John Carter (2 page)

M
Y NAME
is Edgar Rice Burroughs, and by trade I am a writer of popular fiction. When one makes one's living in this way, one
reads
a lot as well: books, popular magazines, instruction manuals, even advertisements. But nothing I'd ever read disturbed me quite so much as the telegram I received on that fateful day in 1881:

DEAR NED

SEE ME AT ONCE

JOHN CARTER

It was terse, uninformative, and yet it chilled me with its implications. My Uncle Jack had never been a man to ask for help, and I knew him well enough to sense the desperation hiding behind his words. By the time my train pulled into Croton-on-Hudson station, I had read the telegram a dozen times, searching in vain for clues.

Then I saw the grave, downcast older man standing on the platform, calling my name. And I knew.

“Mister Burroughs? I'm Thompson, Captain Carter's butler. I'm afraid I bring sad tidings…”

After a quiet carriage ride, we pulled up at Uncle Jack's sober granite mansion. Thompson helped me down, and I shook hands with a squat, business-suited gentleman who introduced himself as Noah Dalton, my uncle's attorney.

“My deepest sympathies, Mister Burroughs.” Dalton ushered me inside. “Your uncle's death came as a shock to all of us. He was a model of health and vigor.”

Standing in the immaculately kept foyer, I could scarcely believe the news. “How did he…”

“A stroke. Just dropped dead in his study, not five minutes after sending for me and the doctor. When I arrived he was already…gone.”

We entered the front hall and I stopped short, staring at the scene before me. Artifacts filled the room: relics, maps, charts, documents, photographs from architectural sites representing all the ancient cultures of the world. They were spread haphazardly around a central desk—not like a museum display, but as if they were all vital parts of some massive research project.

“The man never stopped exploring,” Dalton continued. “All over the world. No sooner'd start in digging one hole than he was off to Java or the Orkney Islands to dig another. He said it was pure research, but it always seemed to me like he was searching for something.” He cast a pious gaze heavenward. “God grant that he has found it now.”

I was barely listening. My attention had been drawn to a large world map stabbed with dozens of tiny pins, all interlinked by multicolored threads. And beside it: a portrait of my uncle, fierce and powerful, but with a hint of sadness in his eyes. He was a very vigorous man who'd seemed to stop aging at a certain point. He looked no older than my earliest memories of him.

Dalton gestured at the portrait. “Every inch a cavalryman, to the very end.”

“My mother said Jack never really came back from the war,” I said. “That it was only his body that went west. I always suspected something happened to him in those days, when he was young.”

“Many men bear scars from that conflict,” Dalton said softly.

“He used to tell me the most wondrous stories.” My breath caught briefly, and I wiped away a tear. “I'd like to pay my respects.”

Dalton led me outside and across the grounds to a plain stone mausoleum, standing free amid the green-fringed paths. It was barely large enough for a single body, and above the door were etched the words inter mundos.

“Between worlds,” I whispered, running a hand over the perfectly smooth door.

“You won't find a keyhole,” Dalton said. “Thing only opens from the
inside
. He insisted. Open coffin; no embalming, no funeral.”

I walked around the clean, almost featureless stone tomb. Still searching for clues.

Dalton smiled wryly. “You don't acquire the kind of wealth your uncle commanded by behaving like the rest of us, eh?”

That evening, I sat in a small annex of the front hall as Dalton recited my uncle's will. My attention kept straying to the artifacts: small statues, obscure maps, strange carvings from cultures I'd never seen before…

“. . . hereby direct that my estate shall be held in trust for twenty-five years, the income to benefit my beloved nephew, Edgar Rice Burroughs, at the end of which term the principal will revert to him in full.”

I snapped my head around in shock. “What?”

Dalton nodded. “In full,” he repeated.

“I…of course I always adored him. But it's been so long. Why…?”

“He never offered an explanation, and I never asked for one.”

Dalton reached into his briefcase and pulled out a worn, leather-covered journal fastened shut by a large clasp. He pushed it across the desk to me.

“His private journal,” Dalton said. “He was most explicit that you, and only you, were to read its contents. You might find some kind of explanation in there, I suppose.”

I touched the book, ran my fingers across its soft leather cover. “I'll leave you now.” Dalton stood. “Again, my condolences.”

Staring at the book, I was scarcely aware of Dalton's departure. With trembling hands, I reached for the clasp, pulled it open. And began to read, with tears and wonder in my eyes.

My dear Edgar. I remember how I used to take you on my knee and tell you wild tales, which you always did me the great courtesy of believing. Now you are grown; time and space have parted us. But I reach out across that distance to that same wide-eyed boy and ask him to believe me once more.

This wild tale begins in 1868, thirteen years ago, in the Arizona Territory between the Pinaleño Mountains and the backside of Hell…

B
Y THE TIME
John Carter hauled himself back to Fort Grant Outpost, he was barely a human being. His beard was long and insect-ridden, his buffalo skins stank of sweat and dust. His saddlebags hung practically in tatters; his mule was half dead. His eyes glinted with the fire of madness.

But none of that was the reason Dix, the general store keeper, rolled his eyes and turned away when Carter shambled inside.

Two thick-bodied roughnecks sat drinking at the counter. One of them turned to smirk at him. “Come to stock up on spider bait, Carter?”

Carter ignored him, strode up to Dix, and dropped two heavy saddlebags on the bar. Dix just shook his head.

“No more, Carter.”

Carter smoothed his beard, peered at the shopkeeper. “There a problem, Mister Dix?”

“Yeah. You're a loon.”

The roughnecks laughed and slapped the bar. But Dix's face was deadpan serious, even angry.

“I done took all your money, Carter. Your tab's a hundred dollars in arrears.”

“I'll pay,” Carter replied. “I'm close. This old Yavapai I met, he said he'd seen the cave up near—”

“Stop.” Dix held up a hand. “Not one more word about your cave of gold.”

“Now, now,” one of the roughnecks said. “Show some respect, Dix. It's the
evil spider
cave of gold.”

The roughnecks howled again and clinked their glasses.

“You're cut off, Carter.” Dix's stare didn't waver. “Now get on home.”

Carter didn't move.

Slowly the roughnecks rose to their feet. The first one pulled out a knife and stuck his face up very close to Carter's. “I believe he done told you to get out of here.”

The second roughneck put a hand on his Colt.

“I'll leave when these bags are full,” Carter said.

The first roughneck twitched. Carter grabbed a lid from a jar on the counter, blocking the knife thrust easily. The man grunted and dropped his knife, but Carter was already whirling around to grab the second man's Colt barrel. Carter jammed both gun and hand up into the man's own face, breaking his nose. Then in one swift motion he jabbed the jar lid up into the first man's jaw with a sickening crack.

Both men went down, unconscious.

Carter grabbed the roughneck's Colt and whipped around, sticking it right in Dix's face. He knew what the shopkeeper kept hidden under the counter.

“Drop the shotgun, Dix.”

Dix swallowed. His gun clattered to the floor.

Keeping the Colt trained on Dix's head, Carter reached into his pocket with his other hand. He fished out a small object and tossed it to the stunned shopkeeper.

“Found that two days ago, up by Bonita. Ought to cover my tab and then some.”

Dix's eyes widened. He stared at the object, a small Apache figurine about two inches tall. A nine-legged spider worked in shiny, glistening gold.

Dix raised his head to Carter, staring in shock. “Whyn't you just show me this first?”

“Didn't care for your attitude.” Carter lowered his gun, slammed a grocery list down on the counter. “Beans. First item is beans.”

“John Carter?”

Carter didn't turn around, but he recognized the tone. Cavalrymen—more than one, by the sound of it. He swore under his breath. He'd been so preoccupied with the locals that he'd failed to watch his back.

“Your presence is requested up at the fort. I suggest you come peaceably.”

Carter's hand tightened on his pistol. “Do you, now.” He spun around—right into the butt of an army Remington.

He had just enough time to register the disgusted face of a sergeant, flanked by three privates. Then he sank into a sleep of spiders, pain, and regret.

“You're a difficult man to find.”

Afterward, Carter couldn't remember which had come first: the sharp words or the splash of cold water in his face. He sputtered back to the living in a wooden chair, dead center of a spare, makeshift military office. Two guards gripped his shoulders in meaty hands. A gruff, weary, middle-aged colonel stood before him holding a dossier full of papers.

“Captain John Carter,” the colonel continued. “First Virginia Cavalry, Army of Northern Virginia. Confederate States of America.” He bent down to face Carter directly. “I'm Colonel Powell. Welcome to the Seventh Cavalry of the
United
States of—”

Carter lunged forward, head-butting Powell with all his might. The colonel's head snapped back, trailing blood. Carter sprang to his feet but lurched off balance, still groggy. The two guards moved in, grabbed him expertly, and threw him to the ground. As Powell dabbed blood from his nose, grimacing in disappointment, Carter fell beneath the guards' blows.

Twenty minutes later, Carter stood handcuffed to the bars of the fort's stockade cell. His face was bruised, his eye still bleeding. Powell stood outside, calmly reading from the dossier as if nothing had happened.

“. . . excellent horseman, fine swordsman. Decorated six times, including the Southern Cross of Honor. At Five Forks, the company under your command nearly turned the tide.”

Carter sniffed contemptuously, then winced at the pain. Everything hurt.

“In short,” Powell continued, “a born fighter. And in the eyes of Uncle Sam, a necessary man for the defense of the Arizona territory—”

“No.”

Powell looked up from the dossier, his eyes hard. “We're up to our chinstraps in Apache, son.”

“Ain't my concern,” Carter said.

“I believe it
is
your concern, Captain. Folks are being attacked in their homes. Slain. They need protection.”

“You all started it. You finish it.”

“Gone native, have we?”

“The Apaches can go to hell, too.” Carter rattled his cuffs, felt the old anger growing inside him. “Mankind's a savage, warlike species. I want no part of it.”

“You're a cavalryman. That makes you valuable to our country and our cause.”

“Colonel Powell. Sir.” Carter pushed his bruised face through the bars as far as he could. “Whatever it is you
suppose
I owe you, our country, or any other beloved cause, I have already paid. In full.”

He spat through the bars. Powell faced him down, impassive.

“But I tell you what I
will
do,” Carter continued. “I'll get me out of this cell, claim my gold, trade it in for a fortune in filthy money, and then
buy
your righteous flat blue behind just so's I can kick it around the block all damn day long.”

Suddenly, savagely, Powell gut-punched Carter through the bars. Carter fell back onto the floor of the cell, coughing.

Powell stared down contemptuously at his prisoner. “Captain,” he said slowly, “I am finding it difficult to reconcile the man in my dossier with the one I'm looking at. I suggest you find the horse sense to accept my offer before I give in to my better judgment.”

The door slammed and Powell was gone. Carter swooned, on his knees, thinking,
Don't pass out. And if you do, for God's sake don't dream of Sarah.

But of course he did.

Next morning at dawn, Carter tricked a guard, snatched the colonel's horse, and was five miles up in the Arizona hills before they caught up with him.

He steered the horse up a steep hillside and took a quick glance back. Six mounted soldiers led by Powell himself, gaining fast. And the colonel didn't look happy. Carter swore, urged his horse forward faster. He'd stolen the guard's coat and hat, and now the hot sun was making him sweat. But the guard's gun might still come in handy.

As Carter approached the crest of the hill, the thunder of hooves grew stronger behind him. They had him, he knew. Unless there was something unexpected over this ridge…

There was. A dozen Apache warriors, dressed in full war regalia. And heavily armed, with modern rifles.

Carter swiveled his horse to a halt, held up both hands in surrender. The Apache moved toward him, suspicious. Then they heard the sounds of Carter's pursuers and snapped back to alert.

Slowly, carefully, Carter addressed the Apache in their own language. He explained that this was an exercise, a game the white men were playing among themselves—
not
an attack against the natives. The Apache leader, a man called Domingo, listened warily, but his men's guns didn't waver from Carter's head.

Domingo seemed to have a beef with the local white men. Carter could relate. There were lots of white men he didn't care for himself.

By the time Powell's cavalrymen charged over the ridge, Carter had
almost
talked Domingo into not killing them all.

Then a twitchy corporal called out. “Sir!”

The Apache moved to charge him.

“Shut your damn mouth, Corporal,” Powell said. He trotted over toward Carter and Domingo, whose men kept their guns trained on him.

Powell's men fanned out slowly, guns also raised. Apache and cavalrymen watched each other's every move, fingers quivering on triggers.

“What's he saying, Carter?”

Carter grimaced, held up his hand for silence. But Domingo was already growing agitated, accusing Carter of leading the Apache into a trap. Carter kept his voice low, calm, but insistent, explaining to Domingo that this was purely a matter between Carter and Colonel Powell.

“Carter, what the hell are they—”

One shot rang out—Carter never was sure who started it—and that was all it took. The ridge exploded in gunfire.

Carter's horse bolted down the hill, almost throwing him off. He struggled with the reins, trying to get control. He watched the cavalrymen fall—one, two, all six in the end, their horses running wild back over the ridge. And just behind him—

“Carter!”

Powell was in pursuit, his eyes red with rage. Then a stray shot hit the colonel. He screamed and slumped forward on his horse, which panicked, racing up even with Carter's.

Carter reached out and grabbed the horse's reins, thinking,
I must be crazy.

Grimacing, Carter struggled to maintain control of both mounts. Domingo was shouting obscenities, but Carter and Powell had a pretty good lead. Still, the Apache would be after them soon enough.

Powell grimaced, clutching his bleeding shoulder. “I thought—you didn't care.”

“Shut up.”

Up ahead, the sparse desert terrain narrowed into a thin canyon winding upward between high hills. It was their only chance. Carter pulled hard on both sets of reins, aiming the horses toward the canyon.

He knew the Apache were already in pursuit. Silent as coyotes.

Carter yanked the horses to a halt at a large cave mouth and quickly dismounted. Then he eased the groggy Powell from his horse. Powell glared briefly when Carter took his guns, but said nothing. Carter dragged him inside the cave and sat him up against the wall.

The cave was dark, but there was only one entrance. Carter doubted he could bring down a dozen Apache singlehanded, but at least he'd be able to see them coming.

From outside, the faint clopping of horses.

Powell stirred, grimaced up at Carter. “Gimme a gun, Carter.”

Carter nodded and handed the colonel a pistol. He raised his own rifle and cocked it back. The Apache rode into view in full force, framed in the opening of the cave mouth—and stopped dead, their mouths open in horror.

Their horses whinnied in fear.

Domingo locked frightened eyes with Carter for just a moment, shook his head. Then he gestured, and the Apaches turned and rode swiftly away.

Carter turned to Powell, who shrugged. Slowly, his rifle still raised, Carter crept toward the cave opening. He stepped outside, eyeing the last dust raised by the Apache as they disappeared over the ridge. Then he turned to look up at the mouth of the cave, and his heart seemed to skip a beat.

Carved over the entrance was a circle with nine lines radiating from it.

The nine-legged spider.

A few minutes later, deep inside the cave, Carter lit a match and drew in a sharp breath.

Artifacts filled the room: a rotting canoe, pieces of old arrows. But an eerie, complex lattice of lines stretched all along the walls, apparently carved long, long ago. And at the far wall stood a stone platform, a large, carven rock with the same nine-legged spider pattern on it.

Behind Carter, Powell grunted. “This place for sure ain't Apache.”

Carter fanned the match around slowly—and something on the wall reflected its glow. Eyes wide, Carter followed a shiny vein upward along the wall to the ceiling, which glimmered bright against the match flame.

“Gold,” he whispered.

“Carter!”

Carter whirled to see a strange robed figure advancing toward him. It wore a medallion with the nine-legged spider design. As Carter watched, a deadly black dagger seemed to appear in its hand from nothing at all.

Carter fired. The figure clutched its chest and fell backward.

Powell limped into the room, staring at the figure. “He wasn't there. And then he
was
—”