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Authors: Craig Sargent
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represent to a bunch of lost Indians?
“You—you come with us,” the brave addressed Stone, but much more haltingly now, unsure of himself. “Me, Cracking Elk, son
of Buffalo Breaker. Take you to chief. He must decide.” The brave glanced over at the dog as flickers of fear raced across
his features like a swarm of bugs. “You can control dog from biting?” Cracking Elk asked with a little contemptuous grin as
if he really didn’t care about it much one way or another.
“Sure,” Stone lied, knowing that though the pit bull had certainly helped him on numerous occasions when the shit had hit
the fan, making it attack or hold back was a different matter. “Yeah, he’ll do pretty much what I say, right, pal,” Stone
said, leaning over to scratch the animal behind the ears. Only problem was he had forgotten for a moment that his right leg
was cracked like a child’s old toy, and as he shifted his weight onto the wounded leg, a bolt of pain shot up through his
nervous system and he tumbled to the ground, like a scarecrow fallen from its perch, and crashed straight down onto the sand.
The only good thing about the stone-faced stoicism of Indians Stone decided at that moment was that though they didn’t act
too friendly, they also didn’t laugh at the asshole sprawled below them on the ground. Stone didn’t like this being wounded
business, it made him feel much too vulnerable.
“Here,” Cracking Elk said without expression, handing him a stick to use as a crutch. The one Stone had used before no doubtless
had been ground into toothpicks floating twenty miles downriver.
“Thanks,” Stone said, trying to look into the brave’s eyes with an offer of friendship. But the chief’s son would have none
of that, and he looked away coldly. Stone knew he had no choice but to go with them. If he’d had his firearms it would have
been different story. But without the slightest weapon, even with the dog on his side, he would be slaughtered by this crew.
He’d just have to play it by ear and try to find out fast why the red men feared Excaliber so.
The Indians led him off into the woods that ran alongside the river. Here the solid land between riverbank and the towering
mountains that followed along was nearly half a mile, so there was plenty of forest and wildlife, which Stone could hear scampering
around in the distance. Cracking Elk and two others led and the rest followed behind Stone, escorting him along like a prisoner
of war. They kept a wary eye on him, hands resting on their stabbers, as if Stone was about to make a running one-legged dash
off into the shrubbery. As he stumbled along trying to get used to walking with just one appendage, Stone got the chance to
look closer at their painted bodies. They were a strange breed. The things they had adorned themselves with were a bizarre
mix of modern and ancient. Beads and wolf teeth were worn around necks but on some feet Stone saw beat-up old tennis sneakers.
Several of the braves wore leather thongs around their waists to hold up their buffalo or buckskin pants, but again Stone
noticed that two of them had mass-produced belts, one a black patent leather number, the other some sort of silvery rippling
thing like a disco belt. The contrast of different accessories was quite striking. But Stone knew better than to criticize
a murderous band of Indians’ dress habits.
They led him on twisting, hardly noticeable paths through the thick woods. The sky had lightened from very dark to a slate
gray, the rain at last diminishing to just a thin spray. It was hard to see his way and Stone kept nearly falling, having
to wobble along on one leg, and, to make matters worse, the pit bull kept winding back and forth all around him so that the
damned creature kept tripping him up. Excaliber, assuming the Indians were friends, felt playful and kept looking up at Stone
as if to say, “Well, aren’t we all having a good
“You—you come with us,” the brave addressed Stone, but much more haltingly now, unsure of himself. “Me, Cracking Elk, son
of Buffalo Breaker. Take you to chief. He must decide.” The brave glanced over at the dog as flickers of fear raced across
his features like a swarm of bugs. “You can control dog from biting?” Cracking Elk asked with a little contemptuous grin as
if he really didn’t care about it much one way or another.
“Sure,” Stone lied, knowing that though the pit bull had certainly helped him on numerous occasions when the shit had hit
the fan, making it attack or hold back was a different matter. “Yeah, he’ll do pretty much what I say, right, pal,” Stone
said, leaning over to scratch the animal behind the ears. Only problem was he had forgotten for a moment that his right leg
was cracked like a child’s old toy, and as he shifted his weight onto the wounded leg, a bolt of pain shot up through his
nervous system and he tumbled to the ground, like a scarecrow fallen from its perch, and crashed straight down onto the sand.
The only good thing about the stone-faced stoicism of Indians Stone decided at that moment was that though they didn’t act
too friendly, they also didn’t laugh at the asshole sprawled below them on the ground. Stone didn’t like this being wounded
business, it made him feel much too vulnerable.
“Here,” Cracking Elk said without expression, handing him a stick to use as a crutch. The one Stone had used before no doubtless
had been ground into toothpicks floating twenty miles downriver.
“Thanks,” Stone said, trying to look into the brave’s eyes with an offer of friendship. But the chief’s son would have none
of that, and he looked away coldly. Stone knew he had no choice but to go with them. If he’d had his firearms it would have
been different story. But without the slightest weapon, even with the dog on his side, he would be slaughtered by this crew.
He’d just have to play it by ear and try to find out fast why the red men feared Excaliber so.
The Indians led him off into the woods that ran alongside the river. Here the solid land between riverbank and the towering
mountains that followed along was nearly half a mile, so there was plenty of forest and wildlife, which Stone could hear scampering
around in the distance. Cracking Elk and two others led and the rest followed behind Stone, escorting him along like a prisoner
of war. They kept a wary eye on him, hands resting on their stabbers, as if Stone was about to make a running one-legged dash
off into the shrubbery. As he stumbled along trying to get used to walking with just one appendage, Stone got the chance to
look closer at their painted bodies. They were a strange breed. The things they had adorned themselves with were a bizarre
mix of modern and ancient. Beads and wolf teeth were worn around necks but on some feet Stone saw beat-up old tennis sneakers.
Several of the braves wore leather thongs around their waists to hold up their buffalo or buckskin pants, but again Stone
noticed that two of them had mass-produced belts, one a black patent leather number, the other some sort of silvery rippling
thing like a disco belt. The contrast of different accessories was quite striking. But Stone knew better than to criticize
a murderous band of Indians’ dress habits.
They led him on twisting, hardly noticeable paths through the thick woods. The sky had lightened from very dark to a slate
gray, the rain at last diminishing to just a thin spray. It was hard to see his way and Stone kept nearly falling, having
to wobble along on one leg, and, to make matters worse, the pit bull kept winding back and forth all around him so that the
damned creature kept tripping him up. Excaliber, assuming the Indians were friends, felt playful and kept looking up at Stone
as if to say, “Well, aren’t we all having a good
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