Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

He had every intention of brushing the nonsensical claim aside, but before he could the man he’d observed pouring shots of whiskey spoke up. “Saw him myself. He’s a little shorter, a lot thinner, and looks like he’s an Indian, but his skin is just as pale.”

“Nonsense.” Folsom shook his head. “Corporal Bridges, kindly put that man in irons.” He pointed toward the gaunt man.

Bridges nodded and took a step forward. The corporal was a burly man, large and heavyset and capable with his hands. He’d knocked several men larger than him down a few sizes in his time and he would likely do so again.

The smiling man shook his head and blocked Bridges. “Let’s not make a mistake here, gentlemen. My friend and I are perfectly willing to leave town right now and end this without any additional troubles.”

“Are you deaf, sir?” Folsom’s voice was as harsh as a whip crack when he spoke. “I have dead soldiers on my hands!”

“Your soldiers died trying to shoot me down.” The gaunt man’s voice remained as calm as ever, but the expression on his face belied his tone. “They were a mite bit offended, seeing as I stopped them from taking a few squaws to have their way with.”

Folsom nearly balked at that. Was that guilt in his chest? He tried to tell himself that it was not, but he also remembered his sister and the scandals she’d been involved in and that feeling bloomed inside him. With an effort he crushed the emotion down. “It is our duty to curtail the growing Indian problems in this area. And in addition to confessing to killing my men, you’ve just confessed to interfering with that duty.” He looked away from the gaunt man and barked at the corporal, “Bridges! Lock that man in irons!”

Bridges nodded and started forward. Before he could take two steps, the smiling man moved forward and struck him a solid blow that dropped the larger man to the ground.

“That’s enough of this!” Folsom grabbed at the pistol strapped to his hip.

By the time he’d drawn, several of the soldiers with him were doing the same, and the two men he was facing had both managed to draw as well.

The smiling man had two Peacemakers. One of the large-bore barrels was aimed at Folsom. The other was pointed at Song, who was crouching slightly and looked like he might well enjoy taking a bite out of the gunslinger.

The albino aimed a heavy shotgun at the whole lot of them. He’d swept the damned thing from under his coat with ease, and was looking hard at Folsom.

“Anyone pulling a trigger might well wish they’d reconsidered, gentlemen.” A round-bellied man walked forward. His voice shook, but he had a pleasant enough smile on his round face. “Might I suggest we put weapons down and come to an understanding before anyone else is killed?”

Folsom didn’t like him. He spoke like a lawyer. Still, he offered a chance to the captain not to get his head blown off by two different men. Outside of the tent several of his men let out bellows of anger and shock. The ground trembled lightly and while he feared taking his eyes off the two men aiming at him, he risked a look around to the entrance of the tent.

“Would someone kindly tell me what the hell is going on out there?”

Private Bronson called out loud and clear from the other side of the tent flap, “Captain! We got injuns coming our way! A lot of injuns!”

The smiling man laughed again. It was a humorless, bitter sound.

There was a point where no more could be tolerated. That point had come a long time ago as far as Alchesay was concerned. His parents had been murdered and scalped when he was a boy. His wife had been taken only a few years ago. His family had been attacked and slaughtered again and again over the years, first by Mexicans and now by the round eyes. Enough.

Several of the tribal elders wanted peace, but that time was past. They came into the area and looked for silver, and when they found it, they started digging. Most of the Dilze’he were already stuck in this desert land, forced here by the white man, and now they were being told to move again.

And maybe they would have. Maybe even Alchesay would have accepted this — though he was not truly sure if he would or not — but now these fools had come and dragged several women from the town. They thought the women did not understand their words, but they were wrong. His sister was among them and she’d heard what the men intended to do.

And according to her, a Skinwalker had saved them.

Whatever the case, it had only taken the word of his sister to send him toward the town, and because many of the men were just as tired of being pushed and pushed, they came with him.

There would be no more of their women raped or scalped by the white men.

The men in blue uniforms were gathered in one area when Alchesay charged into town with his men. In numbers they looked to be stronger, but they were all busy looking at one tent and before they were aware, Alchesay and his men were in range.

The first rifle shots cracked through the air before the soldiers did much more than look around with open mouths. All around the area people of all colors were running, wisely clearing away from the charging horsemen. Four of the bluecoats fell before any of them considered attacking in return. Two of their horses fell too, shot by who knew. Men and horses alike screamed.

And then the soldiers turned and grabbed for their weapons.

Alchesay had planned for this. Instead of staying at a long range, he and his men charged their horses into the enemy. Flesh fell before the hooves of his mount. Men screamed and fell, and the horse stumbled but kept its footing. He was too close to shoot, so he swung his rifle and hit whatever he could with the butt of the weapon. Someone fired from nearby and a bullet cut past his head. He had no time to consider that. Instead he hit another bluecoat and felt bone break.

There were screams, of course. And then there were battle cries. He called out for his men and they called out as well. The cavalry recoiled as if hit by boiling water.

He charged forward.

The tent was closer now. And the time was finally here. He would kill them all, every last one of the soldiers. They would all pay for what they had done, what they had planned to do. There would be no mercy.

Unfortunately, the men in the tent felt the same away.

There were more of the soldiers than he’d expected. They came from inside the large tent and started shooting and they were far enough away that they could still aim and shoot and kill.

Beside him Mangas stopped his battle cry when a bullet tore his skull away. He fell from his horse and into the tide of men being crushed, and that was the last Alchesay saw of his lifelong friend.

The bluecoats kept coming, and Alchesay jammed his heels into the horse’s flanks and charged forward into the crush of soldiers.

And men screamed.

And men died.

And Alchesay roared his challenge for all of them. His skin felt hot. His bones were blades of ice. His heart thundered in his chest and his eyes shook in his skull.

And then the change came, and Alchesay roared his challenge a second time as his teeth grew and his body twisted into a new form.

Halfway across the camp he’d crouched in the dirt and made markings with one pale finger. His other hand had poured colored sand into the markings and filled them in.

The Navajo called his kind Skinwalkers. It was as good a name as any, but he knew better. There was more to them than just changing shapes. Most of his kind were gone now. They tended to kill each other off. It was not something they could, or wanted to, control. Like the weather or the stars, it was simply what was supposed to be. They felt a dislike for each other that could seldom be set aside for long. The one he’d seen earlier was a child, barely born into the world and likely knew nothing of himself.