from his hairline down across his eyes.
Nausea gripped his stomach, then the cramps began, shouting above the harsh, slashing explosions of torment which came from the pegs.
Then, without warning, he heard, as though from far away, the drum beats taking on a new and faster rhythm and there was movement. The hanging was over, and they were slowly lowering him to the ground.
The weight came off his legs, and the strain from the ropes attached to the pegs in his back was released. At that moment, Bond had to struggle to remain standing. He was aware of the thongs at his back being cut and of the two assistants jostling him, pushing, shouting.
Through the white heat of what felt like a thousand wounds in his body, he realised it was time to begin the run. He fought the almost overpowering discomfort, focused his mind first on Chi-Chi, then on the necessity of beating his adversary. If you don’t win, James, Brokenclaw Lee will go on to more evil, his mind shrieked at him. The agony shrieked back as he put one foot forward and pulled against the rope and the buffalo skull.
He managed two steps towards the doorway of the Sacred Lodge before he slipped and fell. As they pulled him up, he caught sight of Brokenclaw, his face contorted in his own private hell, also being helped forward.
There was one way, and one way only. He must rid himself of the weights. Clenching his teeth, he kicked back and then forward. He felt the flesh being torn, and a new highly tuned pain in the right leg.
He performed the same action with his left leg, and, this time, actually felt the flesh give way, a terrible cutting and wrenching as the peg was torn out and the wetness of the blood sliding down his leg.
But the peg remained attached to his right calf. With his mind still centred on Chi-Chi and the need to win, Bond reached down, grasped the leather rope and heaved the peg from its place. He felt the searing heat of the wounds, but was able to stagger forward, using both legs.
He brought his hand up to wipe the sweat from his eyes, gathered his strength and began to move. Not far, he thought. It is not far to go. But his legs burned as though the Medicine Man’s assistants were lashing at his calves with red-hot pokers.
Get into a rhythm, he told himself. To hell with what you are feeling. Just get the rhythm. The drums seemed all around him; he was aware of Indians shouting, as though urging him on, and, slowly at first, he began to get one leg in front of the other.
As he reached the door, his shoulder jarred against something and he looked to his left to see Brokenclaw, staggering, dazed but forcing his body through the opening at the same time. They were neck and neck, Bond thought, and somehow this seemed to give him more heart. He began to jog, but the suffering which swept upwards through his body at each stride made him want to vomit. He bit his lip hard, in that old trick of inflicting a new pain on himself in order to try to overwhelm the old.
Another four steps. His mind began to tell him the old pain
His strides lengthened; somehow he was actually running, head down, forcing his riven body through treacly air, for it was as though what he breathed had solidified, surrounded him, and was trying to force him back.
There was no sense of time now, just the determination to ride it out, to get to the finish, to reach a point where the pain would cease.
He felt encased in blood and sweat, so that he was constantly using the back of his hand to clear his eyes. People still surrounded him and the drumming began to get louder and louder, filling his head, then his whole being.
Quite without warning, the drumming stopped. Silence followed, with only his heavy breathing and the quick thump of his heart in his ears to tell him he was still alive. Then, a few paces away, he saw the white rock and his bow and arrow lying ready.
With a mighty leap forward he seemed to gather strength from somewhere, launching himself at the weapons. One hand grasped the bow, the other caught hold of the arrow.
His vision blurred and he knew his knees were buckling under him, but his sight cleared enough to position the arrow against the bowstring, to pull back on the pressure of the string and lift himself to his full height, turning in the direction where instinct told him his target waited.
Brokenclaw, covered in blood, his huge body fighting to stay upright, was already drawing back the bowstring carrying his arrow until the bow was at arm’s length and the missile wavered in Bond’s direction.
Bond could not get his feet into place. He could not maintain the stance. He knew that Brokenclaw had won; he even thought the arrow was already launched, and at that moment, his legs gave way and he fell to his knees.
Brokenclaw’s arrow hissed inches above his head, thudding into the earth behind him.
One more push, one more reach into whatever reserve of strength remained. He straightened, found his eyes clear of sweat, saw his target, swaying but upright, the bow, meant for him, falling to the earth.
Just before he shot, Bond imagined he could see Brokenclaw’s eyes bearing in on his own, but this, he thought later, was probably his imagination, as was the feeling of a great arc of evil surging from the man’s body.
Bond knew he was on target. He loosed the arrow and saw it strike firmly into Brokenclaw’s throat. There was a noise which he recognised, he had read of it somewhere, the noise like the muffled murmur of a great torrent advancing through woodland, a howl of despair.
He clearly saw Brokenclaw clutch at the arrow, as though trying to tear it from his throat. Then the huge Chinese Indian gave a long, hoarse choke, his hands dropped from the attempt to withdraw the arrow, his arms flew outwards, flapping like some wounded bird cut down by a shot. They were still moving in a flying motion as his body hit the ground.
‘James! Behind you! Behind you!’ He knew the man’s voice, and even as he turned, saw that the Indian, Even Both Ways, was poised on the rim of the oval bowl of ground surrounding the encampment, his bowstring drawn back, the shaft ready to fly. At the same moment, there was the sound of a shot which echoed around the camp as Even Both Ways threw back his hands and was tossed like a piece of garbage into the air.
Bond tottered forwards towards Brokenclaw’s body, lying very still. Then his knees gave way and he sank into a grey mist.
‘Hey, James? James, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.’
The mist swam in front of his eyes and he was again submerged in a great undulating wave of pain, but he could just make out Ed Rushia’s craggy face above him.
‘Hell, Ed,’ he croaked. ‘I said only in the last resort. I had to do this on my own.’
‘You did, James.’ A different voice. ‘Ed saved you when one of Brokenclaw’s men tried to take you out. It was all over by then. Oh, James, darling. What you did was . . .’
He knew the voice belonged to Chi-Chi, but somehow it began to slink away into another land as the darkness came in.
They operated five times during the next six weeks. In spite of M wanting Bond to be moved back to the United Kingdom, the Americans insisted they should do everything. ‘In any case, we need your boy for a good debriefing,’ John Grant had told the chief of the British Service, so M gave in with grace.
Grant’s people came to see him in the Naval hospital at regular intervals, and he learned a little more about the late Brokenclaw Lee’s empire. For one thing, everybody was convinced that his melting pot of Indian tribes in the Chelan Mountains had been for some eventual purpose. ‘They seemed peaceful enough,’ Grant told him, ‘but we figure he only took in the most basic types, those who would return to the old brutal ways. No reservation Indian would ever think of performing the
Eventually, Bond was able to walk again with hardly any pain. The damage inflicted on his legs had been worse than that on his back, but the doctors said that, eventually, he would only have the scars to prove that it happened at all.
Sue Chi-Ho visited Bond every day, and every day thanked him for what he had done. ‘I have been reading the lives of those two whose names we took,’ she told him one afternoon. ‘Abelard and Heloise. I came across a quote from one of her letters to him – after she went into a convent and he lost his manhood. It seems something good to
