Robert Adams - The Witch Goddess

“Now all them mens, they got away fum us, but we got us thishere woman, the Ahrmnee, and sincet she ’uz a-carryin’ a firestick, seems likely she’d know how fer to put the fire back in it. Now, don’t it, Strong Tom?”

Aware deep-down that the smarter Long Willy was deviously arguing him down, and not for the first time, the powerful but slow-witted lieutenant half-whined, “But, by Plooshuhn’s hairy balls, Long Willy, we don’ aim fer to kill the Ahrmnee cunt, jes’ fuck ‘er a few times. Dammit, you did!”

Long Willy, however, just nodded, “I did fuck ‘er, Strong Tom, and that’s how I knows how weak she be. Whoever clubbed the bitch dang near busted opened her haid… and if I thought fer one minute it ’uz thet dim-witted Kevin and Joe-Bob almos’ kilt a young, purty Ahrmnee woman, whut had her a firestick, I’d be a-chawin’ their livers for breakfas’. “But, thet-all aside, she ’uz too damn weak to even fight me eny, Strong Tom, and you done seed your own sef the way them Ahrmnee gels is fer the firs’ few weeks we has ‘era. So, weak as she be and all, I’m afeared you and eight ‘r nine othuhs gits to polin’ ‘er all night, way you does,-all she gonna be good fer come mornin’s stewmeat. Then , who gonna tell us, show us how you puts the fire back in thishere?” He waved the firestick once more.

Seeing Strong Tom take a deep breath preparatory to more words, Long Willy forestalled him. “Strong Tom, I ain’ sayin’ you and the othuh bullies cain’ nevuh fuck ‘er, I’m jes’ sayin’ don’ fuck ‘er now , not till she’s done got bettuh and, maybe, done showed me how fer to put the fire back in the firesticks. Cain’ you git thet th’ough your thick haid?”

It was a faux pas of the first order to a man trying to avert violence in the camp, and Long Willy would never have been guilty of it had he not been tired, concerned for the safety of the captive and the precious secrets her mind held, and more peeved than usual at the stubborn Strong Tom. The subleader was a mountain of rolling muscles and a proven killer, but only his physical strength had elevated him to and retained him in the ranks of Long Willy’s bullies. He knew that his wits were not as quick as most men’s… and he had been known to kill or maim bunch members who made even the most lighthearted or innocuous reference to that lamentable fact. The big man’s flush became lividity. Snarling, he hurled his bulk at his seated tormentor. But when he crashed into the chair, Long Willy was no longer in it. Before Strong Tom could even think of arising from the splintered wreck on which he lay, his leader had twice clubbed his pate with the rifle butt, swinging the weapon by the barrel, like a mace.

And that ended the evening’s council and discourse; the other bullies and the common Ganiks wandered off to their various cabins, huts or shelters, leaving the recumbent Strong Tom where he lay. If dawn showed him to be dead, they would all have fresh meat for breakfast.

With the rising of the sun, Corbett and his men, all laden with filled waterskins, bypassed the stinking mess left by a night-long feast of scavengers at the mouth of the gap. They rode ponies up the eastern hill to a low point in the wall of the gap, then climbed down to the floor of the defile after lowering gear and water with ropes.

The horse-guarding detail was glad to see them, to flop down and get a little sleep after a long, noisy night. Their shouts and other noises they made had driven most of the wild beasts back to the mounds of corpses. The only animals that they had been forced to expend bullets on were a skinny bear and a huge mountain boar, which later gave all of the men a satisfying breakfast of grilled pork.

But there could be no thought of camping at the site of the battle. For one thing, the stench of so much putrefying man-flesh was already unbearable, despite the chill of the preceding night, and was increasing geometrically as the rising sun warmed the area. Also, Corbett was almost frantic that the smaller party, up ahead, would be caught and killed—or, even worse, captured alive—by the thirty or forty mounted Ganiks now surely in pursuit of them.

When all the men were stuffed with greasy pork—the fat most welcome after many days of game and pony—Corbett had each man empty out his cartridge pouches to find that among twenty-two riflemen there were only two hundred and forty-six rounds. Grimly, he allowed two five-round clips to each man, including himself, with a third clip to each of the four best sharpshooters. The pistols were at least a little better supplied. Only he, Cash and six others of this party bore them, and the ammo supply for them was large enough to give each of them enough to fill four seven-round magazines, after which he and Corporal Cash each took six of the remaining rounds.

All men who had, during the previous day’s battle, proved adept at casting darts he ordered to garner a supply of the missiles from the large stock available. Although crudely tipped and most primitive in appearance, the stubby javelins could be deadly at close range, cast by knowing hands, as mutely attested by his two battle casualties, both slain by Ganik darts.

With the mounts watered and saddled, Corbett and his force set off in the wake of Gumpner and his party, the officer setting as fast a pace as he dared, having but the two remounts available to him. He might, of course, have had his men run as many ponies as he wished or they could have herded them over the shorter, rougher hill route to join the column at the southern end of the defile, but his experiences with the shaggy mounts abandoned by his Ganik foes had persuaded him not to do so.

Although courageous and game enough, few of the weedy little beasts were in anything approaching good condition, the Ganiks apparently treating them as callously as they did their own kind. Nor did there seem to ever have been Ganik attempts to breed up the usual run of wild mountain ponies, such as had been done by the Broomtowners, the Ahrmehnee tribes and many another mountain race of folk, over the years.

But then, the appalling conditions of the ponies had also brought a measure of ease to Corbett’s mind. The party of Ganiks that had ridden off to the west, apparently to track Gumpner’s group, had had, he now recalled, only one mount per man, which would mean that if they tried to move too fast for very long, most of them would soon be afoot.

Unless… and that worrisome bit of unease continued to nibble at his mind, breeding fresh worry. Unless there were camps or villages of Ganiks ahead where the pursuers might expect to find fresh ponies and, God forbid, reinforcements. He just did not know all that much about these Ganiks. The captured Ganik, Jim-Beau, had been native to territory farther north and west of the place he had been taken prisoner, he had not seemed overly bright, and his knowledge of the overall numbers of the Ganik race and the size of the area they occupied had been hazy to nebulous. So, for all Corbett or any of his command knew, they could be riding into the very heartland of the savage cannibals.

Sergeant Gumpner might have relieved his officer’s mind, somewhat. Although the track he and his group had been on since they had left the defile was fairly well defined, they had not seen any signs of a Ganik or any other human being.

Two of his best ponies had turned up lame, however, and following a brief consultation with Dr. Braun, the grim-faced noncom had kneed his mount over to Jim-Beau and ended the prisoner’s life with his trusty battle axe. This sacrifice effectively replaced the two lost ponies.

That had taken place about the time that Corbett and his force had been stuffing themselves with broiled boar meat, the sergeant having kept his party moving throughout all of the preceding day, then all of the bright, moon-drenched night.