Read Online The Cutthroat Cannibals by Craig Sargent - Free Book Online
Authors: Craig Sargent
Ads: Link
those nightmarish painted faces of stripes
and jagged lines, with wolves and serpents drawn in brilliant colors all over their bodies, from the way those faces looked
at him with purest malevolence in them as if they could imagine nothing more enjoyable than ripping his heart right out of
his chest at that moment, it didn’t look promising. But even savages have moral codes by which they live. Or at least these
did.
“Sounds like fun,” Stone said, trying to rise. Suddenly there was a commotion about fifty feet down the sandy shore and they
all turned, reaching for various knives and tomahawks. An Indian that Stone hadn’t seen was backing away from the water and
toward the group surrounding Stone. And coming toward him walking in a crouch with its teeth snarling and its body so completely
drenched with muddy water that it looked like some sort of aquatic rat that wasn’t having very good luck was Excaliber. As
the brave retreated, his red skin turning a much whiter shade, he reached for a long blade at his side. But somehow he didn’t
seem particularly interested in trying to use it. The dog looked like it had just jumped up from hell itself, so fierce were
its almond eyes, absolutely bearing down on the Indian.
“Dog!” Stone screamed with something approaching joy. He hadn’t even had time to wonder about the dog, and if he had, doubtless
he would have been sure it was dead. But Wonderdog, albeit looking like refried shit, had made it through the watery gauntlet.
The rest of the braves tried not to look uptight, keeping their lips as hard as cast iron, but in their flashing eyes Stone
could see fear. For some reason the dog seemed to scare the shit out of them, way beyond its physical threat.
“That… your dog?” the brave who had been speaking to Stone asked, with a dash more respect suddenly in his eyes.
“Like I tell everyone,” Stone smirked, “we travel together but he’s his own animal.”
To say the least
, he added under his breath. Excaliber kept coming forward in that low crouch like a wolf, as if ready to spring off those
overmuscled legs at any second and launch right at the throat of the green-faced brave who, still walking backwards one careful
and slow step at a time, had reached the rest of his band.
“Call him off, call him off,” the chief’s son demanded nervously as he too whipped out a long machetelike implement. “Don’t
want to have to kill.” The brave seemed almost desperate, and Stone could see that Excaliber had some strange effect on the
Indians way beyond his menacing stance. The steely frames and scarred bodies of the Indians attested to their toughness, but
the quotient of stark fear in their eyes was more like what a man might have of a charging grizzly like the one Stone had
faced, than of a dog. But perhaps he could use all this to his advantage. If only he knew what the hell was going on.
“Excaliber,” Stone called out, slapping his hands together. The clap caught the pit bull’s attention like a bomb, and the
dog’s ears ripped around toward the source of the sound.
The instant the animal saw Stone its whole body relaxed, and it rose up higher on all fours and trotted happily over like
nothing was going on whatsoever. Once it had jumped up against Stone’s chest to sniff him and make sure that he actually was
the Chow Boy and not some imposter, the animal dropped back down on all fours and turned with a happy tongue-hanging look
toward the Indians. Excaliber barked twice, but this time in more friendly fashion as if to say, hey who the hell are you
guys? Any friend of Chow Boy’s is a pal of mine!
But the braves’ demeanor hardly changed; their eyes still wide, they were still backing away, not really wanting to get too
close. Something was getting to them. Stone wished he’d paid more attention to his “Primitive gods” lecture in anthropology
back in college. Dogs, dogs—what the hell did they
and jagged lines, with wolves and serpents drawn in brilliant colors all over their bodies, from the way those faces looked
at him with purest malevolence in them as if they could imagine nothing more enjoyable than ripping his heart right out of
his chest at that moment, it didn’t look promising. But even savages have moral codes by which they live. Or at least these
did.
“Sounds like fun,” Stone said, trying to rise. Suddenly there was a commotion about fifty feet down the sandy shore and they
all turned, reaching for various knives and tomahawks. An Indian that Stone hadn’t seen was backing away from the water and
toward the group surrounding Stone. And coming toward him walking in a crouch with its teeth snarling and its body so completely
drenched with muddy water that it looked like some sort of aquatic rat that wasn’t having very good luck was Excaliber. As
the brave retreated, his red skin turning a much whiter shade, he reached for a long blade at his side. But somehow he didn’t
seem particularly interested in trying to use it. The dog looked like it had just jumped up from hell itself, so fierce were
its almond eyes, absolutely bearing down on the Indian.
“Dog!” Stone screamed with something approaching joy. He hadn’t even had time to wonder about the dog, and if he had, doubtless
he would have been sure it was dead. But Wonderdog, albeit looking like refried shit, had made it through the watery gauntlet.
The rest of the braves tried not to look uptight, keeping their lips as hard as cast iron, but in their flashing eyes Stone
could see fear. For some reason the dog seemed to scare the shit out of them, way beyond its physical threat.
“That… your dog?” the brave who had been speaking to Stone asked, with a dash more respect suddenly in his eyes.
“Like I tell everyone,” Stone smirked, “we travel together but he’s his own animal.”
To say the least
, he added under his breath. Excaliber kept coming forward in that low crouch like a wolf, as if ready to spring off those
overmuscled legs at any second and launch right at the throat of the green-faced brave who, still walking backwards one careful
and slow step at a time, had reached the rest of his band.
“Call him off, call him off,” the chief’s son demanded nervously as he too whipped out a long machetelike implement. “Don’t
want to have to kill.” The brave seemed almost desperate, and Stone could see that Excaliber had some strange effect on the
Indians way beyond his menacing stance. The steely frames and scarred bodies of the Indians attested to their toughness, but
the quotient of stark fear in their eyes was more like what a man might have of a charging grizzly like the one Stone had
faced, than of a dog. But perhaps he could use all this to his advantage. If only he knew what the hell was going on.
“Excaliber,” Stone called out, slapping his hands together. The clap caught the pit bull’s attention like a bomb, and the
dog’s ears ripped around toward the source of the sound.
The instant the animal saw Stone its whole body relaxed, and it rose up higher on all fours and trotted happily over like
nothing was going on whatsoever. Once it had jumped up against Stone’s chest to sniff him and make sure that he actually was
the Chow Boy and not some imposter, the animal dropped back down on all fours and turned with a happy tongue-hanging look
toward the Indians. Excaliber barked twice, but this time in more friendly fashion as if to say, hey who the hell are you
guys? Any friend of Chow Boy’s is a pal of mine!
But the braves’ demeanor hardly changed; their eyes still wide, they were still backing away, not really wanting to get too
close. Something was getting to them. Stone wished he’d paid more attention to his “Primitive gods” lecture in anthropology
back in college. Dogs, dogs—what the hell did they
Similar Books
Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation
Kevin Breaux, Erik Johnson, Cynthia Ray, Jeffrey Hale, Bill Albert, Amanda Auverigne, Marc Sorondo, Gerry Huntman, AJ French
