Blood Dance by Joe R. Lansdale Read Free Book Online Page B

said.
    “Nice name.”
    “I know about this here red divvel. That’s not the name he grewed up with. It’s the one the Crows give him later. Crows are an adulterous people, Red Spot. They’re quite unlike the Sioux. This here brave loved his wife, did not chase squaws. Crows don’t consider that manly. They compare it to a hunter who kills a buffaler and stays by the dead critter because he’s afraid to chase after the rest of the herd. Lacks spirit, manhood. He’s dead inside.
    “Tale has it this here buck’s wife didn’t feel that way. She slept around. Dishonored old Dead Thing here. He left the Crows, didn’t go back. Did some scoutin’ and such fer the army.”
    “That’s why he’s called Dead Thing?”
    “Dead Spirit. A woman is somethin’ the Crows think yer supposed to conquer, then move on to ‘nuther. Like huntin’ buffaler. Now, if we’re all through with our chitchat, think maybe ya could help me get this here arrow out of my hide?”
    Dead Thing had not moved or blinked an eye during Johnston’s windy explanation. He just stood proud and handsome, straight as a pine all the while.
    With Johnston directing, I set about getting that arrow out. Johnston was an old hand at it, and it was grisly business. He directed the use of my revolver butt to drive the tail of the arrow and push the point on through. It ripped through the skin on the back of his arm like rotten leather. I broke the point off as close to the arm as possible. Then, with a quick jerk, I pulled it out through the hole it had entered.
    Johnston hardly moved at all. Let no man ever say Johnston was all bluff. He was one tough sonofabitch.
    Dead Thing reached down and took the arrow, did a strange thing. He licked the blood from the shaft with his tongue.
    “Like that, red divvel?” Johnston growled. Picking up the pointed end of the shaft, he tossed it in Dead Thing’s face. “Here, suck on this!”
    He leapt to his feet and pushed me away. Blood pumped from the wound, but it didn’t stop the big man from lunging at the Crow.
    “Boys, boys!” I yelled.
    Dead Thing and Johnston locked arms. Dead Thing was a hell of a man, but wrestling with Johnston would be sort of like trying to stab a grizzly to death with a twig. You could do it, provided the grizzly allowed it, but it would take some time.
    I picked up Johnston’s Spencer and shattered the stock some more by banging it off the giant’s head.
    When Johnston fell, Dead Thing jerked out his Bowie.
    I said, “No more, huh?”
    Dead Thing looked at me, nodded. He put the knife away.
    I rolled Johnston onto his back; and, using a piece of my own shirt, I stopped the bleeding from the arrow wound. Johnson’s head had a knot, but nothing more. I wasn’t looking all that forward to when he woke up.
    Dead Thing was using his knife to cut the arrows from the Sioux, but when he finished that task, he gave each corpse a special salute. He stood up, raised his breechcloth, and exposed himself.
    I had once heard that the Sioux did that, and they considered it the ultimate insult to the eyes of the dead.
    I reckoned that Crow was giving them a taste of their own medicine.
    When he was finished with that, he started back to the first and set to scalping.
    I didn’t watch. I turned back to Johnston. When the fire was built up good, I put Johnston’s Bowie blade in it, and got his whisky from his saddlebag.
    Dead Thing came over with a handful of scalps. “You killed these. They’re yours.”
    “No, they’re yours. Call it a present. As for the rest… well, some of those are Johnston’s and you’ll need to talk to him.”
    Dead Thing grunted, tossed a handful of scalps besididtscalps e Johnston. “He killed the most,” the Crow said flatly.
    “He’s had plenty of practice,” I said. I went back to Johnston, knelt down and looked at the wound. It was bleeding through the torn shirt fabric.
    I got the Bowie out of the fire, and very quickly, put it to the wound.
    Johnston