Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

He stayed that way until the animal shuddered and then shook him off. A minute, perhaps two, and the horse was up and fine and Crowley was looking at him with a calm that was even worse than the man’s damnable smile.

Something needed to be done about what was happening inside Slate’s body and his soul. He had no idea what that something might be, but he believed with every fiber of his being that the answers were somewhere near him, somewhere in this place. Just then he saw the palest man he had ever seen. Deathly white, actually. An Indian, that was obvious, but there was nothing natural about his hue or his demeanor. The man walked past him in the middle of a crowd, hunched over to the point where he looked easily a foot shorter than he should have. He had a shawl drawn over his head and if Slate hadn’t felt that something was wrong, he’d likely have dismissed the shape as an old squaw.

The face that peered from under that shawl was drawn and ancient, thin and angular. The eyes were hidden in shadow, but he could feel them scrutinizing him just the same. The man stood up quickly and let the old cloth fall from his head and his shoulders, dropping it to the ground. Around them, most of the people paid no mind, but every Indian backed away as surely as if they’d been hit with boiling water. A few of them screamed, to boot.

When he smiled, it was worse than Crowley’s. He spoke words that were not English. Slate should not have been able to understand them, but he did.

The old man said, “I know you.”

Slate shook his head. He spoke in English but knew the man understood every word. “I have never met you before. I’d remember you.”

“You will know me better soon.”

It was at that moment the Cavalry riders broke through the crowd. Slate had been so busy looking at the pale man that he’d lost track of everything else. The soldiers came on horses trained to bull their way through crowds. One of them had an old Indian woman by the wrist and was dragging her along beside him. Another had rope around the wrists of three younger women, also Indians, who were crying and trying to keep up with the rider and his horse.

Slate felt that other presence slither through his mind, but did not take the time to pay it any attention. He had other concerns. He was not fond of men who mishandled women. As a half-breed himself, he didn’t much care what race they were.

He rode his horse four paces toward the first of the riders and allowed himself a very small grin of satisfaction when the horse reared up and threw the rider. The horse didn’t like Slate’s mount. Most animals didn't. As he rode forward a little more the rest of the horses grew skittish and backed up, despite their riders’ urgings. The first of the soldiers looked up from where he’d landed on his tail end and glowered at Slate. Slate looked back down and kept his face deliberately expressionless.

“Watch where you’re going, you damn fool,” the soldier said. The old woman backed into the crowd as the soldier stood. Slate supposed he should have known the man’s rank in the Cavalry, but he did not. He had never much cared for the soldiers he’d met and the feeling had always been mutual.

“I did nothing, sir, but continue on my way.”

The man had risen to his feet and was still scowling, at least until he saw Slate’s face a little better. As he shaved himself when he needed and looked at the changes in his features with a sick fascination, he knew what the man saw and that it was not particularly pretty.

“Well you’ve interfered in a military operation!”

“Wrangling squaws is a soldier’s business these days?” Slate kept his voice as calm and soft as ever. Oh, he’d been riding with Crowley far too long. “I’d have thought you might actually try to find a few braves to fight instead of simply stealing their women.”

“Get off of that horse, you bastard. You’ll be coming with us.”

Slate looked at him for a long moment and rested his hand on the grip of his rifle. “As I am neither a squaw nor a brave, I believe I will stay exactly where I am.”

In the distance the other cavalrymen had managed to calm their horses — while successfully moving several feet back — and were carefully watching what happened. Apparently the man who dragged old women around was in charge.

“That’s a direct order!” He was furious, the soldier, but he was not very wise. He came toward Slate with one hand holding to the butt of his service revolver.

Slate spoke softly, his expression remained calm. “I am not now, nor have I in the past, been a part of your army, sir. I do not answer to you.”

“Are you a Confederate, boy? Is that the problem here?”

The man was likely a few years younger than he was. Not that it much mattered.

“In fact, sir, I was on the side of the North in the conflict, though I was not a soldier. I agreed with the notion that all men are created equal. I should think that would include red men, would it not?”

“What?” The soldier scowled and came closer still. Slate suspected he intended to sneak up and attack. He lacked in subtlety.

Slate sighed. “I am not a Confederate. The war is over, by the by. I am a gentleman. You might have run across a few in your journeys, though I fear it is just as likely you’ve never run across anything but gutter trash.”

That seemed to be enough for the soldier. He stepped forward with every intention of pulling Slate off of his horse. His gloved hands grabbed at the reins of the horse and tried to lead it roughly away.

The horse did not move.

“You’d do well to leave my mount be, sir. He doesn’t much like you.”

“Piss on your goddamned horse!”

Slate sighed and climbed down from the saddle. The great grey beast looked at him with only the mildest interest. Rather than bother with the horse Slate took hold of the cavalryman’s ear and pulled savagely. The man screamed as cartilage snapped. While he was howling in pain, Slate punched him across the jaw and broke bones.

The next of the soldiers was already drawing his firearm.

Slate looked at the man and did the same. “Don’t. It won’t go well for you.”

The man did.

It did not go well.

Stinky came back a while later. His actual name was Owen Napier, and he was a man without much purpose in his own estimation. “I come from a family of lawyers. They make a good living and I am fortunate enough to share in that, but I don’t much like the law. Thought I might come this way and find something more interesting to do with my time.”

“So you decided to try mining?” Crowley considered shaking his head at the notion because Owen-the-less-stinky didn’t strike him as a very physical man.

“Lord, no!” Napier shook his head hard enough to rock his jowly face. “I figure if anything I might report on what happens here. Send articles back to a friend of mine in New York.”

“Not a lot of money in that, is there?”

“I have a family. They’ll keep me fed.” He patted his belly. “As you can see that’s not much of a consideration for me. Besides, they’re glad to have me out here. I can’t get in the way and I might have useful information for them, too.” For a man who was carefully not admitting to being sent away from the family as an embarrassment, Napier seemed cheerful enough. When he patted his belly it also showed the bulge in his vest where he was smart enough to hide a small two-shot Wesson. It only took one bullet to kill a man if you were fast enough.

“So where are you from, Mister Crowley? I can’t quite place your accent.”

Crowley looked at his new acquaintance and smiled. “Here and there.” Before Napier could ask any more questions, Crowley turned the tables. “What is it you have against Indians?”