22

Bigthorn’s Last Stand

(Sunday: 9:35 P.M.)

The night was a dark sanctuary, the forest a deserted cathedral, yet he knew he could not hide there for very much longer. John Bigthorn lay painfully against the trunk of a small elm tree on Rindge Hill and waited to die.

He had not yet surrendered his will to live. Once he caught his breath, he promised himself, he would get up and keep running. Perhaps he could still make it to South Station. Once there, anything was possible: one of the trams could take him to some place in South Torus where he could hide. The jig wasn’t up yet. As long as he could even crawl on bloody hands and knees, he was committed to staying alive.

At the same time, though, he knew that he was soon going to die. Somewhere out there in the farmlands—among the rows of corn, or even closer, just farther down the hillside—the Golem was stalking him. Bigthorn’s nuts still throbbed from the hellacious kick the assassin had delivered to his groin, and he was exhausted, out of breath from his run out of Big Sky. Henry Ostrow was unhurt, probably not even winded. Moreover, the sheriff was completely unarmed, while the Golem still had at least one of his guns. The odds against him were ridiculous.

Bigthorn’s hogan was just a short distance away, farther up the hill, but there was nothing in there he could use as a weapon. There was no question that Ostrow was still after him, or that he knew Bigthorn was somewhere out here in the Southwest quad. The sheriff’s escape from Big Sky had been narrow; only his familiarity with the town’s layout had given him any edge. If it were anyone else chasing him, the sheriff wouldn’t have been worried.

But the Golem was too skilled a manhunter to lose him, Bigthorn had already spotted him once, running across Heinlein Bridge over the river just a couple of minutes after the sheriff had jumped off Western Avenue and attempted to escape into the farm fields. The Golem was well behind him now, but like a mountain lion following the scent of a wounded bighorn sheep, the killer was patiently tracking him down. Since he had been resting here, catching his breath in shallow gasps and feeling the warm sheen of perspiration on his face grow cold in the night air, Bigthorn had heard the distant, random sounds of something moving in the fields: the brittle snap of a boot heel stepping on a corn husk, the dull slosh of feet moving through an irrigation ditch. The Golem didn’t need to be overly careful, after all. His prey was wounded and relatively defenseless.…

And cornered, too, Bigthorn realized dismally, staring down the hillside at the lights of the town. Goddammit, he thought, I don’t dare leave this area even if I could. There’s at least four dead people back there, all shot just because they got in Ostrow’s way. He’ll waste bystanders if they get between us, or even use them against me. He’s that kind of crazy. I’ve got to keep this where it’ll be just between me and him.…

“Between me and him,” he repeated under his breath. “You’re going to die, aren’t you, pal?”

Yeah, a voice whispered from nearby, I would say that you’re screwed.

Bigthorn looked around. In the underbrush, a small dim form lurked. A pair of yellow eyes peered at him from the gloom. A hallucination, he thought. Sure. I can live with that.

“G’way, Coyote,” he hissed. “I don’t need your shit right now.”

That’s right, you don’t need me to help you die, Coyote’s voice chided inside his skull. All you need to do is roll over, let some crazy Anglo blow you away. You don’t want me? I’ll go away. I’ll come back later and piss on your grave.

“Then tell me what I’m supposed to do, you flea-bitten excuse for a god,” Bigthorn muttered. He let his head fall against the smooth bark of the tree. “I don’t have a gun and he does.”

Is that any way to talk to a god? Coyote needled. Let me give you a little advice, you shit-for-brains excuse for a man. You depend on gods too much. You expect us to do all the hard work for you. So you say you want to live? Save yourself. You don’t need my help.…

“Yeah, well, how am I supposed to do that?” Bigthorn whispered. “I don’t have a gun.”

The yellow eyes grew more intense. You’re thinking like a white man again. They need things that go boom and shoot pieces of metal at people because they’re too soft to kill with their bare hands. You’re one of the Dineh. You’re a red man. Do it the red man’s way.

Bigthorn gazed into the unblinking golden eyes. “My bare hands?” he asked softly. “But how am I to …?”

Your house, Coyote replied. Your house is a weapon. Do I have to tell you everything?

Again, there was a rustle from the bottom of the hill as something moved through the cornstalks, not so far away now. Bigthorn glanced in that direction, then looked back at the brush. The shadowy form with the glowing eyes was gone. Jeez, he thought. I used to have to eat peyote to get conversations like that.

Your house is a weapon.…

My hogan, he realized. Coyote was talking about the hogan. But how can that be a …?

Inspiration hit him even as he was clambering to his feet. Yes, there was a way. Ignoring his pain, Bigthorn began to move quickly farther up the hill, padding silently through the woods. Stay back there for a few more minutes, Golem, he prayed as he worked his way across Rindge Hill. Give me just a little time, and I’ll show you how a Navajo deals with dung like you.…

A coyote howl broke the silence of the hillside.

The Golem jerked around as the eerie sound drifted through the boughs, ducking into a low squat behind the trunk of a tree as he brought his gun up in a two-handed firing position. He kept absolutely motionless, staring up the hill in the direction of the howl, and listened intently. After a few moments, he heard its distant echo from the far side of the biosphere, but his ears picked up nothing else from above him.

He heard nothing … but he saw something through the trees. He peered at it: a flickering, intermittent yellow light from somewhere near the crest of the hill.

The Golem immediately headed for it, gliding as soundlessly as he could up the wooded slope as he focused on the light with an intensity brought on by rage and frustration. His quarry was somewhere out here, but his exact position was unknown; that sense of being denied his target fueled the killer’s rage. Whatever the source of the light was, he instinctively knew that it would bring him to Bigthorn.

Everything else was forgotten: Macy Westmoreland, the diskettes he was supposed to either recover or destroy, the civilian and the police officers he had slaughtered in Big Sky, even his own survival. All he wanted to do was to murder the sheriff. It was a personal vendetta. Perhaps Henry Ostrow would not have allowed himself to be absorbed by such an unprofessional obsession, but Ostrow no longer existed. He was a name, an abstraction of the past, nothing more or less. There was only the Golem, and the Golem would not rest until he had killed Bigthorn. Even the reasons were forgotten; they no longer mattered.

As he neared the crest of the hill, he smelled wood smoke, tasted on his palate the sharp tang of burning cedar. He paused, crouching in the underbrush, searching for the firelight. He could no longer see it for some reason … but then, as he carefully moved a few feet closer, the fire appeared again. Was it inside something?

He moved very cautiously now, sliding his feet across the ground to avoid breaking any twigs, turning his body sideways to edge past low branches. He held the Ruger in both hands with his elbows angled, ready to swivel and fire at the slightest noise. The firelight grew closer, its orange glow casting dim rays through the smoke.…

Then, unexpectedly, he found himself at the edge of a small clearing. In its center was a little house. Light seeped through the cracks in its bamboo walls; through its low door he could see the fire itself, burning in a pit in the middle of the floor. The fire snapped and crackled as he watched from the shadows. His view of the interior was limited, because three walls of the cabin’s six sides, the ones closest to the door, were angled against his line of sight.

It was a trap. That much was obvious, but the Golem knew, because it was a trap his quarry must be somewhere close.

From his crouch, holding his gun at the ready, the Golem cast his eyes around the edges of the clearing, glancing behind him, peering up into the branches of the trees. Nothing. Dead silence. Behind the cabin, then, perhaps … or inside.

Looking at the hogan again, he saw something he had missed before. Inside, against one of the walls nearest to the door, a still, slender form opaqued the translucent light seeping through the bamboo. A man-shaped form, like someone waiting just within the door …

The Golem lowered his gun, aimed carefully at one of the figure’s legs. First, a knee. Immobilize him, then do the rest of the job a little at a time. He didn’t even need to use his gun; he still had his knife strapped to the inside of his right calf. Why not enjoy it …?

Allowing himself a smile, he squeezed the trigger.

The shot, though muffled, was loud in the stillness; the Ruger jolted in his hands, and the figure behind the thin wall toppled forward. He heard an agonized cry from the hogan.

The Golem leaped up from his crouch. He raced across the clearing, ducked, and launched himself through the low door into the hogan. He straightened, turned around, and aimed the Ruger down at …

An empty pair of jeans and a uniform shirt, tied together at the waist and tails, draped over a cruciform of bamboo reeds that had been propped up on a fire extinguisher.

At that instant, the door slammed shut behind him.

The Golem whirled around, dropping to one knee, bringing up the gun to fire straight at the door. Bamboo splintered as the bullet punched through, and he twisted to his left, then his right, firing at the walls again and again. Behind him, a noise on the other side of the back walls …

He twisted around and fired in that direction, hot shells pitching out of the gun’s chamber. Silence, then. He heard nothing.

Anger overwhelmed him. Screaming in frustration, the Golem whipped around again, shooting at the sides and front of the hogan. He was out there, outside the hogan! Somewhere out there, he …

The gun’s hammer clicked as it fell against the empty chamber. Suddenly, it registered on the Golem that he had emptied the Ruger. How could he have lost count of …?

Then there was a bloodcurdling howl as something wild came through the ceiling.

Bigthorn came through the chimney hole in the apex of the roof. His bare feet hit the packed-dirt floor just beyond the edge of the fire-pit; he landed with his knees bent, and he used the momentum to hurl himself at the Golem.

The killer was unprepared for the attack. Clumsily he tried to swing his unloaded gun at the sheriff, but Bigthorn ducked and swatted it out of his hand as he slammed into the Golem. The gun hit the ground across the room as the two men crashed to the floor, locked in a savage embrace.

Ostrow’s knee jerked upwards, aimed at Bigthorn’s groin. This time the sheriff was prepared; he twisted to the left. He avoided the blow, but it also freed the Golem from his grip. Ostrow rolled to the right; he was on his knees and about to stand, when Bigthorn flung himself again at his opponent.

He rammed his right fist straight into the Golem’s sternum, following it with a blow to the solar plexus with his left fist. With a harruph! of pain, Ostrow doubled over, clutching his stomach as he fell backwards against the bamboo wall. Bigthorn was about to slug him on the chin, when he saw Ostrow’s hand dart to his right calf, snatching for something hidden under his trouser leg.…

Bigthorn didn’t allow himself to think. Since the moment he had kicked the door shut and raced for the back of the hogan to climb up on the roof, the one thing he had held in his mind was Jenny’s face, the instant before the Golem’s bomb had gone off. He twisted sideways and kicked his right leg as hard as he could, aiming for Ostrow’s head.

The sole of his foot connected solidly with the Golem’s skull; the killer was again slammed against the wall. The bamboo cracked, and before Ostrow could recover, Bigthorn grabbed his right wrist with both hands and twisted it around behind his back, using the leverage to force Ostrow to his knees. Then, without mercy, the sheriff raised his left leg, took aim, and kicked down at the back of Ostrow’s elbow with all of his might.

There was a cruel, organic snap, like the breaking of a tree branch, as the Golem’s elbow shattered. Ostrow screamed. He thrashed in terror and in agony, and still Bigthorn gripped his wrist, twisting further until blood jetted from broken arteries and the white edge of broken bone split through the skin.

The Golem’s face hit the dirt; screaming, his mouth chewed the sand. He struggled to rise, but Bigthorn planted his right knee on his back and pinned him face-down on the floor. Ostrow’s legs kicked uselessly; the sheriff heard something small drop to the floor of the hogan.

He looked around and saw the switchblade which had been concealed in his trouser leg, laying on the floor.

Still holding Ostrow’s broken arm behind his back with his right hand, Bigthorn used his left hand to pick up the knife. He moved his finger across the tiny button on the onyx handle and six inches of razor-sharp stainless steel clicked out of the handle, shining like evil in the firelight.

Ostrow must have recognized the sound even if he could not see the knife. He fought like crazy, desperately trying to dislodge Bigthorn. The sheriff let go of his broken arm, reached down and wadded his fingers around a clump of Ostrow’s hair. Savagely he yanked the Golem’s head back as far as he could, exposing his throat.…

Bigthorn remembered the time when he was eleven years old and the family had gathered at Grandfather’s house for dinner. There had been a young goat tied to a stake in the backyard; its fur was matted with mud and shit, but he had been allowed to pet the goat for a little while as Grandmother tended to the fire nearby. He had been thinking about asking his father if he could keep the goat, to make it a household pet, when Grandfather had walked over, kneeled down on the other side of the goat, and showed him the knife in his hands. The old man had said nothing to him, merely held out the pitted old bowie knife with the indelible bloodstains on its blade, and at once he understood.

Relatives and friends were gathered around in a semicircle, impassively watching them. Grandfather nodded mutely towards the goat, his eyes questioning. He held the knife in his open palm: an invitation. At the same moment, the uncomprehending goat had looked at him with its square-shaped pupils: soft and devoted, like the eyes of a puppy who had found a new master. He looked from the goat to his grandfather; the old man gently shook his head, but still held out the knife. John knew that he loved the goat. He also knew that he was being tested.

Are you a man? Grandfather wanted to know.

Saying nothing, he had reached forth and taken the knife.…

In the same way that he had stared down into the goat’s eyes, Bigthorn now gazed into Henry Ostrow’s eyes. He saw horror, and more: madness, and hate. But most of all, there was fear. The pulse in Bigthorn’s ears pounded like the slow beat of kettledrums.

“You haven’t got the nerve,” Ostrow managed to whisper through his dirt-caked lips. “You can’t do it.”

Bigthorn said nothing. Words would have been meaningless.

He sank the tip of the switchblade into the Golem’s neck and slowly began to pull the knife in a straight line across his jugular vein.

It was just like killing the goat. Only a little easier.