The Collection

He watched Lone Cloud's father melt into the floor.

'Come on!' Full Moon yelled.

The two of them ran outside.

Death Row was no longer silent. A hot wind was blow­ing, and it carried with it screams. The screams of men, women, and children, pitched at different tones and vol­umes, all sounding without pause. The street still appeared to be empty, but it felt as though it wasn't, and the two of them looked through the swirling sand for a sign of move­ment.

A black cowboy-hatted figure walked toward them through the dust from the far end of the street.

Full Moon raised his rifle. Lone Cloud took the .45 from his belt and aimed it.

'What's going to happen if we kill them?' Lone Cloud asked.

Full Moon shook his head. 'I don't know.'

'You think anyone's ever tried this before?'

'I don't know.'

The figure walking toward them was carrying a hatchet, and as he drew closer, Full Moon could see that it was the man with the beard. The one who had cut off the top of his father's head.

Full Moon raised the .22, sighted the man, and shot him in the chest. The man's head jerked back at the same time that his chest exploded, dark liquid spewing out from be­hind, and though he hadn't heard the report, Full Moon knew that Lone Cloud had shot the man as well.

'Behind you!' Lone Cloud yelled.

Full Moon swiveled as he heard the thunderous sound of Lone Cloud's gun. He saw, for a second, the man with the mustache, arm raised, a knife clutched in his fist, but then the man was gone, disappearing instantly, appearing sec­onds later far off to the left. Lone Cloud shot again, this time hitting the man in the arm. The man dropped the knife, and Lone Cloud shot once more, hitting the man in the gut. Mus­tache doubled over and fell, unmoving, onto the dirt.

The wind had died down by this time, and the tempera­ture had dropped. Full Moon tried to reload his rifle, but his hands were shaking and he dropped a shell. He took another one from his pocket and inserted it in the chamber.

'Two down,' Lone Cloud said. 'One to go.'

'I give up!'

They looked to their left at the sound of the voice. Patch-Eye emerged from the sheriff's office, arms raised in sur­render. He began walking toward them, and there was something about the lack of hesitation in his movements, his obvious lack of fear, that made Full Moon uneasy.

Full Moon raised his rifle. 'Stop right there!' he ordered.

The man continued walking.

Lone Cloud gripped his .45, straightened his arm.

'Wait,' Full Moon said. 'Don't shoot him. Let's hear what he has to say.'

'Halt!' Lone Cloud yelled.

Patch-Eye moved toward them, arms still raised. This close, Full Moon could see that his skin was not all skin. Most of it was, but it was so old that it was cracked and split, and the fissures were filled with what looked like painted hair. It was as though the form they were looking at was a mask, a hastily repaired costume that hid the real creature within.

'I don't think he's human,' Full Moon said.

'We killed the other two, we can kill him. Whatever he is, he can die.'

Lone Cloud had not even finished the sentence when the knife sliced open his upper arm. He screamed, dropping the gun.

Patch-Eye stood unmoving, arms still raised.

Full Moon jumped back, startled. His grip on the rifle tightened, and he glanced quickly to the left and the right. Who had thrown the knife? Beard and Mustache were still lying on the ground. And Patch-Eye had had his arms up the entire time.

Or had he?

Full Moon had been half looking at Lone Cloud as he spoke. Could Patch-Eye have moved that fast, throwing the knife and then immediately putting his hands back up in the air?

'Why are you trying to kill us?' Full Moon asked.

Patch-Eye looked at him, smiling. 'Why are you trying to kill us?'

'Why did you come looking for me?'

'Why did you come looking for me?'

'You killed my father.'

'And you killed my friends.'

'You killed my father's father. And his father.' Full Moon swung the rifle over. 'And now I'm going to kill you.'

'This isn't part of the deal,' Patch-Eye said.

'What deal?'

'This wasn't in the bargain.'

Before Full Moon could ask another question, the man's face exploded in a spray of red.

Lone Cloud dropped the shotgun and fell to his knees. He rolled over on his left side, clutching his wounded right arm and closing his eyes. 'Got the fucker,' he said.

The wind was now completely gone. Full Moon looked from one body to another, then glanced down the street. Be­hind the windows of the buildings, he saw faces. The faces of the dead. Some were faces he knew, others were familiar but not immediately recognizable, related to faces he knew. One by one, they disappeared, winking out of existence like lights that had been switched off. The faces were still trou­bled as they stared at him, still frightened or in pain, as though their owners did not realize what had happened, but in the instant before they winked out of existence, an ex­pression of gratitude passed over each.

Full Moon bent down next to Lone Cloud, and as he helped his friend stand and saw the dirt of Death Row blur and shift in his sight, he realized that he was crying.

He left Lone Cloud at the hospital in Rojo Cuello.

He'd planned to stay, to wait around until his friend's arm was patched up, but that was going to take several hours, and because it was a knife wound, the hospital was required to inform the police, and there would probably be several more hours of questioning.

Lone Cloud told him to leave, to drop him off and go.

To return and confront Black Hawk.

There was an ambulance in front of the casino when he arrived back at the reservation. Inside, a huge crowd had gathered around one of the blackjack tables, and Full Moon pushed his way through the gawkers until he reached the front.

'Jesus,' he breathed.

John and Tom Two-Feathers moved next to him, and he turned toward them. 'What is it?' he asked.

John licked his lips. 'Black Hawk,' he said.

Full Moon looked down again at the floor. All that was left of the council leader was a brown spiderlike thing that walked lamely around in a closed circle, hissing and spitting at those who looked upon it. The two paramedics, who had obviously arrived some time ago, stood with their stretcher, unsure of what to do.

This wasn't in the bargain.

Full Moon climbed onto the top of the blackjack table, raising his arms for silence. He glanced around the casino, making sure everyone could see him, and he told them what had happened. He told them of his father and his father's fa­ther and all of the other tribe members who had been killed on Death Row over the years, their deaths blamed on either outlaws or cowboys, whites or Mexicans. He told them what he had seen, what he had heard, what he had learned, and there was silence in the casino.

The thing that had been Black Hawk screamed, a high, piercing, almost birdlike sound, and Full Moon jumped off the table.

'This is for my father,' he said.

He lifted his leg, brought his boot down hard on the crea­ture's body. There was a loud crack and a lower