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d grasses; undulating from horizon to horizon like a great rippling sea of green。
A thread of smoke came up from below。 There were black dots of people moving about; a few ragged tents。 Fifty horses were grazing the bottomlands by the creek; their noses in the grass。
Slowly; Pendergast permitted first the sounds; and then the smells; to return: voices laughing and cursing; fecund humidity; the whiff of woodsmoke and roasting buffalo steaks; the distant whinny of a horse; the jingle of spurs and the clank of cast iron cookware。
Pendergast waited; watchful; all senses alert。 The voices became clearer。
Didier's buckskin e up lame again;said a voice。
The chunk of wood on fire。Chuck's about ready。
That boy wouldn't know where to piss less'n his mammy aimed his dingus for him。
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 menced 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 ing 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; inprehensible。 He was grasped firmly; his head pulled back。 A flash of a steel knife against the