger fish to fry with more blue coats coming in from the east and west. The ones that hit us are probably happy they got Jack and already hightailed it out of here.”

“You sure about that?” Grant asked. “What if they get a bee in their bonnet about us? We aren’t going to outride any Indians the shape we’re in.”

“If we stay, more might come,” Breckenridge argued.

“I’m with Breckenridge,” Webster chimed in. “You’ve seen the trails, Grant. Too many redskins around for my taste. We need to link up with the Seventh as soon as we can.”

“Who’s in charge here?” Grant reminded them.

“Jesus wept,” Webster shook his head. “What do you think, Paulson?”

Paulson stood with his back to the group, staring off into the distance. “I think you should stop taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“And what’ll you do if I don’t?” Webster challenged.

Paulson turned. “Ask you again.”

Webster grinned despite the tension.

Grant watched their easy camaraderie with irritation. He could never find his niche among his fellow soldiers, even though they were an eclectic bunch: book keepers, farm boys, dentists, blacksmiths, salesmen ruined by drink, ivory carvers, Bowery toughs, some out to escape women and some in the army to learn to read and write. Grant knew there had to be others like him, who joined up to get famous, but he never came across them in his travels. Grant had visions of single-handedly defeating a superior force, coming across a mother lode of gold while chasing Indians through mountain passes or rescuing the grateful daughters of homesteaders snatched by raiding parties. Something. Anything. Then he would ride the results to fortune and fame. Instead, all he got was riding here and riding there under the summer sun and winter sky. Plenty of Indians died, to be sure, but what was that worth? Even the market for scalps had dried up. Sadly, promotion had become the best option. Grant figured if he could achieve a high enough rank, maybe he could acquire the status to join a stage show as a trick shooter. Entertainment was the ticket these days.

“You want to know what I think,” Paulson said. “I think we’re worn out, and I think the horses are worn out. We’re in enemy territory, but we’re in a defensible position in enemy territory with the bulk of the Indians to the east and heading north by all signs. We have two days to link up with the Seventh at a location that’s a day’s ride away. I think we should take an hour or two to collect ourselves. Then we can reevaluate riding on at dusk.” He turned to Grant, his face inscrutable. “What do you think?”

Grant knew Paulson was finding a middle ground to keep the peace. Still, it wouldn’t do to weaken one’s authority by acknowledging it.

“We need to round up the horses,” Grant ordered. The animals had wandered a short distance away to graze on wild alfalfa. Grant knew if he sent Breckenridge and Webster to wrangle their mounts, they’d talk about him behind his back. “Paulson and Breckenridge, you got the duty. Webster and I will take care of Jack and keep a lookout.”

“Fair enough.” Paulson led Breckenridge down the rocks.

Grant set about tossing pieces of Jack over the side. The summit wouldn’t be so bad if they could get rid of the larger chunks. The blood would quickly dry up in the heat. Grant knew Webster watched him and measured him, so he showed no ill effects even as his stomach churned. He tried to think of the parts as nothing more than firewood. That helped a little. He pointed out a leg.

“You want to get that, Webster?”

“I ain’t touching it.”

“Afraid you’ll get kicked?”

The lines of Webster’s face grew taut as the indignation of having his manhood insulted outweighed his disgust. He picked up Jack’s leg and threw it over the side. He wiped his hands on the seat of his pants while he watched flies pursue the discarded limb.

“It looks like the back of a hospital tent up here,” Webster spat.

Grant found the comparison apt. Doctors loved their amputations. Amputations for frost-bite; amputations for gunshot wounds; amputations for fractures; and amputations for dislocations. Grant remembered one man getting shot in the hip during a skirmish. The company had to transport him one hundred miles back to civilization. In agony, the man begged to be killed the whole way, only to end up getting his wish when the surgeon, unsurprisingly, treated him with an amputation.

Webster’s next observation came out toneless and sudden. “Breckenridge is gone.”

Grant straightened up. “What are you talking about?”

Webster pointed at the grass below. There, Paulson — and nobody but Paulson — led the horses to the base of the stones.

“Where’s Breckenridge?” Grant yelled.

“Behind—” Paulson turned and stopped when he saw that he was alone. He drew his pistol and tried to look everywhere at once.

Grant’s bad feeling returned. “Get those horses squared away!” Without their mounts, their position would become even more precarious. Grant rushed down from the summit. The east end of the rock formation ended in a pincher shape. There, Grant waited for Paulson to lead the horses into this natural corral and secure their reins to outcroppings.

Webster joined them. “Breckenridge!” he called.

“Quiet!” Grant snapped. “Can’t you see the man’s gone?”

“If we wouldn’t have stopped, he wouldn’t be gone!” Webster glared, the line of his shoulders bull-like.

“Get down, both of you!” Paulson growled. “I’m going to fire into the grass. If anything pops up, you guys hit it. Ready?”

Grant and Webster gave grudging assent.

Paulson’s gunshots blasted across the prairie. The horses perked up at the noise but were too used to gunfire to panic. No Indians revealed themselves. The grass continued to sway. Cloud shadows chased each other across distant hills, and sweat dripped from the brows of the three men, the only precipitation the rocks had seen in sometime. The silence became as stifling as a muddy sheet. The Indians wouldn’t have to speak, Grant knew. Despite the many different tribes of the plains, all of them shared a common sign language. Plus, Grant heard tales of how much Indians valued silence anyway. If Cheyenne babies cried once their needs were met, the mothers would hang them on a bush, alone, until they cried themselves out. The babies quickly learned that excess noise accomplished nothing.

Webster shouted, “What are you waiting for, you chicken shits?” His eyes roved over the grass like drops of water across a hot skillet.