Read Online The Cutthroat Cannibals by Craig Sargent - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Sargent
Ads: Link
time?” The Indians stayed clear of the pit bull, which seemed to hurt the
animal’s feelings. Whenever it drew close to one of them in playful jumps, they would back off. Again Stone saw that same
peculiar and deep fear in every man’s eyes.
It took about fifteen minutes to reach the camp, though they would have gotten there much faster if Stone hadn’t been limping
along like a wounded soldier returning from the front. Then suddenly they came through a grove of firs and there it was, the
strangest little encampment Stone had ever seen. There were about twenty completely round structures perhaps ten feet high,
shaped somewhat like igloos only they were all made of tires. Car tires, truck tires—you name it, you could find it in the
wall of somebody’s home. When he was on better terms with this crew, Stone vowed, he’d ask them just where they bought their
construction materials.
But he had to wonder if he’d ever get to pose the question, as they approached the edge of the Indian village, set off with
a small, completely encircling fence made of branches piled atop one another. For rising above the open space in the branch
barricade were heads dangling from ropes tied to a long pole stretched across the opening. There were five buffalo skulls,
and two human. The flesh of the buffalo skulls had long ago disappeared so they were basically slabs of bone that looked as
if they’d had little patches of fur glued not very symmetrically over their surfaces. The human heads looked as if they’d
been stripped from their bodies within weeks, months at most. The flesh had hardened, pulled in, so they still looked like
human faces carved out of leather. Eyes had turned into horrid black eggs, beef jerky lips shriveled up into little mouth-cracking
grins as if it was all a big joke. Stone swore he saw the eyes of one moving to keep a scope on him. He gulped hard and tore
his own eyes away, vowing not to look at the damned things ever again.
As they walked beneath the head greeting committee the Indians around the camp saw that their returning warriors had brought
back some strange cargo. Evidently they didn’t get a hell of a lot of visitors in these parts, for every man, woman, and child
in the village dropped whatever they were doing, rose, and headed quickly over to see what God had wrought. Their faces didn’t
look too inviting; maybe they were trying to visualize how Stone’s head would look up there as an addition to their small
but highly regarded skull welcoming sign.
But when they caught sight of the dog trotting along half hidden behind Stone’s legs, the Indians’ faces took on a different
look—one of stark terror. They backed off, talking wildly to one another in dialect that was incomprehensible to Stone, not
that he was an expert in Indian lingo. Still this stuff sounded like it might be spoken on Uranus. Whatever power the mutt
had over the sons of bitches Martin Stone would play to the hilt. The ninety-pound ball of ass-kicking pit bull was his only
chance in this rapidly deteriorating scene. But the question still was why the hell did they react to the dog as they did?
Stone looked down for a second at the loping animal and was suddenly thankful he had treated the canine to a stomach-filling
load of Dog Gourmet Crackers that he had found weeks before. He hoped the beast remembered.
Suddenly Stone was pushed hard by the shoulder and he nearly fell forward, barely managing to stop himself with the stick
before he toppled to the ground. He raised his eyes and saw sitting ten feet in front of him, on a throne made from a huge
red leather reclining seat, one of the biggest and ugliest men he had ever seen. The man was a giant, obviously the chief.
What made it obvious was his feather headdress made of countless different colored feathers that trailed down his back all
the way to the ground.
The man’s body was huge, spilling out over both sides
animal’s feelings. Whenever it drew close to one of them in playful jumps, they would back off. Again Stone saw that same
peculiar and deep fear in every man’s eyes.
It took about fifteen minutes to reach the camp, though they would have gotten there much faster if Stone hadn’t been limping
along like a wounded soldier returning from the front. Then suddenly they came through a grove of firs and there it was, the
strangest little encampment Stone had ever seen. There were about twenty completely round structures perhaps ten feet high,
shaped somewhat like igloos only they were all made of tires. Car tires, truck tires—you name it, you could find it in the
wall of somebody’s home. When he was on better terms with this crew, Stone vowed, he’d ask them just where they bought their
construction materials.
But he had to wonder if he’d ever get to pose the question, as they approached the edge of the Indian village, set off with
a small, completely encircling fence made of branches piled atop one another. For rising above the open space in the branch
barricade were heads dangling from ropes tied to a long pole stretched across the opening. There were five buffalo skulls,
and two human. The flesh of the buffalo skulls had long ago disappeared so they were basically slabs of bone that looked as
if they’d had little patches of fur glued not very symmetrically over their surfaces. The human heads looked as if they’d
been stripped from their bodies within weeks, months at most. The flesh had hardened, pulled in, so they still looked like
human faces carved out of leather. Eyes had turned into horrid black eggs, beef jerky lips shriveled up into little mouth-cracking
grins as if it was all a big joke. Stone swore he saw the eyes of one moving to keep a scope on him. He gulped hard and tore
his own eyes away, vowing not to look at the damned things ever again.
As they walked beneath the head greeting committee the Indians around the camp saw that their returning warriors had brought
back some strange cargo. Evidently they didn’t get a hell of a lot of visitors in these parts, for every man, woman, and child
in the village dropped whatever they were doing, rose, and headed quickly over to see what God had wrought. Their faces didn’t
look too inviting; maybe they were trying to visualize how Stone’s head would look up there as an addition to their small
but highly regarded skull welcoming sign.
But when they caught sight of the dog trotting along half hidden behind Stone’s legs, the Indians’ faces took on a different
look—one of stark terror. They backed off, talking wildly to one another in dialect that was incomprehensible to Stone, not
that he was an expert in Indian lingo. Still this stuff sounded like it might be spoken on Uranus. Whatever power the mutt
had over the sons of bitches Martin Stone would play to the hilt. The ninety-pound ball of ass-kicking pit bull was his only
chance in this rapidly deteriorating scene. But the question still was why the hell did they react to the dog as they did?
Stone looked down for a second at the loping animal and was suddenly thankful he had treated the canine to a stomach-filling
load of Dog Gourmet Crackers that he had found weeks before. He hoped the beast remembered.
Suddenly Stone was pushed hard by the shoulder and he nearly fell forward, barely managing to stop himself with the stick
before he toppled to the ground. He raised his eyes and saw sitting ten feet in front of him, on a throne made from a huge
red leather reclining seat, one of the biggest and ugliest men he had ever seen. The man was a giant, obviously the chief.
What made it obvious was his feather headdress made of countless different colored feathers that trailed down his back all
the way to the ground.
The man’s body was huge, spilling out over both sides
Similar Books
