Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

Laughter. Men were standing around, battered tin plates in hand. The scene was still vague, tremulous, not yet fully formed.

I can’t wait to get to Dodge and strip off this goddamned dust.

Use this to clean out what’s in your throat, Jim.

The late afternoon sun refracted through a bottle and there was the sloshing of drink. There was a clank, the sound of an iron lid settling. A gust of wind swept up a skein of dust, settled back down. A piece of wood popped in the fire.

When we get to Dodge I’ll introduce you to a lady who can clean the dust off another part.

More laughter.

Whiskey over here, amigo.

What’s this you’ve been feeding us, Hoss, boiled sheepshit?

No tickee no washee, Crowe.

Whiskey over here, amigo.

Gradually, the scene crystallized. Men were standing around a fire at the base of a mound. They were wearing greasy cowboy hats, frayed bandannas, ragged shirts, and pants that looked so stiff from dirt and grease they almost crackled as they walked. All had scraggly beards.

The hill was a dusty island in the sea of grass. Below, the land swept away, open and free. The thick scrub that then covered the base of the mounds cast long shadows. The wind was picking up, rippling the grass in restless, random waves. The clean scent of wildflowers drifted on the air, mingling the sweet smell of cottonwood smoke, simmering beans, unwashed humanity. In the lee of one mound the men had unrolled their bedrolls and upended their saddles, using the sheepskin linings as headrests. There were a couple of pitched pole tents, badly rotted. Beyond, partway down the hill, stood one of the pickets, alert, carrying a rifle. Another picket was on the far side.

As the wind picked up, more clouds of dust swirled upward.

Chuck’s ready.

A man with a narrow face, narrow eyes, and a scar across his chin stood lazily and shook out his legs, causing his spurs to jingle. Harry Beaumont, the leader. You, Sink, get Web and go relieve the pickets. You eat later.

But last time—

Any more out of you, Sink, and I’ll fish the crik with your balls.

There was some muffled laughter.

Remember back at Two Forks, that Lo with the giant balls? The javelina sure did fight over those, remember?

More laughter.

Musta had some kind of disease.

They’re all diseased.

You didn’t worry ’bout that when you went for the squaws, Jim.

Mind shutting the hell up while I eat my chuck?

From one side, a man began to sing in a fine low voice:

Feet in the stirrups and seat in the saddle,

I hung and I rattled with them long-horn cattle,

Last night I was on guard and the leader broke ranks,

I hit my horse down the shoulders, I spurred him in the flanks,

The wind commenced to blow, the rain began to fall,

Hit looked, by grab, like we was going to lose ’em all.

The two pickets came back and propped their rifles on their saddles, then came over with their plates, shaking the rising dust from their shirts and leggings. The cook ladled the beans and stew meat and then went and sat cross-legged in the dirt.

Damn you, Hoss, this stew is half dirt!

Aids the digestion.

Whiskey over here, amigo.

A broad sweep of prairie rippled now with the wind. The wind could be seen as it approached, pressing the grass down, exposing its paler side, a wave of lighter green. It struck the bottom of the mounds, picking up dust, swirling it up into a curtain. The sun, sitting on the horizon, dimmed abruptly.

There was a stasis, a suspended moment, and then the sudden pounding of hooves.

What the hell?

The horses, something’s spooked the horses.

Those ain’t ours.

Cheyenne!

The guns get your guns get the guns.

Instant chaos. The cloud of dust, rising higher, parted and a white horse, painted with blood-red handprints, appeared, followed by another and another. A cry arose. The stream of horses divided, one on either side of the scrambling men: horses that, quite literally, had appeared out of nowhere.

Aieeeeeeeeeee—!

A sudden hissing in the air. The arrows came from two directions, followed by a tattoo of thuds. Screams, groans, the rattle of spurs, the sound of bodies hitting the ground.

The dust had now rolled over them, enveloping them in a fog through which could be dimly glimpsed the shapes of men running, falling, spinning. There was a shot, then another, disorganized. A horse fell heavily against the ground. A vague figure fired point-blank into the head of the Indian atop it, sending up a small cloud of dark matter.

The dust rose and fell in cascading sheets; the wind moaned and muttered; the wounded screamed and choked. The sound of beating hooves faded, stopped momentarily, then resumed.

They’re coming back.

Back, they’re turning back, get ready men.

The ghostly shapes of the riders appeared again, a second dividing stream.

Aieeeee-yip-yip-yip-aieeeee!

Now there was a coordinated volley of shots from those still alive, kneeling on the exposed ground, taking careful aim. Another terrible twanging and hissing of death on the air, the sound of a hundred arrows thudding into dirt and bodies, more falling horses, the crash and clink of bridle and spur, men clawing at their clothes, more firing. A man suddenly appeared out of the dimness, staggering, gargling, trying to pull an arrow from his mouth; another spun around and around with four arrows in his chest; then, abruptly, three more emerged like magic from his back. A horse, standing absolutely still, head hanging, its guts in a steaming pile beneath.

Another pass, a turn, then another. The smell of blood rose, rivers of it running from the dead horses and men.

A fifth pass. Now only sporadic shots, quickly silenced by the hiss of arrows. A field in which groaning, wailing, writhing men moved feebly between inert forms. This time the Indians reined in their horses, dismounted, and began walking casually among the wounded, knives out. They became dark forms, bending over dark shapes on the ground. Shrieks, begging, weeping; the wet sound of scalps being ripped away; and then silence.

A man, lying on the ground, faking death, was dragged to his feet. His pleading cut through the dust and the dying moans: Harry Beaumont. The dark forms of the Indians clustered about him, silent, wraithlike, unhurried. The pleading rose in pitch, incomprehensible. He was grasped firmly, his head pulled back. A flash of a steel knife against the dust; a scream. A piece of flesh tossed aside. The Indians worked on the man’s head, arms making short sharp movements as if carving a piece of wood; the screams became hysterical, choked. More red pieces discarded. Another wet ripping sound, more protracted than the others. Another scream. Two final movements, two more pieces dropping to the ground. Another, shorter scream.

And then, with ropes and poles hooked to their saddles, the Indians were dragging their dead horses away into the curtains of dust, heaping their dead warriors on travois and dragging them away as well. In less than a minute, they had disappeared completely into the dust from which they came.

Only one man was left, staggering through the dust, crying. Harry Beaumont. He dropped to his knees at the center of the mounds. He had no face left: no nose, lips, ears, or scalp. Just an oval of raw, red meat where his features had once been.

Rounded.

He rocked on his knees, head drooping, the blood pooling around his ruined jaws and chin and dripping into the ground. A dark hole opened in the bloody oval and a shriek arose: