A Million Tears (52 page)

One of the men was the leader. ‘Listen,’ said Sion desperately, ‘why don’t you ransom us? My father would pay much gold to have us back.’

Taking no notice of him, as though he had not spoken, one of the men drunkenly bent down to cut Paddy’s ropes. Paddy gave a low moan. They pulled him to his feet but he collapsed almost immediately. The breeds giggled inanely, kicked him for a few minutes and then pulled him up again.

The two men holding Paddy’s arms staggered back a couple of paces and from somewhere Paddy found the strength he needed. He barged one of them in the chest, wrapped his arms around the second, a small man barely up to Paddy’s shoulders, and rushed for the butte edge. Before they could be stopped Paddy and the breed went over in a long drawn out duet of screams. Then silence.

The remainder of the gang rushed to the edge, screaming and cursing. Yells were exchanged with the guard at the foot of the butte and then one of them bent down to cut Sion’s bonds. The leader stopped him and indicated Bill.

They hauled him to his feet and Bill collapsed, held up under the arms by two of the gang. The two friends looked at each other for a long moment, tears in their eyes.

‘Let him go you bastards, let him go,’ Sion screamed, struggling against the ropes. A kick sent his head reeling and the word please was only spoken inside his mind.

Bill fought like a madman. He kicked, bit, punched, and scratched. From the yells and curses in a mixture of English and Indian he was hurting some of them. Finally a rifle butt in the back of the head dropped him. They took an arm each, one grabbed his hair and they dragged him away.

After Steve had died they had thrown his body over the edge of the butte, leaving it to the coyotes and buzzards. Now Bill was tied down in the same place as Steve. The shock of one of their number being killed, Paddy’s suicide and Bill’s struggle seemed to have sobered the men a little. Now there was no laughter and dancing, just a business like preparation of the staked area and Bill’s inert form.

Sion went frantic with rage and anguish. He struggled and fought against the ropes. He no longer felt the pain in his wrists where the skin had been chafed away. He only felt that somehow he had to get to Bill before it was too late. He stopped to regain his breath and think. Finally he bent his wrist back and gripped the stake. Concentrating his mind and body on his arm he exerted all his strength.

Sion’s head throbbed and his body ached and after an age of effort he stopped, panting, his arm aching as though a red hot poker had been shoved through it. Again, he braced himself to try. His ears buzzed, his arm was on fire but he thought for a second there was some movement in the stake. Suddenly the night was split asunder with a cry that was to haunt him for years. Bill had made a noise that defied human description. The remaining part of his larynx had been made to work one last time. It was the only sound he made, the only sound he was capable of.

Sion gagged and retched until his stomach ached. Fear swept through him and once more he took hold of the stake and heaved upwards. He kept on . . . and on . . . and on. Waves of pain swept through his arm and down into his body. Red and black mists floated across his eyes . . . and on . . . He passed out.

When he came to Sion was first aware of the pain in his arm, then the stillness of the night. The moon impinged on his consciousness, and then the fact that his arm was out straight by his side. Awkwardly he moved it, lifting the stake to his eyes unable to believe what he saw. Pain swept across his shoulder and along his arm and he dropped it, his fingers too numb to let the stake go.

A while later he sat up and groped for his boot. With difficulty, because his fingers would still not do what his brain told them, he reached his knife. He slashed at the rope holding his left wrist until the rope parted and he could sit up properly. His fingers were beginning to tingle and his wrists throbbed painfully. After freeing his feet he tried to stand but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t make it.

Eventually, the numbness in his feet gave way to pins and needles that drove him frantic as he exercised his toes trying to get the feeling back more quickly. Finally, he could move but he sat immobile for a while, terrified to move. While he regained the use of his feet Sion looked round for a guard but could see nobody. Carefully he skirted the tents and crept towards Bill. He stepped down into a hollow and nearly screamed in shock to see Bill laying at his feet. It took all his will power not to retch at the sight.

Bill was wriggling in nameless agonies, the yellow and red of his bloodied intestines barely recognisable under the mass of seething ants, black in the moonlight. Bill was covered with them from his hair to his feet. Sion stood over him for a second, the knife clenched in his fist and looked down into the mad, staring eyes of his friend. For an instant, as he sunk to his knees, Sion could have sworn there was recognition in the eyes and then he had the knife in his two hands, above the body and he drove it with all his might into Bill’s heart.

Again and again Sion stabbed in a frenzy of horror, dislodging the ants, which rushed about in panic, trying to get away but not wanting to leave the food. Finally, Sion staggered away, the bloodied knife dangling from his hand, his mind in a stupor. He walked to the edge of the butte and was only a pace away when he heard something.

The sound penetrated the haze surrounding his mind and Sion looked back. The sight of the man crawling out of his beehive and going to urinate over the butte edge saved Sion’s life.

The fear evaporated. In its place was a hatred so all consuming he wanted to scream at them. He was about to rush stupidly at the man when Sion’s brain turned cold and sharp as ice. The hatred was there but so was cunning and intelligence. Silently, Sion crept to the side of the tent he had seen the man crawl out of and waited. He wanted to escape, that thought was firmly embedded in him. He did not wish to die. On the other hand he knew he could never get safely down the path in the darkness leading a horse, even with the aid of a full moon. Also he did not think he could kill all of them. Counting the one down below there were nine of them. Coldly and analytically Sion came to the conclusion he could not escape. As much as he wanted to he could not get away. And that left only one thing to do. To kill as many of them as possible until he too, was killed. Unless . . . unless he got an escape route ready. A last ditch attempt and if it failed he would die anyway.

The man was returning. Sion stayed hidden until the half breed bent to crawl into his hovel and then Sion stepped out and, more by luck than judgement, drove the knife as hard as he could through the man’s neck, severing the spinal cord. The man died without a sound. Taking hold of his feet Sion dragged him out of sight behind some rocks. Overcome with exhaustion he went to the water hole and drank his fill.

After a few minutes rest Sion went to find his poles and cotton sheet. Slowly, because his hands were still not responding properly, he tied the bamboo in a cross and fitted the sheet over it. He now had a diamond shape some eight feet by six. To the cross arm he tied two pieces of rope and to the main length he tied one piece a third of the way from the front. He knotted them together and from that he hung two loops, through which he intended placing his arms. From his years of experience playing and making kites, he hoped he would hang along the centreline and slightly back of the cross piece. Sion had made smaller kites in the past, hanging stones on them, experimenting with size and weight, hoping one day to launch himself into the air and float to the earth. That day had arrived.

Looking towards the east Sion felt the wind rising from the cooling rock below and coming in a gentle breeze directly into his face. That was the direction he had to take.

His knife in hand, he walked over to where the horses were tethered and hesitated. He had had a vague notion of killing all of them but realised it was impossible. There were thirteen horses as well as the mule and besides which he did not have the stomach for it.

In the centre of the scruffy camp were piled all the weapons and ammunition. Gathering up the guns he took them to the western edge of the butte and threw them over. He kept two of the six guns as well as a rifle which he slung across his back. Next he stoked up the fire until it was blazing, the flames reaching three or four feet into the air. By now his hands were almost back to normal although his wrists were throbbing with pain. Flexing his fingers he noticed a little blood seeping out at his right wrist so he went to the water hole, washed both wrists and bound them with pieces of cloth. He took another drink and as an after thought filled a water bottle and tied that to the kite. If there was too much weight that would be too bad. There was nothing he could do about it. He got six fire brands ready and he made up six bundles of ammunition in bits of rag. He tied the ammunition to the brands and took a deep breath. He was now ready to kill the men.

He threw a flaming brand into each of the tents. He let go the last one when the first scream rent the air and one of the men, his shirt on fire, crawled into the open. Coolly Sion swung the rifle he had dangling from his neck and in the bright light from the moon and the fire, shot the man through the head. More screams started and then the bullets in the bundles began exploding. The six men still alive came tumbling out, yelling, panic stricken, their tents in flames. One of them was crawling, hit in the stomach from an exploding bullet, another was on fire from head to toe but the other four darted for cover. Sion aimed at the back of the furthest, held his breath and gently squeezed the trigger. He was gratified to see the man throw his arms out and fall face downwards. Switching targets smoothly he shot another in the side as he crossed from right to left but the other two dropped from sight before he could pull the trigger again.

The man on fire was rolling in agony across the ground and the one with the stomach wound was curled up in a foetal position, moaning. He fired a snap shot at the burning man, missed and slipped away towards the eastern end of the butte. A sense of foreboding swept over him and bone weary tiredness made him stumble.

For fifteen minutes Sion sat hidden, watching the scene at the camp. The man holding his stomach tried to crawl out of the light but stopped after a few yards, the effort plainly too much. The man who had been on fire lay still, the flames now out.

There were two left and at each shadow Sion jumped, sitting in indecision as to what to do. They could stay hidden for as long as they wished, sleeping and probably doing without food and water a lot longer than he could. They could yell down to the guard below and tell him to come up, though after so much noise he was probably on his way. The more he thought about it the more Sion realised there was only one thing to do.

Slinging the rifle behind his back he picked up the kite, got underneath and put his arms through the loops. He was hesitating at the edge of the drop, fear like bile in his throat, when he heard the scuffle. Turning his head he saw one of the breeds running towards him, less than five yards away.

Without another thought Sion threw himself forward and went over the edge.

37

He never did remember what it was like. He knew he was not hurtling to the ground. He was aware of the screams and shots behind him but somehow the actual flight was lost. He travelled out nearly three quarters of a mile, swooping down towards the earth. In the moonlight he saw his shadow, like a huge bat, following him across the grey plain of rock which turned to grass as he travelled further away from the butte. He saw the horseman and knew it was the guard coming after him. Then the earth was rushing up to meet him and he was going to land harder than he had expected. He braced his legs, by now the ropes under his arms hurting him badly. He was down to within fifteen feet of the ground when the cotton sheet started tearing. As soon as the corner ripped the rest tore apart and he fell in a heap, rolling over and over down a grassy slope, the sheet and poles tangling him in knots. He lay still, badly winded, not seeing the horseman pull up, swing off his horse and rifle ready, advance towards him.

Sion was so tightly wrapped in the sheet he could not move. Somehow the rifle that had been dangling from the rope on the kite was laying alongside his leg, his hand over the trigger guard. Sion’s head was spinning and his breath came in heavy gasps. Remembering the horseman he started to struggle but when the shadow suddenly loomed over him he stopped. The man’s rifle was pointed at Sion’s stomach but seeing how tangled he was the guard lowered the gun. With a superhuman effort Sion swung his feet up and pulled the trigger. The guard doubled over, hit in the belly, surprise and shock written all over his face. Sion’s feet dropped and he knew he did not have the strength to repeat the movement. If the guard had raised his gun he could have shot Sion, and he would have been unable to prevent it.

With difficulty Sion untangled himself from the wreckage of the kite and stood up. His legs felt wobbly and his breathing was painful. His rifle ready he went over to the moaning figure laying on his side, holding his belly. He looked at Sion with hate filled eyes, no thought of asking for mercy. Gently Sion turned him over. The bullet had hit one side and passed clean through. It was painful but Sion thought the man would live. He took the man’s knife and rifle to prevent him committing suicide and then drew his hand gun. He smiled at the indian and put the muzzle on the man’s balls. For the first time fear showed in the man’s face and then Sion pulled the trigger. The shock waves of pain sent the man unconscious and for a moment Sion thought that he had killed him. Then he saw the man was breathing. Sion hoped he would live many hours. Gathering up his weapons he walked slowly towards the horse, so used to gunfire it was contentedly chewing the grass.

The horse started when Sion approached but allowed Sion to pat his nose, stroke his neck and swing into the saddle. Sion now had two rifles across his shoulders, two six guns, a knife and water bottle. He turned the horse towards the east and set it at a gentle canter. Shortly afterwards the guard he had shot began screaming, a long drawn out wail that ended in a sob that followed Sion for miles in to the night. Sion smiled to himself all the way.