Michael Moorcock - A Cure for Cancer

As his strength returned he sighed. With pleasure, he stood up and looked down at Mitzi. She was stirring.

He glanced at his gun, then at his right watch.

Somewhere a piano began to play.

He slipped into his silks, buckled on his shoulder holster, put the gun into it, and then began to tear up her clothes until he had several long strips of cloth. As he tightened the gag her eyes opened so he turned her over and trussed her up, patting her bottom affectionately.

'So long, Mitzi.' Was it a set-up? he wondered.

He opened the cabin door and went up on deck. The lights of St Paul were on the larboard as the ship moved slowly past the city. On the starboard Minneapolis was in darkness.

'Mr Cornelius, sir!' The whisper came from the bridge. He looked. The ex-chairman of the Arts Council, his worried face pale in the reflected light from the water, hissed at him. 'You shouldn't be on deck alone, sir.'

More in sorrow than in anger, Jerry drew his gun and shook the steward down. He turned at a sound.

Moving towards him from the stern came a fat silhouette. A Remington banged.

'Stop!'

Jerry holstered his gun and leapt for the rail.

Another bang.

'Mr Cornelius! Really! How did you get your gun back?'

'You'll find out. Your bum trouble makes you forget some details, bishop. Cheerio!'

He plunged down into the cold water and began to strike for the bank.

There were a few more bangs but they soon stopped.

Jerry swam as fast as he could because he disliked dark rivers and this tasted particularly foul, so much so that he feared for his suit. He swam along the wharf until he reached some iron steps and climbed out.

A couple of longshoremen ran towards him but he stopped them in their tracks by waving his gun at them. He looked around.

He was in front of a line of low sheds. Beyond the sheds came the sounds of a busy road. He backed along an alley between two sheds until he came to a high fence. He shook a hole in the fence and stepped down a grassy embankment until he got to the road.

Speeding cars filled all the lanes.

Jerry waved to a cruising police car and it slowed. The car had two cops in it. The one who wasn't driving leaned out of the window. 'What's your trouble, sir?' He grinned at his companion.

'Fell off a boat,' Jerry gasped. 'You gotta help me, boss.'

'Calm down, sonny. How'd you come to fall off a boat?'

'Yes, sir.'

The cop opened the door and climbed with studied slowness out, pulling a notebook from his tunic pocket. 'You wouldn't be running away from anyone, would you?'

'No, sir.' Jerry rolled his eyes as best he could. 'No, sir!'

'Because we've been having a lot of trouble with runaways of one sort or another just recently.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You got an identity card?'

'A what, boss?'

'An identity card, boy. Everybody's got an identity card unless he's an outlaw or escaper or injun or something.'

'Identity. Nope, sir. I guess I ain't.'

'Uh huh. Then I think Jerry lined him up and watched him shake. Then, as his companion began to drag his pistol from its holster, Jerry turned the gun on him and he shook, too.

He stowed them in the back seat as a curious Cadillac slowed down, then he got in, started the car, turned on the siren and got rapidly up to a hundred, heading out of town along Interstate 35E.

By morning his suit had dried nicely and the dirt had fallen off it. He had switched cars twice. Now he was driving a handsome golden Chevrolet Caprice and was on Interstate 90, making for the badlands of South Dakota, having crossed the Missouri at Chamberlain. There weren't many cops about. The explanation, for what it was worth, was in the two-day old edition of The Pioneer Press he had found in the Caprice. There had been a massive draft of all able-bodied men and women over the age of eighteen. Even those who had previously been designated as performing necessary public offices had been drafted.

At the Totanka Yotanka Motel he stole some gas and was soon in the badlands on a lonely, dusty highway where, at about seven in the evening, he saw the first Sioux.

The war chief was mounted on a black and white pony that had elaborately beaded and painted buckskin trappings. It stood stock still on the rise while its rider gave Jerry's car the once-over.

The warrior was probably an Oglala. He carried a bow-lance decorated with red, white and yellow feathers; on his left arm the round buffalo hide shield had a picture of an eagle surrounded by stars. His bleached, fringed buckskin jacket and leggings were embroidered with coloured beads and shiny red and yellow porcupine quills and his neck was heavy with beads and medallions. His head-dress of curving stag antlers had a feathered train that spread over his pony's rump. There was a knife and a tomahawk at his belt. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, prominent nose and long, thin mouth was the distinctive modern American face. It was in full warpaint, with yellow, orange, blue and white bands, circles and triangles.

Raising his bow-lance the war chief summoned his war party to join him on the rise. They appeared to be a mixture of Oglalas and Hunkpapas, most of them wearing a great many feathers.

Jerry kept going when he saw the short bows and the bark quivers crammed with arrows, but he knew they'd get him at the next bend.

When he reached the next bend they were waiting for him.

Arrows thudded into the convertible's roof and he heard their howls as they hurled their mounts towards him at an angle to the highway. The car hit a pony and the war chief fell forward on to the hood, glaring through the windscreen at Jerry who skidded and went off the highway, hit a rock, stepped on the brake, bounced the Indian off the hood on to the ground, wound down the window and drew his vibragun.

The other Sioux lined up along the highway, bows ready, watching to see what he would do as their leader picked himself up and tried to pull his tomahawk from his belt. 'You killed my fucking pony.'

'You put it in front of my fucking car. I had the right of way.'

'Watch your language, schvartze.'

'What are you going to do about it?'

The Indian rubbed his nose and looked around. He straightened the polished bones of his breastplate and slapped the dust off his leggings. 'Besides, we didn't know you was a schvartze. We got no fight with you.'

'I'm not a schvartze.'

'Sure, and I'm not a fucking Oglala.'

Jerry opened the door and got out. 'Are you trying to prove something?'

'Maybe.' The war chief at last got his tomahawk free and went into a crouch, his eyes narrowing.

Jerry kicked him in the face. He fell over and Jerry picked up the tomahawk. It was very ornamental.

The war chief looked up with an expression of puzzled resignation. 'I wasn't expecting that. You win. What now?'

'I think we should become blood brothers or something.' Jerry helped him up. 'Isn't that the custom?'

'What the hell if it isn't. It sounds okay to me. We'll have a ceremony at the big council. That's where we're going to now. Iron Mountain.'

'Sounds fine. It's on my way.'

'Great. Baby, we're in this together. We already got a few schvartzes riding with us. Honorary members, I guess. We got to pick up what we can where we can.' He held out his hand. 'I'm Flaming Lance.' He blushed.

Jerry said generously: 'Call me Buffalo Nose.'

Flaming Lance shouted to the others. 'He rides with the Sioux!'

'Hoka hai,' said Jerry.

During the next couple of weeks their numbers grew and they raided several farmhouses on their way through Wyoming, Colorado and Utah. Jerry wore a sparsely feathered war bonnet, blue and yellow paint, bone bow, quiver of arrows, hunting knife and a tomahawk, but he hadn't given up his silk suit. He rode a pinto pony and was beginning to regret it.