Jack Slade, page 14
To the spectators watching from the porch, the two beasts were almost indistinguishable as they rolled across the ground, ripping up the clearing, nettles and leaves flying, roars of pain and battle fury shattering the night, tearing viciously at each other with fangs and claws. Soaring Eagle, back straight, watched the battle impassively, black eyes unblinking, wrinkled face expressionless. Helen watched in horror, a hand at her throat, dark eyes dilated with fear and shock. Jesse’s face was a stone mask as she watched the battle rage across her back yard.
Suddenly the tide of battle shifted.
In a movement too swift to follow, the jaguar’s mighty jaws closed with tremendous force on the foreleg of the wolf, crushing and splintering the bone. The wolf howled in pain and jerked away, trying to retreat, at the same time fastening its long glittering fangs in the jaguar’s exposed neck in an attempt to break its iron grip. But the jaguar held on, ignoring the fangs biting deep into its neck and shoulder muscles. Then it threw its shoulder against the wolf’s side, throwing it off balance. The wolf stumbled and lost its balance. The movement twisted its neck, forcing it to release its hold on the jaguar. Taking advantage of the wolf’s vulnerability, the jaguar released its grip on the foreleg, lunged forward, and sank its fangs deep in the neck of the beast.
It was a death grip.
With a mighty roar of triumph that shook the trees, the jaguar lifted the wolf off the ground and hurled it about in the air, tossing it from side to side without releasing its grip. Then it flung the wolf to the blood-soaked ground, dropped its weight crushingly on its body to hold it down as it worked its fangs deeper and deeper into its shredded flesh, growling with blood lust, eyes flaming with fury.
The wolf’s legs thrashed feebly against the earth, its growls reduced to blood-choked coughs. Its great jaws opened and closed spasmodically. Finally, the fire in its eyes dimmed, flickered, and went out.
The wolf’s dead body lay limp and still beneath the jaguar.
Still, it held on, feeling the body under it begin to shift, loosen, collapse, and finally to dissolve. The beast’s form blurred at the edges, became transparent. Then the translucent substance drifted away on the night breeze, and there was only empty space between the jaguar’s jaws.
It stood up, swung its bloodied head around, and glared challengingly at the people who watched in stunned silence from the porch, its great eyes blazing with the fire of triumph. Flinging wide its jaws, crimsoned fangs glimmering in the moonlight, it trumpeted a mighty roar of victory that shook the air, rose to the stars, and reverberated to the ends of the universe.
With a final disdainful flick of its long tail, the jaguar strode majestically across the clearing and disappeared within the deep shadows floating beneath the spreading pine.
Slade experienced the return of body awareness then full consciousness of whom and where he was flooded over him. He lay stretched on his back, breathing deeply as he regained control over his mind and body, and stared up at the dappled moonlight filtering through the branches that arched above him. His first act was to move his right hand across his body to make certain the automatic was secure in its holster.
Then he sat up.
His first sensation was sharp pain in his neck and shoulders. He felt around with his hand. He then thrust it into a beam of moonlight and saw blood glistening on his fingers.
“Damn wolf got me,” he muttered disgustedly as he heaved up to his feet.
He stepped into the clearing and saw Soaring Eagle, Helen, and Jesse standing at the foot of the stairs, watching him. The old man’s eyes blazed, and his wrinkled face glowed as he watched Slade approach. Helen’s face was deathly pale, and her dark eyes, as she stared at him in disbelief, were wide as saucers. Jesse’s aged face was impassive, but her long grey hair shimmered in the moonlight as she nodded quietly to herself.
Slade stopped before them. “I think the drama is finally over.”
Soaring Eagle’s thin lips stretched in a smile. “You did well. You are indeed a mighty warrior.” He glanced at Slade’s neck. “Jesse will wash and bandage your wounds, but first we must bury Johnny Tall Trees.” He pointed into the towering forest that stretched beyond the yard. “While you were in Crawford dealing with John Dancing Horse, I dug a grave where one or the other of you would be buried.”
They walked to the side of the clearing where Johnny’s dead body lay. He lay stretched on his back in a pool of blood, his neck torn out, and his chest and stomach shredded from the jaguar’s ripping claws. Slade put his hands beneath Johnny’s shoulders and lifted. Helen rushed forward and supported the head so it wouldn’t fall off while old Joe lifted the feet. They carried it back into the trees where a black hole gaped in the earth, a pile of dirt beside it. They swung the body twice then tossed it down into the grave.
Slade shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it aside, picked up the shovel resting against a tree, and filled in the hole as the others stood by and watched. Although he was fatigued after the battle, he appreciated the movement because it kept his neck and shoulders from stiffening up. He tamped down the dirt, leaned the shovel back against the tree, and picked up his jacket.
He stood quietly with the two women as Soaring Eagle raised his hands to the sky and intoned a prayer in the native Sioux language. Then they all returned to the house.
As they passed through the main room, moving toward the kitchen, Jesse said, “Take off your shirt and sit down at the table. I have herbs simmering on the stove.”
Slade removed his blood-soaked shirt and laid it aside with his jacket. As he sat at the table, his leanly muscled torso, etched and puckered from old battle wounds, gleamed like polished bronze in the light. Helen took a seat on the left, and old Joe took his usual chair on the right.
Jesse began washing Slade’s wounds with a soft cloth.
“I’ve heard a lot of stories from my grandfather and other old timers,” Helen observed, gazing at Slade in wonder. “But I’ve never seen anything like what I witnessed tonight. I don’t think I really believed such things were even possible until I saw it with my own eyes.”
The old man chuckled, his black eyes twinkling. “It is your white blood that blinds you. You’ve been contaminated. We live in a mysterious, magical universe, ruled by mighty powers, where anything is possible. Things beyond your wildest dreams.”
She nodded. “That’s the same world Slade lives in. A world of clashing powers. A world I have difficulty understanding.”
Slade grinned then winced as the old woman began applying the healing herbs.
“That stuff stings,” he grunted.
“If we don’t sterilize the wounds, they will get infected,” she replied simply.
Soaring Eagle picked up on Helen’s comment. “Somehow—strange for a white man—Slade has broken into the magical world, the world of the Old Ones, who are the powers that rule the worlds. Powers that have retreated before the ignorance of modern civilization. But they are still there. And they still rule.” He glanced at Slade, who sat with eyes closed, his body swaying rhythmically to the gentle ministrations of Jesse, and his weathered face beamed with approval. “You are a mighty warrior. Like the great heroes of our past. I knew it when I saw you in spirit vision. My vision was true.”
Slade cracked an eye-lid and glared at the old man. “I think you’re just a sly old fox. You masterminded this whole thing. You lured me up here and got me to risk my life for your own purposes.”
Soaring Eagle grinned. “Would you have it otherwise?”
Slade grinned back. “I guess not.”
It was well past midnight when Slade pulled the Jaguar into the driveway beside Helen’s house, stopped behind her car, and cut the engine. He glanced at her; she sat with her arms folded across her breasts, staring meditatively into space. He remained silent. Waiting. Finally, she roused herself and turned to him, her large eyes glowing in the darkness. She studied his harsh features, stared at his wide, pitiless mouth, peered deeply into his cold grey eyes. Then she sighed, turned in the seat, and settled back against the door.
“Do you know what Jeff Connolly wanted to talk to me about earlier this afternoon?”
Slade shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“He could tell from the way I acted around you that we have a relationship.”
“Really.”
“And he wanted to know if I’m in love with you.”
Slade stared at her, his features expressionless.
Her eyes roved over his face, searching. She sighed and glanced away. “I said yes.”
Slade remained silent.
Still looking away, she continued, her deep, smooth voice charging the air between them. “But I told him a relationship with you is hopeless. We live in different worlds. I don’t understand your world, and, after what I witnessed tonight, I don’t think I want to understand your world.” She glanced back at him, fine brows furrowed, dark eyes piercing. “Maybe Grandfather is right. Maybe I have been tainted—contaminated—by my white blood. But the world you live in, work in,” she shuddered, “fight in, is just too alien. Too far beyond my mind’s ability to grasp.” Her eyes became intense. The moonlight cast mysterious shadows over the smooth bronze skin of her face. As if she wanted to get it out quickly, the words tumbled from between her full lips. “I’ve accepted a date with him for this weekend.”
“I think that’s a wise decision,” Slade commented quietly.
She gazed at him almost in despair, almost as if she wanted him to stop her. But she went on, “Jeff and I see the world in the same way. It’s a world in which we’re both comfortable. We understand each other. And he wants a home and family just as I do.” She paused then added quietly, “He’s a good man. I believe that in time I can learn to love him deeply.”
She stopped talking, and silence stretched between them.
“It sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Slade said, his voice soft and low. “Connolly is a good man. I believe I told you as much the first time I met him. He’ll make you a fine husband, and he’ll be a good father for your children. I think you’re making the right decision.”
Her small slim hand streaked out and clutched his arm. “Oh, Slade!” she wailed. “I do love you. You’re the strangest, most mysterious, but at the same time, the most wonderful and fascinating man I’ve ever met. I’d give almost anything for it to work between us.” She gazed into his eyes. He stared back sympathetically. Finally, she shook her head. “I won’t go there, and I won’t ever say that again.” She glanced at him, her dark eyes entreating. “But I do have one last request.”
“Name it.”
“You need to rest and allow your wounds to heal. There’s four days before the weekend. Would you stay here with me, so we can spend that time together?”
Slade was deeply touched. It showed in the warmth of his smile and the softening of his eyes. “There’s nothing I’d like better,” he replied feelingly then leaned forward and kissed her waiting lips.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Richard Dawes was born and raised in California, and now resides in a small town in Texas. After a tour of duty in the Marine Corps, he spent fifteen years in management in the Moving and Storage, Computer and Credit Union industries. He began writing short stories as a boy, and he has written several historical novels. A long-time student of esoteric traditions, he includes references to those traditions in his stories. Other sub-themes explored in his books are authentic masculinity, relationships and power—what are they, and how they manifest.
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richarddaweswriter.com
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WITH MELANGE BOOKS
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Storm Rider
Death Song
Blood Moon
Gunman
Lone Horseman
Comanche Gold
Chinatown
Black Rose
El Diablo
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Jack Slade Series
Night of the Hunter
Demon Hunter
Hunter in the Darkness
Hunter of Mysteries
Power Stalker
Hunter of Shadows
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Wolf Slayer Saga
Dragon Sword
Sword of Doom
Sword of the Quest
Star Sword
Song of the Sword
Sword of Vengeance
Sword of Conquest
Sword of Empire
Sword of Mycenae
Savage Sword
Novels
Doomed Empire
Shadows of the Night
Richard Dawes, Jack Slade
