MAY BLOOD PAVE MY WAY HOME
CENTRAL MEXICO. 1916.
A gibbous moon lit the world with a specter of what it could have been. The light had been enough to push forward until their mounts were faltering. Dun-colored ground gave way to dark lumps, creosote and mesquite scrub indistinguishable from the men that slumbered. Lieutenant Providence Pope made his way through the field of sleeping soldiers, his bones aching from fourteen hours in the saddle. Everyone had slept where they’d fallen except him and Sunderson. They couldn’t bed down until they were sure their men were taken care of and guards were set. Then afterwards, Sunderson wanted to huddle up and spread out his maps. Those damn maps. As if a map could tell him everything.
“Maps don’t say nuthin’ the land don’t want you to know,” Husker John was always fond of saying. The big sergeant spoke the truth.
Pope had tried to convince Sunderson of this, but the man ignored him. They’d both learned the same curriculum, albeit four years apart, the lessons of the Civil War drilled into them in class after class at West Point. But this wasn’t two pitched armies fighting each other. This wasn’t Gettysburg nor was it the first or second Battle of Bull Run. Both Pope and Sunderson could quote line and verse the timelines of each of those battles, map them in a sandbox, then rattle off the mistakes each side had made. No, this was more like Indian fighting where one force chased the other until the other turned to fight, then turned once more and fled.
Ever since Pope had been assigned B Troop in the famed Buffalo Soldiers, chasing Comanches and Apaches along the border, he’d known that they had to learn new tactics. He’d turned to Buffalo Soldiers like Sergeant Major Husker John who’d been fighting in the all-black cavalry for twenty years or the old man Fitz Lee, who’d won a medal for bravery during the Battle of San Juan Hill in the old Cuban campaign. They were more knowledgeable about the act of war than any of the retired colonels and majors teaching back at West Point. And now here they were, exhausted, bedded down in a valley with high ground on all sides, selected specifically by Sunderson because it appeared to be a place where they could “bed down unseen.” Damn Sunderson. The East Coaster was going to get them all killed.
“Lieutenant Pope, sir,” came a rough voice off to his right. “You be wanting some coffee?”
Two soldiers sat beside a smoldering pile of ashes, the outward glow hidden by dirt and rocks. Each wore the cavalry blue uniforms with yellow piping. Dark blue for the top with copper buttons the Indians were fond of taking and a lighter blue for the pants, each leg tucked into scuffed and worn cavalry boots. They wore utility belts that carried a canteen and ammo for their Model 1896 Krag-Jørgensen carbines, which lay beside each of them. They each wore slouch hats, which differed from the Stetsons worn by Pope and Sunderson.
Pope strode over and squatted with them, holding out the dusty tin cup that usually hung at his waist for just such a moment. “Sure. Thanks.” He glanced at the two but didn’t recognize them.
“I’m Private Pile and this here is Private Steve,” the one who’d offered coffee said.
“Steve, is that your whole name?” Pope asked, eyeing the dark man.
“Father’s name was Steve. My momma wanted him to be remembered so I’m Steve Steve.”
“Where you from?” Pope asked.
“Biloxi, suh.”
“This your first mission, Private?”
“Yessuh,” the man said, his head and eyes lowered.
Pope had seen that sort of behavior plenty. Fifty years after the abolition of slavery and still black folk were afraid of the white man. He knew there were places where times hadn’t really changed, but he’d never been there. Born and raised in the Hudson Valley of New York, then an appointment to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point where he had black classmates, had given him a different view of the state of black and white in America. Being posted to an all-black military regiment whose honors and glory were world-renowned put an exclamation point on it.
“Well, Private, you’re in a proud unit so hold your head high. No bowing and scraping here.”
“I told him, El Tee Pope, but he wouldn’t listen. I told him us Buffalo Soldiers was the most decorated cavalry in the entire West.”
“Private Steve, let me say this. General Black Jack Pershing wants his soldiers to keep their heads up so that they can see the enemy. You can’t see them from staring at the ground, do you get me?”
“Yes, suh,” said Private Steve staring at the ground. Then he caught himself. A shadow of a grin flitted across his face. Then he looked at Pope for the first time. “I mean, yes, suh.”
Pope patted him on the back. “Good man.” Then he stood, pulled out his pocket watch and shook his head. “Gotta go see a man about some maps,” he grumbled. Pope threw back the rest of his coffee, clipped his cup to his belt, then headed to the command tent, formulating as he went the latest argument he was going to make to try and persuade Captain Sunderson to listen to him. Then he saw movement out the corner of his right eye. He thought it was a man, but when he turned, there was no one there. Still, he watched as a bush moved, then another, then a tripod of rifles fell. He didn’t see who it was, and there wasn’t even a whisper of a wind, but it looked like the passage of a man.
He let out a cry, pulled his pistol from his belt, and ran to the fallen rifles.
Men leaped from their positions, grabbing at their weapons, looking around. The whole camp awoke and they searched for an hour, until it was clear that no one was there. Still, he had the guard doubled, just in case.
“You seeing ghosts, Pope?” sneered Captain Sunderson, when it was all said and done. He was commander of A Troop, the leader of their reconnaissance party, a prima donna and a horse’s ass.
But Pope had seen what he’d seen. He just didn’t know what it was. “Better safe than sorry,” he mumbled, then squatted down to watch Sunderson play at his maps.
They were ten days into what was left of the Punitive Expedition—where General Black Jack Pershing took nearly ten thousand men into Mexico to retaliate against Pancho Villa for his attacks on United States sovereign soil. Things hadn’t gone well from the start. Pancho Villa had turned out to be a virtual ghost. Then after the Battle of Carrizal, a messenger had arrived, informing the general that he and the army were being recalled. Not only was the Mexican government at odds with the idea that nearly ten thousand United States soldiers were five hundred miles deep in their country chasing after Pancho Villa and his army, but President Wilson wanted the 10th Cavalry Regiment heading east for a boat to send them to the war in Europe.
Pope remembered the moment well. He’d been in the general’s tent and had felt the full-on power of an angry glower. Pope had done what Private Steve had done, his gaze seeking solace somewhere near the ground. The general’s words were directed at President Woodrow Wilson, and no one in the tent would ever dare relay them or even say them aloud for fear of being dispatched by a line of seven soldiers with rifles.
“Scouts have Villa moving west,” Sunderson began, pointing at the map. “Make sense that they’re heading to Guanajuato,” pronouncing the J.
Pope sighed. “There’s no evidence Villa’s anywhere near Guanajuato,” he said, pronouncing the word correctly, replacing the J-sound with an H-sound. “I know. I know. Your recon has it that we are, but they’re as… as…”
“Go ahead and say what you mean, Lieutenant,” Sunderson said in his patronizing Virginia drawl. “We both know I haven’t seen combat until this expedition.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, sir,” Pope said in frustration. “It’s just that I know what it’s like to chase Comanches. They have a certain way of moving through a country. I can’t pinpoint exactly how I know, but by God, sir, we’re chasing Indians, not Villa.”
“And the recon boys from the Motorcycle Squad, they don’t matter?”
The Punitive Expedition had been the first time the U.S. military had used motorcycles in battle. They’d been mainly used for reconnaissance and message delivery. Pershing had given their hundred-man element two motorcycles.
“I’m surprised they can see anything as loud as those machines can get. Comanches can hear them coming a mile away. And let’s face it, they have zero experience chasing Comanches.”
“Just like me.”
“You said it, sir.”
“Fine, Pope. I’ve heard your arguments for the last ten days. Let me ask you this, what would you do if you were in command?”
“I’d split our forces into two. Your men know more about chasing Indians than fifty West Point grads. I learned that lesson the hard way when I arrived to take command.” He pointed to their place on the map. “Problem as I see it is that we’re currently huddled in this valley. If I was Comanche, I’d be holed up here and—”
The tent flap opened, and Husker John shoved his head inside. His wiry hair was cut into a Mohawk. An ugly mass of scars twisted the right side of his head where he’d almost been scalped.
Sunderson frowned. “What are you doing interrupting us, boy?”
Husker John ignored the remark, his eyes on Pope. “We gotta problem, suh. Sentries to the west and south are gone.”
“What do you mean gone?” Sunderson asked.
“Just that, suh. Gone.”
“Are the men prepared?” Pope asked.
“Yes, suh. Word is spreading. They’ll be ready.”
Sunderson grabbed Pope’s shoulder. “What are you talking about? I didn’t hear any alarm.”
“This is Indian country, sir. We don’t sound alarms in cases like these. What I did earlier was different. I thought someone was in our camp. In fact, there might have been someone. Your men know what to do. The Comanches think they have us at a surprise, but we know better.” Pope made to stand, then paused. “You need to trust your men, sir.”
Then he left, heading straight for the center of his troop. He kept his eyes down, but noted the many shadows that dotted the sides of the hills surrounding them. He kneeled by Husker John. “Have the men prepare to fire.”
Husker John gave the low call of an owl. As it echoed across the valley, the Buffalo Soldiers of B and A troops slowly rolled onto their bellies and aimed into the darkness. They’d practiced this maneuver before and had used it effectively against a Comanche attack just south of Agua Prieta last year.
“Fire,” Pope whispered.
Husker John screeched like the owl of its name and a hundred rifles fired—grazing fire only a foot off the ground.
Screams split the night as Comanche warriors who’d been crawling toward their location were suddenly struck by bullets fired along the ground.
“Fire,” Pope shouted and pulled out his pistol. “Fire at will.”
Those Comanches who’d stood to flee were shot down. The cacophony of firing was intense as rifles from both sides fired, filling the air with dark, blinding smoke, making it even harder to see in the wan moonlight.
Then Pope saw movement toward B Troop’s flag. The strangest looking Comanche he’d ever seen seemed to pop into existence. The Comanche wore strange armor and had even stranger hair. As the Comanche began reaching for the flag, Pope leveled his pistol, took aim down the eight-inch barrel, and shot the warrior in the back.
The warrior spun, his hair whipping around behind him. He held a strange pistol in his hand.
Pope fired again, catching the warrior in the chest, knocking him back a step.
The warrior fired, the bullet expanding improbably into a net.
Pope dove to his right, the net brushing his shoulder but passing over him.
It caught Private Steve on the head and Pope watched in horror as the net contracted, the mesh biting into skin until blood shot free. But he didn’t have time to watch it all. He turned and fired, unloading the last four bullets of his pistol into the strange warrior. At first, he didn’t think that his bullets had any effect, but then the warrior staggered, and as he did, he flashed in and out of existence.
Pope surged to his feet, but before he could even take a step, Husker John plowed past him and tackled the strange warrior. Husker John grabbed a stone from the ground and with two hands, brought it down on the warrior’s head once, then twice.
Pope turned to get his bearings. His men were kneeling and prone, firing at moving shadows. He saw several of his men go down and cursed every time. He loaded his pistol with steady hands, remembering fleetingly his first Indian fight and how terrified he’d been. The memory made him look toward A Troop where Sunderson’s men were gathered en masse around him, as if they were a Roman legion forming a cohort block. Their rate of fire was impressive, but they made even better targets. Then Pope understood. He’d had his men surround him as human shields. Fucking Sunderson.
Three of Sunderson’s men went down. Then three more right after. Pope watched as one of the men seemed to be pulled into the air and thrown, the body crashing to the ground in an awkward twisting of limbs.
One of the motorcycles exploded, lighting the night.
Someone opened with their sole Model 1895 ten-barreled Gatling gun.
Horses screamed.
Pope scrambled over to Husker John and saw the Comanche for the first time up close.
Husker John glanced up with big eyes. “What kind of Comanche is this, suh?”
“None I’ve ever seen.”
The Comanche wore armor of a sort. It felt like metal, but was softer. It also seemed to have a mask of some kind over its face. This was no Comanche. This was a completely different Indian all together.
Pope snatched the warrior’s pistol from where it had fallen on the ground. He expected it to be heavy, but it was amazingly light.
Suddenly a Comanche broke through the lines and ran toward them.
Pope raised the pistol and fired. A net grew out of thin air and caught the Comanche on the head, knocking him back and slamming him to the ground.
The strange warrior stirred.
“M-di mar’ct,” it said, the alien words coming from beneath the mask. Then it repeated. “M-di mar’ct.”
“Doesn’t sound Comanche,” Husker John said.
“It’s because this isn’t a Comanche.” Pope stood, now a gun in each hand. “I don’t know what he is.”
Another of the strange warriors blinked into existence. This one was taller and held a long spear with a wicked-looking end. The warrior moved incredibly fast, dodging bullets, slashing down the men of B Troop with the ease of a farmer slashing wheat. It became apparent to Pope that the warrior was heading his way. He felt a moment of fear take him as he watched the effortlessness with which the warrior was cutting down his men.
Pope backed a few steps and knelt beside the downed warrior. He holstered his pistol, then pressed the side of the strange warrior’s gun to its head.
“Husker John, get behind me,” Pope said. He watched as the new warrior cut down three more of his men then skidded to a stop, the long rectangular blade of the spear stopping inches from Pope’s face. “Drop your weapon or I’ll kill him.”
Pope didn’t know if the other understood him. He just had to hope it did.
“Drop your weapon or I’ll kill him,” the warrior said in return.
Pope blinked in confusion as he heard his own words said back to him.
“Who are you?” Pope asked.
“Who are you?” the warrior asked back in his voice.
The warrior was taller than the one they had on the ground. He wore the skeletal remains of what looked like a bear claw on a dark chain around his neck. His dark armor reminded Pope of pictures he’d seen of knights during the Crusades, but this one was articulated to allow for easy movement. His head was covered by the same mask as the one Pope had at the end of the pistol.
Pope noted that most of the firing had stopped.
“Is it the devil, El Tee Pope?” Husker John whispered.
Pope shook his head as he looked at his left hand that was holding the warrior in a sitting position. “The devil don’t bleed.” His hand was coated in a luminous green substance and he thought to himself, if the devil could bleed, wouldn’t it be green?
“I’m not playing around,” he said to the standing warrior. “Who are you and why are you here?”
The warrior’s head turned slightly as if he were regarding a new thing. Then he said in an accent Pope didn’t recognize, “We are Yautja,” pronouncing the word like Ya-OOT-ja. “We fight with Comanches.” The cadence of the words was unnatural.
“Comanches are our enemy,” Pope said flatly. “Does that make you our enemy as well?”
The Yautja turned its head again as if it were listening to something. “Ooman k’v var ooman,” it said. Then in English it translated, “Humans hunting humans.” Then came the sound of clicking from inside the mask.
Pope considered the statement and said, “We hunt them because they hunt us. We hunt first so that they will not hunt last.”
The Yautja lowered its spear, then spun it several times until the blade was pointed down.
Shouts came from behind the Yautja.
Pope lowered the pistol. Several of his men were gathering behind the Yautja, weapons raised. A crazy idea came to Pope, one that had to be acted on at once. He stood, pulling the wounded Yautja to its feet. “Here. Take him. I don’t know how to heal him.”
The Yautja hesitated a moment, then stepped forward and took the weight of the smaller Yautja whose back glowed with smears of green luminescent blood. Now that Pope was standing he noted that the Yautja was head and shoulders again taller than he was.
“Lieutenant Pope, what do you have there?” came Sunderson’s voice.
“Go. Now,” Pope said, jerking his head to his left. Then loudly he said, “Do not harm these two. Let them go free on my command.”
The Yautja held the smaller warrior in its arms and began to walk away.
“Lieutenant Pope, what are you doing?”
“Letting them take their wounded.”
“What? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Belay that order and fire at will.”
“Do not fire!” Pope shouted.
The men looked nervously from Sunderson to Pope, but listened to the white officer who’d been with them the longest.
“I’ve had about enough of this,” Sunderson said in exasperation. He drew his pistol and fired it into the back of the retreating Yautja.
The giant warrior halted. He turned his head slightly and a piece of metal the size of a small plate flew from him to embed in Sunderson’s chest.
Sunderson gasped and let his pistol fall from his hand. He dropped clumsily to his knees and coughed blood.
Pope ran to him.
A metal disc was sticking half out of Sunderson’s chest.
Pope touched it and could feel it vibrate beneath his fingers. He watched in awe as the disc worked its way backwards, then flew back to the Yautja, who somehow caught it and then disappeared with the wounded warrior as if they’d never been there at all.
Buffalo Soldiers all around began to whisper and curse. Several got down on their knees to pray. Still more stood, unable to move, staring at the spot where the Yautja had just been.
Sunderson drew one last ragged breath and then collapsed, dead.
The rest of the night found Pope directing his men in parties of five to collect the dead and clear the battlefield. A triage area had been set aside to help the wounded. They set new sentries, this time doubling them. Pope believed they’d do well against the Comanches, but probably wouldn’t have a chance with the Yautja, especially the big one with the spear. It wasn’t until shortly before dawn that he had enough time to sit down and think. Private Pile brought him some much-needed coffee. He mentioned that Private Steve hadn’t made it, but then Pope already knew that. Too many good soldiers had died that day. He’d reviewed their losses on the tally sheet Husker John had provided. Of the hundred men who’d entered the valley, sixty-five remained alive and of that number, thirty-nine were unscathed. Pope surmised that half of their number of dead had been killed by the Yautja.
Husker John sat heavily beside him. “We going back now, suh?”
Pope nodded. “That’s the plan. Enough of us died last night.”
“What was it for? Who was they?”
“Yautja is what it called itself. I don’t know what they are.”
“The men are calling it a demon. Do you think it could be a demon, suh?”
Pope sipped his coffee, which was the only thing keeping him awake. Exhaustion made him feel weighted down. “I don’t know what a demon is, Husker John. Is it a demon? It could be, but I’m not so sure. It had a way about it.”
“It bled green, suh,” Husker John said in a hushed tone.
“The important thing was that it bled,” Pope said, and then exhaustion clamped down on everything and sent him into darkness.
When next he woke, Corporal Motes was shaking him awake.
Pope blinked at the brightness of the day. The sun was high enough in the sky for it to be late morning. He’d dreamed of a girl he’d once courted from a wealthy Hudson Valley family. She had luxurious blonde hair and left the smell of lilacs and orange in her wake. Then he sat up straight and looked around, shedding the last vestiges of his walk with a pretty girl.
“Suh, Sergeant Major wanted me to wake you.”
Pope wiped his face as if he could wipe away the tiredness and got to his feet. He tucked in his shirt that had come loose and adjusted his pants.
Corporal Motes had been with the unit for ten years and was a seasoned soldier. A ragged scar cut his left cheek, puckering his high yellow skin. Because of the scar, it always looked like Motes was smiling, but Pope knew otherwise. Motes’ entire family had been killed by the Klan back in Kentucky and he’d come out west to forge a new life. Husker John had told Pope that not a night went by where Motes wasn’t staring into the sky, what he was thinking about no mystery to any man that knew him.
“What’s going on?” Pope asked. He leaned down and picked up his tin cup. Cold stale coffee stirred in the bottom. He considered it, then brought it to his lips and drank it. Cold as it was, it was still something that could speed him to wake.
Motes pointed toward the east end of camp. “We have a visitor, suh.”
“Who is it, Corporal?”
“An old muleskinner sent by the Comanches. Says he has something to tell you, but he’ll only tell you.”
“Sentries still out?”
“All out and watching. Was the motorcycle what saw the muleskinner and brought him.”
Pope smiled. The Comanches probably knew the motorcycle routes and told the muleskinner where to go.
“Thank you, Corporal.” He turned to go, then turned back. “You and the men eat yet?”
“We had us some tack and water, suh.”
“Think you could scrounge me up some?” Pope asked. The last thing he wanted to eat was hardtack. The small square crackers tasted like dust. But an army on the move didn’t always have the luxury of real rations, so he’d eat it, and pretend half-heartedly that it was something better. Maybe a cookie made by that girl he’d met at West Point. Damned if he could remember her name, just her smell and the feel of her hair in his fingers. He knew he should know, she’d been special to him, but when he’d come out fighting, he’d shoved all the memories of everything good into a deep dark hole to protect them. Why this one was surfacing now, he didn’t know.
“Oh, yes, suh,” Corporal Motes said, nodding. Then he took off jogging.
Lieutenant Pope made his way to where Sergeant Major Husker John was detaining the muleskinner, who was on his knees. The man was a half-breed and going on sixty. His gray hair was bundled up behind him Indian style, but a few wisps blew free in the breeze. His face was pocked from disease. His eyes had a reedy film over them.
“What’s this?” Pope asked.
Husker John shifted his considerable weight to his right foot and shoved the muleskinner with his left foot, knocking him onto his back. “Man says he has a message for you, suh.”
“Did he do anything to offend you, Sergeant Major?” Pope asked.
“Yes, suh. He’s half Indian, suh,” Husker John said in his baritone.
“That’s as good a reason to hate a man as any, I suppose. Especially in these parts. Out with it then. What message do you have for me?”
The muleskinner glanced fearfully at Husker John, then said, “Comanches sent me. Said they have a thing they want you to know… sumthin’ you have to do.”
“Out with it then,” Pope urged, wondering where Motes had got to.
“The nanisuwukaitu… they demand you fight. They say your fight with them is undone.”
“And who are these nani whako?”
“They call them Ya-OOT-ja but they are spirits. None can stand before them and they can walk the spirit plane. It’s where they go when they disappear.”
Pope raised an eyebrow. “Is that so. What do they want with us?”
“They say that four of them will fight four of your best warriors.”
“Then what?”
“All of your men can go free.”
“But they’re free now.”
“No,” the muleskinner said, glancing around, fear owning the features of his face. “You’re not. The nanisuwukaitu are all around us. They’re just in spirit form.”
The idea that they were surrounded by an invisible army of Yautja left Pope cold. He turned slowly, examining the shadows. Three times a Yautja made itself briefly appear then disappear, like it was making itself known. Each time it happened, a bolt of fear shot through Pope’s gut.
“My men go free if we win or lose?” Pope asked.
The muleskinner glanced wildly behind him. “That’s what they said.”
“And how do I know they’ll keep their word?”
“They have a strange honor, sir. That’s how they came to us. They fought our best. We lost, but that didn’t stop them from joining us… helping us. They’ve been with us almost six months now.”
“So four of my people fight four of their… Ya-OOT-ja.”
“That’s right. The nanisuwukaitu love to fight. They don’t drink. They don’t play games. They fight.”
Pope turned to his sergeant major. “What do you think?”
“I think we should skin this muleskinner and send him back to his mother, suh.” He took off his slouch hat and rubbed his hand through his wiry hair, then put the hat back on, making sure the bill was centered. “But if we have a way of saving the men, then we needs to be doing that.”
“There is that.” Pope shook his head. He didn’t like the idea of it, but he feared he had no other choice. “Go and tell them we’ll oblige. Where and when?”
“You can tell them yourself.” The muleskinner pointed further east. “They’s waiting for you in the next valley. Just send four and they will, too.”
Pope turned to Husker John. “Let the man go. We have to plan.”
Pope knew that he couldn’t send any man to do what he wouldn’t do. That’s not what leadership was, so he was the first of the four. His mother had named him Providence so he’d have a lucky life. It had worked out so far and it might carry him through the day. Husker John also insisted on coming. Pope was relieved to hear it, because there was no other he thought could stand a chance. As fate would have it, Motes arrived as they were discussing who next to ask and he volunteered himself. Motes was a fine enough soldier and they were unlikely to get anyone better, so they accepted him to their doomed group.
Pope left the pair to get ready and went to find Conroy, who was a classic Irishman who’d fight at the color of the sky being blue. He was one of the only other white men in the troop now that Sunderson was dead, assigned to them as part of the motorcycle unit. In the end he took very little convincing and Pope soon had his four dead men.
Pope, Motes, and Husker John each carried a rifle and a pistol. They also each had a skinning knife and hatchet they’d plucked from the bodies of dead Apaches. Conroy carried a breech-loading sawed-off shotgun, a pistol, a spear, and a knife. He also brought his motorcycle and drove it along beside their horses, which had become accustomed to the rackety machines during the long expedition.
“Let’s run down what we know about them,” Pope said as they walked. Then he laughed as he realized, “We don’t really know anything, do we?”
“They come in different sizes, suh,” Motes said.
“That they do. They also have different weapons. That may be based on size, but it could also be based on rank.”
“So you think these Ya-OOT-jas have a rank system?” Conroy asked.
“They’re warriors… maybe even soldiers. They have to have a ranking system. It’s why I let the big fella take the wounded Yautja. Never leave a man behind, right?”
“Makes sense I suppose,” Conroy said. “So how’s the fight going down? Who do I get to hit first?”
Pope raised an eyebrow. “I’m not exactly sure but I’ll tell you what, as soon as I know, you’ll know.”
Conroy snorted. “Spoken like a privileged West Pointie.”
Turned out that the next valley was five miles away. It also wasn’t much of a valley—a box canyon, really, ending in a cul-de-sac of rocks the size of rail cars. The flat space was probably sixty by sixty feet and covered in dirt and dry grass. He’d seen this on a map, but the map didn’t show the impressive sizes of the rocks, or how they rose like giant stacked blocks into a three-sided wall. They tied the horses to a scrap of mesquite where Pope thought they’d be well out of the way. Conroy parked the motorcycle beside the horses.
Then all four moved to the center of the space and waited.
…for exactly ten seconds and then four Yautja appeared twenty feet from them.
More Yautja appeared on the rocks.
Pope hoped that they were merely spectators and that they hadn’t walked into one immense trap.
By appearances, the Yautja matched the Buffalo Soldiers in size. One large hulking warrior stood out among three warriors closer to human size. It was as if the Yautja selected the size specifically to match that of the humans. Interesting, thought Pope. If his observation was true, it spoke to a fairness of fight that left him hopeful that the Yautja would keep their bargain.
A fifth Yautja appeared—this one he recognized as the giant warrior from the previous night’s combat. He stepped between both groups, then turned to the Buffalo Soldiers.
“Four fight, then done,” it said, its accent and cadence still peculiar to Pope’s ears.
“Weapons?” Pope asked.
“Two only.”
“They have armor, suh?” Husker John noted.
“Good catch.” Then to the Yautja, Pope said, “If this is to be a fair fight, your warriors should remove their armor.”
The Yautja cocked its head.
The other four, who had been standing impressively, suddenly were looking at each other. Was it worry? Pope hoped so.
“If no armor, then none of your loud weapons.”
Pope thought for a moment, trying to parse what a loud weapon was. Then he got it. The pistols and rifles. Perhaps the Yautja armor provided a modicum of protection from their bullets; without it, they’d surely fall victim. It was a fair offer.
Speaking to the Yautja, Pope said, “That’s a deal. But one more thing.” He made a circle with his hands and then made to throw it. “No using that disc you shot into Sunderson.”
The Yautja cocked its head once more, then made a series of clicking sounds from beneath the mask. “These Yautja do not use this weapon. They are not ready for it.”
Pope nodded.
“To the death then?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t.
“To the death.”
“Excellent,” Pope said, meaning anything but. He backed his men away and they began to remove their hats and shirts. They deposited their weapons in a pile.
Corporal Motes was the first to notice the other Yautja, who were removing their weapons and their masks. When he saw their faces, his eyes shot wide and his mouth hung open. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What are they?”
The Buffalo Soldiers turned and fell in a state of awe as they saw what lay beneath the masks. Pope identified the wondrous protrusions from the face as some sort of mandibles, like from a gigantic insect. Each one ended in a tooth or a claw or a talon. Whichever, they looked sharp and deadly.
Suddenly all four Yautja began clicking their mandibles together. Their shoulders shook slightly. Then Pope realized, they were laughing at the Buffalo Soldiers’ reactions.
Pope turned to his men. “So now we know they wear masks to hide their ugly mugs. Right now, they are laughing at your reactions… your fear. Each of you have faced down Comanches and Apaches. Each of you have been up close and personal with someone who wanted you dead. This is no different. The Yautja are just a different type of Indian to us. That’s all. Pure and simple. Most of all remember that they can bleed just like you or me. If they can bleed, they can die. Do you understand?”
Both Conroy and Husker John nodded, but Motes looked doubtful.
Pope grabbed him and shook him. “Motes. Did you hear me?”
Motes nodded slowly, then his nodding picked up speed. “I hear you, suh.”
Pope thought for a moment against saying what he was about to say, but then dove in. “Listen, you were never able to get back at the Klan for what they did to your family.”
Motes turned to stare at him as hatred bled the fear away from his eyes.
“Look at the Yautja.”
Motes turned to stare at them.
“These are the Klan. These would kill your family all over again. You couldn’t hurt the Klan, but you can hurt these warriors. Do you understand? Do you understand me, Corporal Motes?”
Motes shrugged off Pope’s hands and said, “Yes, I understand, suh,” his voice mean and ready.
“Then let’s go.”
Pope and his men turned and took a few steps forward.
“We’re ready,” he said.
The giant Yautja beckoned one of the human-sized warriors forward. This one’s skin was mottled with greens and browns. Its face was fierce in the way a demon’s would be. For the Buffalo Soldiers, these might as well be demons, but they still bled and they still could die, so they had a chance.
Pope started forward to meet it, but Motes pushed him back and strode to the center.
Like the rest of them, Motes wore his pants tucked into his boots, a white undershirt, and suspenders. He held a hatchet in his right hand and a skinning knife in his left. Pope couldn’t see his face, but the soldier’s head was held high.
His opponent raised its shoulders and flared its mandibles. It wore twin metal claws on each hand.
Pope waited for a signal to start, but there was none. The Yautja just charged. Motes stepped his left foot back and waited.
His opponent swung both of its arms, but Motes dove under them, bringing his hatchet around and cutting a slice from the Yautja’s thigh.
His opponent tumbled.
Motes controlled his roll, then rose elegantly to his feet.
Pope felt a surge of elation as his hope for their survival went from nothing to something.
The Yautja got to its feet and spun. Instead of charging this time, it stalked Motes, but the Buffalo Soldier stood his ground. When the Yautja swung at him this time, he backed away, let his opponent miss, then lunged with his knife.
The Yautja kicked out with one of its legs, knocking the knife away.
Motes paused to stare at the weapon as it flew through the air and it was his downfall.
The Yautja brought its other hand around and swiped away Motes’ windpipe. Blood spurted wildly as Motes fell to his knees. The warrior brought a metal-clawed hand down on top of the skull, embedding the claws in the bone. Then it raked its other hand once more against the neck, separating the head from the body.
The victorious Yautja turned to its fellow warriors and let out an unearthly shriek as it held its bloody trophy high.
Pope’s elation almost died with Motes, but he knew that they had a chance. It was just that Motes had made a deadly mistake.
Husker John strode forward, grabbed Mote’s body and brought it back. Blood dripped down the back of his undershirt, but he didn’t take any notice of it. He gently lay the remains of the dead corporal on the ground, then got up and turned.
“Let me do it,” Conroy said. “Let me fight next.”
Pope put a hand on Husker John’s chest and said, “Go ahead, Conroy. Kill the son of a bitch.”
Instead of heading to the center, Conroy went to his motorcycle, kicked it to life, then drove slowly toward the center. He had a spear in his right hand.
Another human-sized Yautja moved to the center; this one wore metal claws as well.
Conroy gunned his motorcycle toward his opponent, who easily stepped aside. Then Conroy stopped, gunned the engine without moving, which caused the back tire to spin madly, eating through the grass and dirt until it was showering the Yautja in the face. Conroy took off, traveled for twenty feet, spun the motorcycle one hundred and eighty degrees, and gunned it again.
Pope had seen nothing like it. It was as if Conroy were using the motorcycle like a horse.
The Yautja was wiping at its face with the backs of its hands, trying to get the dirt out of its eyes and mouth when Conroy’s spear entered its chest and pushed through. Instead of continuing on the motorcycle, Conroy held onto the spear and let the machine continue without him. It wobbled a bit, ran about a dozen yards, then hit a giant rock, fell over and died. Conroy drove the Yautja to the ground, pinning it there with the spear. Then he pulled a skinning knife from his belt and began to furiously stab the warrior, his hand rising and falling over and over.
Husker John pumped a fist in the air.
But Pope held his breath.
Then it happened.
The Yautja, probably with the last of its strength, brought its right arm around and embedded the claws in the side of Conroy’s face.
Conroy screamed with equal parts surprise and anger, then the Yautja pulled him down into an embrace.
Then nothing, as both of them died.
“Damn it all,” Husker John said. After a few moments, he retrieved Conroy’s body and weapons and laid him beside Motes.
“My turn,” growled Husker John.
He picked up Conroy’s spear, the tip still slick with the Yautja’s luminescent green blood.
“No, let me,” Pope said, preparing to step forward.
“No, suh. I don’t want to see any more of us die, so I’m a goin’.” And with that, he stepped forward into the bloodied dirt in the center of the box canyon.
The hulking Yautja raised its arms in the air. Its mandibles clacked together feverishly. It held the same long spear that Pope had seen wielded before, the blade wide, long and curiously curved. The warrior stepped forward.
Husker John began to jog, then to run at his opponent. He was within five yards when he reared back and threw the spear at the Yautja. The warrior brought its own spear around and swept the missile out of the way. But that left it open. It tried to bring the spear back around, but Husker John was already upon it. The Buffalo Soldier grabbed the Yautja’s neck, spun around behind it, pulled out his skinning knife, then cut the neck down to bone. Husker John held his opponent by the face, grabbing hold of one of the mandibles. They flared briefly, then sagged as luminescent green life spurted free from the enemy warrior.
Husker John let it fall to the ground, then strode back to where Pope waited, mouth agape, then grinning from ear to ear. “You did it! You won!”
“Yeah, but the others didn’t and now I gots to see you die, too.”
Pope grew somber. “I’m not going to die. My name is Providence Pope and God has something else in store for me.” He grabbed his hatchet and strode to the center. He glanced around and saw that everyone was staring at him intently like he was an insect of interesting origin. He shook his head. “That fucking Sunderson following his damned maps. Had he just listened to me, we’d be back at the border, my men sneaking tequila, and me getting a decent night’s sleep.” He glanced at his opponent who had the same clawed hand attachments as the first two, which meant that they’d be fighting close. He’d planned for this and he hoped his plan would work.
He hefted the hatchet, finding the balance, then stepped forward in a tactical crouch.
Then was stunned when one of the blades from an upraised Yautja fist flew toward him. Pope tried to duck, but the blade stuck just below his left shoulder and mere inches above his heart. Had he not tried to get out of the way, he’d have been as dead as Motes and Conroy. The pain was excruciating, causing him to fall to a knee.
“Get up, suh!”
Husker John’s voice focused him and Pope pushed back to his feet.
His opponent strode forward sure and confident.
Pope swung his hatchet from right to left, then looped the return, bringing the hatchet down, then up, all in one smooth move.
The Yautja dodged out of the way, then lunged, swiping with its right hand, which now only held one metal claw.
Pope met that claw with his hatchet and instantaneously realized he’d made a grave error.
The Yautja hooked the hatchet and jerked it out of Pope’s hand, leaving it outstretched and empty.
Then a memory flashed hard through his mind of the Hudson Valley girl, smelling of lilacs and orange. He saw her hand outstretched as he left on a train three years ago, heading west to fight Indians. Her name was Charlotte and she’d been the love of his life.
Then he was back to the real world in an instant.
“Charlotte,” he whispered.
His opponent raked a hand toward him.
Pope ducked under it, grabbed the netgun from where it was attached to his belt behind his back, then brought it up to the Yautja’s face and pulled the trigger. The net launched, carrying the warrior backwards, wrapping and then digging into its face. It fell onto its back and tried to pull it off with one hand. It aimed its left hand toward Pope and fired both claws. Pope ducked, letting them sail overhead. Then he was on a knee next to the warrior. Pope pulled the blade from where it was lodged in his shoulder, almost fainting from pain, reversed it, then plunged it into one of the Yautja’s eyes.
Then he fell over.
A moment later, he was picked up and held at arm’s length by Husker John whose face was alight with victory. “You did it, suh! You won!”
Pope’s elation was dampened by the incredible pain. “I told you I wasn’t going to die today,” he managed to say.
Husker John carried him back to their area and began patching him up. He packed magnesium in the wound and had it wrapped before the tall Yautja came over. Husker John got up and spoke with him at length, just out of Pope’s earshot.
It was only later as he was leading two horses, carrying the bodies of Motes and Conroy, that Pope thought about what Husker John had eventually told him.
“As much as I hate these warriors, I respect them. They’ve asked me to join them. They say they want to learn from me. I’m an old man, suh. I’ve done all I can for the Buffalo Soldiers, so I think I’m going to take them up on their offer. Fact is that life is too short not to seek out something you want. I’ve been wanting a change, and this seems right for me.”
And with that, Husker John stayed behind. Pope would tell everyone that he was dead and his body was unrecoverable. They’d understand. They’d weep. Then they’d lick their wounds and return to New Mexico. And then Pope would leave them there. His commission was up and he had leave saved. He figured he’d take the time to go visit the girl he’d left in the past and see if she wasn’t someone who was going to be part of his future. Whatever his decision, he was never going to forget his brave soldiers, the magnificence of Husker John, and the strange warriors who’d allowed his men their lives, just so they could test themselves on a few of America’s finest cavalrymen—the Buffalo Soldiers.