The Slaughterers Page 4

  Jack pulled Eddie up off the floor and propelled him toward the door. He rushed him outside without a word, pausing only for the scantest of seconds to look back at Badr.

  Jack winced apologetically, eyes brimming with regret. He'd done what had to be done, sacrificing Badr for his youngest brother, but he let Badr know that he hadn't enjoyed it.

  Then, he marched out the door after Eddie, leaving Badr to his fate.

  *****

  "You should'a lit out when you had the chance," said Flint as he bound Badr's hands behind his back with a rope. "That's exactly what I thought you did when you left me on the bluff this afternoon."

  Badr shrugged. "None of us is perfect save for Allah."

  "Speak for yerself!" Poe stomped over and smacked him backhanded across the face. "I'll give that Ollie a' yers a run for his money in the perfection department!"

  Badr's face stung, but he smiled just the same. "If only I could bet money on such a contest."

  "I got a better wager in mind." Poe smacked him again, harder, and laughed. "I bet ya'll be screamin' like a girl by the time we get done with ya'!"

  Badr grinned fiercely. "Then that is another bet I would win."

  Poe howled, and so did his boys. Flint alone did not join in the merriment or look even the slightest bit amused.

  "Get 'im outta here." Poe glared at Flint, gesturing for him to move Badr. "I wanna take him ta' meet his new friends."

  Flint hesitated. A fleeting look of resistance slid over his face like the shadow of a cloud gliding over a field.

  "Oh, right." Poe pulled a wad of paper money from his pants pocket and peeled off a stack of bills. "Almost forgot what day it is." Reaching over, he stuffed the bills in Flint's shirt pocket and laughed. "Don't spend it all in one place now."

  Flint stiffened, then grabbed hold of Badr's bound hands. Without a word, he marched him out the door.

  *****

  When Badr got outside, he saw that Jack and Eddie hadn't gone far. The two brothers stood in the middle of the street, watching what was happening in front of the saloon.

  Badr turned his attention there, too, and saw the strange tableau that kept the Haines brothers transfixed.

  Dozens of townspeople clustered in a crowd that spanned the street, jostling to get to the front of the group. Before them stood ten marauders, each bearing bulging burlap sacks slung over their shoulders.

  As Badr watched, the marauders slung their sacks forward and shook out the contents on the ground. The second they did so, the townspeople rushed forward in a wave, grabbing up the objects that littered the street.

  Greedily, the residents of Oasis snatched up candlesticks and silverware, clothing and bedding, pots and pans and plates. They wrestled over tools and toys and Bibles, breaking and ripping things in the process, seizing whatever they could from each other's grasping claws.

  As Badr watched the mayhem, Poe walked up and clapped him on the back. "Christmas!" he said. "That's what day this is!"

  "No it ain't," said Eddie.

  "Well, it might as well be," said Poe. "This is the day Oasis gets its piece of the pie!"

  Badr couldn't look away from the riot in front of the saloon. He saw a woman tear a hoe from the hands of a little girl, knocking her down. The dandy and the giant fought like maniacs over a pillow.

  "Those are the treasures we gathered up in our travels," said Poe. "The poor dead folks in Heart's Desire and Rusty Hinge can't use 'em no more, so Oasis might as well enjoy 'em."

  Badr shook his head slowly, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. He'd thought the town was oppressed, its people controlled by terror...but some other force was at work here.

  "So you pay them?" asked Badr. "You pay the town for letting you stay here?"

  "Hell, yes!" Poe smacked him on the back of the head. "We keep 'em happy, and they return the favor."

  As Badr watched, the last of the marauders' treasures disappeared from the street. It reminded him of the way vultures and jackals could pick a carcass clean in the desert, leaving nothing behind but bare sand. "You kill one town to feed another."

  "They're happy we're here, Badder," said Poe. "We keep the money flowin'...which is a damn sight better'n anyone else ever managed to do in this craphole."

  "No!" Eddie wandered a few steps down the street, looking stunned. "Those're dead people's things they took?"

  "What's the matter, kid?" Poe laughed loudly. "Ain't ya' never met Santy Claus before?" He pulled out a long-bladed knife and jabbed it in Eddie's direction.

  "C'mon, Eddie." Jack ran over and grabbed Eddie by the arm. "We need to go now."

  "But we never took no dead people's stuff, did we?" asked Eddie.

  "Just our daddy's." Jack glared at Poe. "Ever since then, we kept to ourselves. I never even knew these folks were gettin' paid like this, I swear."

  "Well, hell! Let's get ya' squared away then!" Poe pulled out his wad of bills. "Back pay plus interest, comin' right up."

  "Keep it." Jack swung his gaze around to Badr. "We don't want nothin' to do with it."

  Then, holding tight to Eddie's arm, he ran away from them, heading up the street toward the church.

  Poe chuckled as he watched them go. "Snooty kids." He slid the knife back into its sheath at his hip. "Is it any wonder they weren't invited to Christmas like the rest of this town?"

  Just then, one of the marauders down the street let loose a shrill whistle. The rest of the gang down there shouted and waved for Poe and the others to join them.

  "The natives are gettin' restless." Poe yawned and scratched his belly. "What say we get this show on the road, fellas?" He turned his gaze to the two marauders waiting nearby and nodded at Badr.

  The marauders were like dogs let off their leashes. Immediately, they stormed over and started pounding on Badr, as Flint moved well clear of the action.

  "Save some for me, boys." Poe laughed and rolled up his sleeves. "There's plenty ta' go around, long as no one's a hog about it. Ain't that right, Badder?"

  Badr couldn't have answered if he'd wanted to. The marauder thugs had knocked the wind out of him with barrelhouse punches to the stomach and crotch.

  Then, Poe waded in and hauled back a fist, aiming at Badr's face. "Don't worry, we'll save yer haircut for last. All ya' need is a little off the top."

  *****

  This was not the first time Badr had suffered. He knew suffering all too well, and did not fear it.

  As Poe and his two men beat him like a dog in the street, he welcomed the pain. He let it fill him like wine, drank it down, and consecrated every drop of it to Allah.

  If this was to be his end, so be it. The path that had brought him here had been his alone; each step along it had been utterly true to his heart and faith.

  Given another chance, he would have chosen every step exactly the same way.

  When they dragged him down the street, he recited one du'a after another for the strength to bear his burden. He recited the Ayatul Kursi, which was meant to summon the protection of Allah. He spoke the last three ayaat of the Sura al-Baqarah, begging Allah for mercy, forgiveness, and help against infidels.

  Then, when the marauders threw him down in front of the saloon, and their stinking, sweating ranks closed in around him, he recited the du'a Adeela. It was the most sacred of supplications, a prayer to reinforce faith and drive away the evil Shaytan who sought to corrupt his soul. For Shaytan was most certainly upon him, as he always was at a time like this. The dark one always paid a visit during the ihtidhaar, the last moments of a believer's life on Earth.

  The marauders howled with laughter as they tortured him. They spit and pissed on him, pelted him with rocks and whiskey bottles. They burned his flesh with cigars and cut him with their scalping knives. They kicked him so hard, it took every ounce of strength he possessed not to cry out.

  The whole time, the du'a Adeela was never far from his lips, his gasps of pain transmuted into whispered words of purification.

  Even
as waves of sheer agony ripped through his body, a curtain of peace settled over him. Each fresh blow jarred him to the core, yet the pain was counterbalanced by a sense of acceptance...even relief. Was this what it felt like to be muhtadhir, on the verge of death?

  He realized he was ready for it now. He had traveled thousands of miles, lost everything and everyone he'd ever cared about, failed in his single greatest mission...and all of it added up to this. The only reason any of it had mattered was to prepare him for these last moments of ihtidhaar.

  Crouching beside him, General Poe lifted Badr by his hair and flashed a razor-sharp knife. He was going to cut his throat, he said, and then take his scalp. The dark hair and dusky complexion would guarantee it would pass as an Indian's, fetching a high bounty when he turned it in to the territorial government buyers.

  "Any last requests?" Poe twirled the knife and laughed. "Ya' want one last roll in the hay or somethin'?"

  Every marauder roared with laughter; so did all the assembled townspeople. Only Flint, of everyone Badr could see from his vantage point, did not join the chorus of hilarity.

  "How 'bout some last words, at least?" asked Poe.

  As Badr spoke, he noticed the sky was starting to brighten. Would he live to see the sun rise one more time? Or would he have to be content with this glimmer of dawn he glimpsed through swollen eyes?

  It didn't matter anymore.

  "Allahu Akbar," he said, smiling. "God is great. God is greater than you can imagine."

  *****

  "If God's so great, how come he ain't savin' yer ass?" Poe laughed. "Maybe he ain't so high in the peckin' order after all, huh?" He spat in Badr's face and pulled him close, raising the knife toward his forehead.

  "Allahu Akbar," whispered Badr. He knew what the blade would do to him, yet he refused to close his eyes against it. He would face death as he had life, without blinking, without flinching.

  Poe twisted his fingers in Badr's hair, tightening his grip. "How's it feel, Ay-rab? Bein' slaughtered like a hog without a friend ta' call yer own?"

  Suddenly, a loud crack burst through the pre-dawn dusk. Badr saw one of the marauders lurch forward, knocked off his feet by a powerful impact.

  When the marauder toppled to the street, blood gushed out of him, soaking like syrup into the dirt. The back of his shirt was soaked with a blossom of blood, a gruesome flower with a bullet hole at the center.

  "Sumbitch!" Poe dropped Badr and sprang up straight, looking around with eyes wide as flapjacks. "Who done that?" He kept the knife in one hand and drew a pistol with the other. "Where the hell are they?"

  One of his men pointed up the street at the church. "Must be up there, the way they caught 'im in the back!" As he said it, another shot crashed through the air, catching him in the back, as well. Screaming, he spun to the ground as if he'd been kicked by a mule.

  "Down there!" shouted another marauder, pointing down the street.

  "Yer dead!" howled Poe. "Ya' hear me?" Taking aim at the last building on the opposite side of the street, he cranked off a shot of his own.

  In response, another bullet drilled into another of Poe's men, entering through his left ear and exploding from his right.

  "That one come from over there!" A marauder, sounding scared, fired a shot across the street, into the front of the general store. In response, two rounds ventilated his chest from two different directions.

  "Split up!" bellowed Poe. "Go get the sons a' bitches!" Pulling the trigger again, he caught sight of Flint standing stiffly in the middle of the street. "You too, ya' good-for-nothin' horse apple!"

  Flint fixed him in an icy stare and did not make a move to comply.

  Cursing like a man possessed by the devil, Poe sheathed his knife, pulled his second gun, and fired shots two at a time at the general store. The rest of his men opened up like maniacs, too, some shooting up the street, some shooting down the street, some shooting with Poe across the street.

  Lying on his side in the dirt, Badr listened as the cacophony cascaded around him. The best thing he could do was stay low to the ground, avoiding the line of fire as the marauders burned through their ammunition.

  Then, suddenly, that wasn't the best thing he could do anymore.

  He was facing down the street when he heard the hoofbeats. He recognized them instantly, galloping toward him from not far away.

  Throwing himself over, he glimpsed a beautiful sight he'd thought he'd never see again. There was a cross-street alongside the saloon, and Badr had an unobstructed view of something approaching, something that made his heart pound with happiness.

  Against the pink and gold backdrop of the brightening horizon, Reeh al-Qiyamah charged proudly. Riderless, he hurtled forward with single-minded intensity, his rippling white flanks shaded rose by the onrushing dawn.

  As the gunshots continued to erupt around him, Badr struggled to his knees. Every bit of him raged with agony from his beating by the marauders, but he forced himself to get from his knees to his feet. Inspired by the sight of his steed, he found a wellspring of inner willpower that was stronger than the cries of the greatest muezzin in Mecca at sunrise.

  His moment of hope and rebirth was interrupted, however, by a familiar voice. "Badder!"

  Whirling, Badr saw Sheriff Flint marching toward him with a knife in his hand.

  *****

  Teeth clenched, Badr backed away from Flint. Tensing, he prepared to put up as much of a fight as he could with his body badly beaten and his hands still bound behind him.

  "Stop right there!" Flint had to shout to be heard over the gunfire in the street. "Don't move!"

  Reeh al-Qiyamah's hoofbeats continued to rumble closer. If Badr ran, he could reach the horse faster...if Flint didn't gun him down on the way.

  But what would he do with the horse when he got to him? Reeh al-Qiyamah was saddled and bridled, but Badr couldn't mount him with his hands still tied.

  "I said don't move!" Flint kept coming, brandishing the knife. "That's an order!"

  Badr wasn't about to cooperate. He kept backing away, preparing to run.

  Then, Flint stopped and put up the knife. "Do you want me to help you or not?"

  Badr gaped. Was it possible Flint's intentions were good?

  "If I wanted to kill you, this would be a gun." Flint waggled the knife. "All I wanna do is cut you loose, all right?"

  Badr had his doubts. He believed Flint wasn't to be trusted...but he also believed, by the power of Allah, that miracles were sometimes possible.

  Nodding once, Badr stood his ground. He refused to turn his back on the battle in the street, so Flint had to circle around him to get to his bonds.

  Badr felt the blade slide in between the strap and his wrists. All it would take to kill him, if Flint chose that route, would be a quick slash through the meat of one of those wrists.

  Instead, the knife cut away from him, snapping through the strap that had held his arms behind him.

  As soon as the strap broke, Badr spun, just in time to meet Reeh al-Qiyamah.

  The horse neighed and tossed his head in a way Badr had come to associate with joy. Badr was glad to see him, too, but couldn't waste time with so many bullets still flying.

  He ran to the saddle, wondering if he should ride to safety or join the fight...and then the answer was revealed to him. Whoever had sent him Reeh al-Qiyamah had hung his sword in its scabbard and his keffiyeh from the saddle horn.

  Badr stuck his foot in a stirrup and boosted himself up onto the saddle. Grabbing the keffiyeh, he tugged it onto his head. Then, he pulled the scabbard from the saddle horn, slung it over his back, and reached for Sahar's handle between his shoulders.

  As he slid the sword free, the upper edge of the sun broke over the eastern horizon, its blazing golden beams gleaming in the mirror finish of the polished Damascus steel blade.

  Ignoring the pain still burning throughout his body, Badr swung Sahar overhead. Smiling, he kicked the horse's flanks.

  Making a sound like t
he battle cry of a human warrior, Reeh al-Qiyamah charged into the street.

  *****

  With the grace and fury of Saladin himself, Badr swirled through the marauders' ranks, sowing death with each sweep of Sahar. The butchers of Heart's Desire, Rusty Hinge, and who knew how many other towns were butchered themselves, dropping dead in sprays and splatters of scarlet. Their guns failed utterly against the man on horseback, missing or misfiring every time a trigger was pulled.

  Many of the marauders had already been cut down by the snipers, who kept up their barrage without ever striking Badr or Reeh al-Qiyamah. If the marauders had come close to silencing any of their rifles, it didn't show; the snipers continued pumping round after round from their hidden nests, clearing any threat to Badr's personal campaign.

  Soon, only one marauder remained from what had once been a small army--General Poe. Other than Poe and Badr, only Flint was left standing. The three of them formed a triangle in the street.

  As they glowered at each other under the bright morning sky, a voice called out from up the street, from the direction of the church. "Save that one for me!" It was Jack Haines. "The General's mine!"

  "Like hell!" Poe swung one of his pistols away from Badr, whom he'd been keeping in his sights, and pointed it at the church. "Say hi to Daddy, boy!" As soon as Jack emerged from the church's front door, Poe pulled the trigger...and nothing happened. The gun was empty. "Give 'im a kiss on the cheek for me, boy!" He swung his other gun around and tried to fire that one, too, with the same result.

  Jack kept running down the street, carrying a rifle. His face was etched with a grim scowl.

  Badr frowned as he watched him approach. After all the great shots Jack had made during the fight, he surely could have perforated Poe from a distance if he'd tried.