"I AM NO MAN"
Part IV
[WARNING - Offensive language and violence]
[WARNING - Offensive language and violence]
The Crow awoke with a start in the culvert. He was dreaming and had broken a sweat. The Crow had been having a dream about the dead girl he'd found. He'd dreamt he was sitting before a campfire when the girl appeared before him. She was alive and looked scared. Her mouth was moving frantically, but no words came out. She turned slightly and pointed over her shoulder behind her, motioning toward something. He saw himself stand and take a step toward her, but she retreated, continuing to point behind her, shouting in silent alarm, then fading into darkness. The Crow sat up and rubbed his face and looked around, reassuring himself it was in fact just a dream. He drank a few swallows of water. There was nothing to eat, so he just ignored the hunger pangs, packed up his kit, holstered up his revolver, and headed out.
The Scout, Fatso, Rodriguez, and The Nazi had picked up The Crow's tracks and were making good time. Earlier in the day, they had stopped to gather water from a spring when they heard a group approaching. With practiced speed, they moved to cover, spreading out and forming a quick L-shaped ambush. A few moments later the group appeared. It was a group of travelers; 3 men, 2 women, and a pre-teen boy. The men had the only weapons, a bolt-action rifle and an old single barrel shotgun. The Scout and The Nazi were the best shots and would begin this dance. As the group came opposite them, they targeted the men and opened fire, killing one man outright and severely wounding the second. The women and the boy broken into a run and ran right into a salvo of lead from Fatso and Rodriguez. In a matter of seconds, the group was wiped out. The marauders left their cover. The surviving wounded man was writhing in pain, laying in a puddle of his own blood. The Nazi stood over him smiling like a Jackal, then raised his foot and viciously stomped the man's throat, finishing him. Rodriguez inspected one of the women and shook his head, "Man, this Mujer was fine! What a waste! I'd have shown her a thing!"
The marauders then searched the groups packs, removing some battered cans of outdated food, some old ammunition, and their weapons. Upon closer examination, they discovered the rifle had a broken firing pin and was non-functional, and cast it aside. Rodriguez kept the shotgun, which appeared operable. Later that evening next to the campfire, he would use a file from his pack and cut the shotgun's barrel down to a length of about 6", then cut down the buttstock to fashion a shotgun pistol. Finished with their grim work, they moved off, leaving their victims where they fell.
The Crow was weak and tired. He'd had precious little to eat, except for a few edible weeds he'd found in a field. He felt his waist and realized he was starving and desperately needed substantial food and especially fat. His prayers were about to be answered...at a price. Late in the afternoon dimness he spotted a small herd of Mule Deer on a slope some distance away. They were smallish and, like all other life, clearly underfed, but it was meat. He estimated the range at a little over 300 yards. The Crow piled rocks to form a rest and then proned out. He doped the wind and adjusted the focus ring. Selecting a doe, he let his breath out slowly and, as the crosshairs settled behind her foreleg, gently squeezed the trigger. The shot broke and the round flew true. A second later, the doe convulsed, ran a couple of steps on wobbly legs, and collapsed. The last light left the sky and The Crow began the arduous hike up the slope to retrieve the doe.
Several miles away, the marauders heard the shot in the distance. The Scout cocked his head and raised a finger for silence. They stood silently, listening for a follow-up shot, but heard nothing. Rodriguez turned and faced southeast and pointed. The Nazi nodded agreement. "Yea, def south. Think that's our boy?" The Scout shrugged. "It's possible. Not that far....couple of miles maybe. We'll get an early start." He grinned, Whoever it is, they'll be making our acquaintance tomorrow. " They made their warming fire in a cleft of rocks. the boulders radiated the heat back at them and it felt good. Rodriguez sat, working on his shotgun pistol by the firelight while the others slept. He tied cordage to the grip and hung it from his neck, adjusting the height so the grip hung even with his navel. He stood and practiced scooping the weapon up with either hand and bringing it to bear on a target. Satisfied, he laid down on a mattress of dried brush and covered himself with a threadbare blanket.
The Crow sat next to the fire and watched the venison roasting on a stick shoved into the ground. He sliced a chunk off and popped it in his mouth. He ate slowly, allowing his stomach to adjust to the introduction of substantial food after going hungry so long. He had gathered sticks and built a rack well above the fire, then sliced thin strips of venison and hung them on the field-expedient smoker. He held his hand at rack height. It was warm, but not so much that he need remove his hand, and judged it about right. To this he would add small bits of wood whenever he awoke during the night. By morning he should have a decent amount of jerked meat to get him by for a few days. As he ate, he reflected on the dream he'd awoken from that morning. It had haunted him all day. He didn't know why, but he had an uneasy feeling. Several times during the day, he had stopped and taken cover and watched his back trail. Maybe he was just spooky after killing the marauder. Even if they concluded the woman was not responsible, he couldn't imagine they'd bother to hunt him; caolries were to hard to come by to burn carelessly and besides, life was too cheap to care! With a full belly and warm fire, he drifted off to sleep. Sometime later in the morning, the girl again appeared in his dreams, approaching his campfire, silently shouting unknown words and again pointing over her shoulder at something behind her... He awoke at one point and saw a pack of Coyote's pacing back and forth, just outside the light of his campfire, attracted by the smell of food. He waved his revolver at them and then decided against risking a shot that might warn someone in the area of his presence.
Morning arrived with it's typical dim light and frigid winds. The marauders had set out before light and stumbled their way across the Arizona desert. Later around mid-morning, they came across The Crow's campfire. Greedily, they gathered up the charred remnants of Venison and devoured them as only starving men can. Fatso sliced off chunks of raw uncooked meat that had been gnawed on by Coyote's after the Crow had broke camp. Satiated, they moved off and began actively tracking The Crow. By noon, they got their first glimpse of him as they crested a ridge. There, in the distance below them on the desert floor, they saw him walking South-Southeast along the old Highway 93. They estimated him at about 3/4 mile from them...too far to make a shot...so they kept in pursuit. In the meantime, ever watchful, The Crow had spotted the four figures coming down the ridge, basically following the same track he'd taken. He knew immediately they were tracking him and that they meant to kill him. This was confirmed when he used his riflescope to glass his pursuers and recognized The Scout. "Son of a ....!", he thought to himself, amazed they'd come after him, and turned and ran into a wooded wash below the Highway. At that moment, dust kicked up a few feet away and a second later he heard the dull boom of a high-powered rifle in the distance. He dove for cover, realizing a round had narrowly missed his head, passing just over his right shoulder.
"SHIT, I MISSED! FUCK!!!", shouted "The Nazi". He stood and worked the bolt on a battered Winchester Model 70 and kicked a spent .30-06 cartridge case onto the ground as they watched The Crow disappear into an arroyo. "You said you could make that shot, cabron!" The Nazi shrugged, "Yeah, well big fucking deal. There's four of us and we'll have him soon enough." The Scout spat and shook his head,. "Yeah, and now he knows we're on to him." "Fuck it! Lets get a move on", The Nazi retorted. They gathered their weapons and kit and turned to wait on Fatso, who had been hurling his guts up in the brush. All morning he'd been switch-hitting between vomit and diarrhea, as he had become food poisoned from the raw deer meat he'd consumed. He stank and his pants reekd of feces. "Are you about ready there Ace?", asked The Scout. Fatso stood up on wobbly legs. "Yeah. Yeah I think so." "Well, you fuckin' stink like shit so stay back there, got it?"The group turned and started down the slope, keeping a close eye on the arroyo in case The Crow tried to ambush them, but nothing happened and they grew confident they had him on the run. It wouldn't be long now. The light was beginning to fade so they moved into some rocks to use as cover for the night.
As darkness fell, a heavy rain started to fall. The Crow knelt and opened his pack. He withdrew a camouflaged poncho, and pulled it over himself, then climbed up out of the arroyo, lest he risk getting swept by a flash flood. He moved into a stand of dead Seep Willow along the rim and found a depression he could hole up in. There would be no sleep tonight. He couldn't risk it. It was pitch black and you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Movement was impossible. He felt in his pack and withdrew his Zip-Loc bag and pulled out a piece of jerked venison and chewed on it. Before leaving camp he'd salted the meat as a means of preserving it. He pondered the situation, and knew the odds were not good. He was being pursued by 4 determined predators across a terrain with sketchy cover. This was going to be a test of endurance and cunning. He needed to draw them into a trap from which they would have no avenue of escape. Then he made a decision. Reaching into his pack, he removed a small tactical flashlight. Batteries were impossible to find, and he had been conserving this ultra-valuable asset for just this occasion. From a tin in his pack, removed a small luminous compass. It was a cheapie, but functional. He took a bearing and moved out. Soon he located the Highway and started making time. He would put distance between them tonight.
It was going to be a long night march....
TO BE CONTINUED
The marauders then searched the groups packs, removing some battered cans of outdated food, some old ammunition, and their weapons. Upon closer examination, they discovered the rifle had a broken firing pin and was non-functional, and cast it aside. Rodriguez kept the shotgun, which appeared operable. Later that evening next to the campfire, he would use a file from his pack and cut the shotgun's barrel down to a length of about 6", then cut down the buttstock to fashion a shotgun pistol. Finished with their grim work, they moved off, leaving their victims where they fell.
The Crow was weak and tired. He'd had precious little to eat, except for a few edible weeds he'd found in a field. He felt his waist and realized he was starving and desperately needed substantial food and especially fat. His prayers were about to be answered...at a price. Late in the afternoon dimness he spotted a small herd of Mule Deer on a slope some distance away. They were smallish and, like all other life, clearly underfed, but it was meat. He estimated the range at a little over 300 yards. The Crow piled rocks to form a rest and then proned out. He doped the wind and adjusted the focus ring. Selecting a doe, he let his breath out slowly and, as the crosshairs settled behind her foreleg, gently squeezed the trigger. The shot broke and the round flew true. A second later, the doe convulsed, ran a couple of steps on wobbly legs, and collapsed. The last light left the sky and The Crow began the arduous hike up the slope to retrieve the doe.
Several miles away, the marauders heard the shot in the distance. The Scout cocked his head and raised a finger for silence. They stood silently, listening for a follow-up shot, but heard nothing. Rodriguez turned and faced southeast and pointed. The Nazi nodded agreement. "Yea, def south. Think that's our boy?" The Scout shrugged. "It's possible. Not that far....couple of miles maybe. We'll get an early start." He grinned, Whoever it is, they'll be making our acquaintance tomorrow. " They made their warming fire in a cleft of rocks. the boulders radiated the heat back at them and it felt good. Rodriguez sat, working on his shotgun pistol by the firelight while the others slept. He tied cordage to the grip and hung it from his neck, adjusting the height so the grip hung even with his navel. He stood and practiced scooping the weapon up with either hand and bringing it to bear on a target. Satisfied, he laid down on a mattress of dried brush and covered himself with a threadbare blanket.
The Crow sat next to the fire and watched the venison roasting on a stick shoved into the ground. He sliced a chunk off and popped it in his mouth. He ate slowly, allowing his stomach to adjust to the introduction of substantial food after going hungry so long. He had gathered sticks and built a rack well above the fire, then sliced thin strips of venison and hung them on the field-expedient smoker. He held his hand at rack height. It was warm, but not so much that he need remove his hand, and judged it about right. To this he would add small bits of wood whenever he awoke during the night. By morning he should have a decent amount of jerked meat to get him by for a few days. As he ate, he reflected on the dream he'd awoken from that morning. It had haunted him all day. He didn't know why, but he had an uneasy feeling. Several times during the day, he had stopped and taken cover and watched his back trail. Maybe he was just spooky after killing the marauder. Even if they concluded the woman was not responsible, he couldn't imagine they'd bother to hunt him; caolries were to hard to come by to burn carelessly and besides, life was too cheap to care! With a full belly and warm fire, he drifted off to sleep. Sometime later in the morning, the girl again appeared in his dreams, approaching his campfire, silently shouting unknown words and again pointing over her shoulder at something behind her... He awoke at one point and saw a pack of Coyote's pacing back and forth, just outside the light of his campfire, attracted by the smell of food. He waved his revolver at them and then decided against risking a shot that might warn someone in the area of his presence.
Morning arrived with it's typical dim light and frigid winds. The marauders had set out before light and stumbled their way across the Arizona desert. Later around mid-morning, they came across The Crow's campfire. Greedily, they gathered up the charred remnants of Venison and devoured them as only starving men can. Fatso sliced off chunks of raw uncooked meat that had been gnawed on by Coyote's after the Crow had broke camp. Satiated, they moved off and began actively tracking The Crow. By noon, they got their first glimpse of him as they crested a ridge. There, in the distance below them on the desert floor, they saw him walking South-Southeast along the old Highway 93. They estimated him at about 3/4 mile from them...too far to make a shot...so they kept in pursuit. In the meantime, ever watchful, The Crow had spotted the four figures coming down the ridge, basically following the same track he'd taken. He knew immediately they were tracking him and that they meant to kill him. This was confirmed when he used his riflescope to glass his pursuers and recognized The Scout. "Son of a ....!", he thought to himself, amazed they'd come after him, and turned and ran into a wooded wash below the Highway. At that moment, dust kicked up a few feet away and a second later he heard the dull boom of a high-powered rifle in the distance. He dove for cover, realizing a round had narrowly missed his head, passing just over his right shoulder.
"SHIT, I MISSED! FUCK!!!", shouted "The Nazi". He stood and worked the bolt on a battered Winchester Model 70 and kicked a spent .30-06 cartridge case onto the ground as they watched The Crow disappear into an arroyo. "You said you could make that shot, cabron!" The Nazi shrugged, "Yeah, well big fucking deal. There's four of us and we'll have him soon enough." The Scout spat and shook his head,. "Yeah, and now he knows we're on to him." "Fuck it! Lets get a move on", The Nazi retorted. They gathered their weapons and kit and turned to wait on Fatso, who had been hurling his guts up in the brush. All morning he'd been switch-hitting between vomit and diarrhea, as he had become food poisoned from the raw deer meat he'd consumed. He stank and his pants reekd of feces. "Are you about ready there Ace?", asked The Scout. Fatso stood up on wobbly legs. "Yeah. Yeah I think so." "Well, you fuckin' stink like shit so stay back there, got it?"The group turned and started down the slope, keeping a close eye on the arroyo in case The Crow tried to ambush them, but nothing happened and they grew confident they had him on the run. It wouldn't be long now. The light was beginning to fade so they moved into some rocks to use as cover for the night.
As darkness fell, a heavy rain started to fall. The Crow knelt and opened his pack. He withdrew a camouflaged poncho, and pulled it over himself, then climbed up out of the arroyo, lest he risk getting swept by a flash flood. He moved into a stand of dead Seep Willow along the rim and found a depression he could hole up in. There would be no sleep tonight. He couldn't risk it. It was pitch black and you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Movement was impossible. He felt in his pack and withdrew his Zip-Loc bag and pulled out a piece of jerked venison and chewed on it. Before leaving camp he'd salted the meat as a means of preserving it. He pondered the situation, and knew the odds were not good. He was being pursued by 4 determined predators across a terrain with sketchy cover. This was going to be a test of endurance and cunning. He needed to draw them into a trap from which they would have no avenue of escape. Then he made a decision. Reaching into his pack, he removed a small tactical flashlight. Batteries were impossible to find, and he had been conserving this ultra-valuable asset for just this occasion. From a tin in his pack, removed a small luminous compass. It was a cheapie, but functional. He took a bearing and moved out. Soon he located the Highway and started making time. He would put distance between them tonight.
It was going to be a long night march....
TO BE CONTINUED
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