wood in crucifixion fashion. He wore his boots and his pants and shirt. The Beast had taken his parka and socks, marched in front of him holding the rope in one hand, the police special in the other.
The Beast wore his bear skin over the parka, and walking along the road, Mortimer on the leash, they looked the grotesque reverse of some old-west traveling carnival act, the dancing bear leading his trainer. Mortimer desperately looked for his opening but did not expect one. He’d have to make some kind of move before they reached the cavern. The Beast would not want to keep and feed Mortimer after he’d been led to the stash.
Even in the worst throes of torture, Mortimer had kept his weapons stash a secret. Somehow he’d make a break for it or maybe fake needing to take a shit. If Mortimer could just get his hands on the Uzi, he’d chop the Beast in half with a spray of nine millimeter.
They had taken Mortimer’s medical kit too, the iodine and hydrogen peroxide and bandages. They’d used none of it to bind Mortimer’s mangled hand. The girl had splashed the wound with dirty water, wrapped the finger stump in a tattered pink rag. His hand throbbed but bothered him less than the biting cold. He staggered and shook and lurched forward at the Beast’s insistent yank on the rope.
Mortimer took another fifty steps, shivered and collapsed.
“Get up.” The Beast yanked the leash.
Mortimer shook his head, panted. He didn’t have the energy to form words.
The Beast took two quick steps toward Mortimer, then kicked hard, caught Mortimer in the ribs. Mortimer wheezed and heaved dry.
“I said get up.” The Beast drew his leg back for another kick.
“Stop.”
The Beast froze, looked for the source of the new voice, which had echoed along the mountain road. Mortimer looked up too. What now?
“Show yourself!” the Beast yelled.
Forty yards up the road, a man stepped out of the bushes, planted himself in the center of the road, legs apart. Mortimer blinked, not sure if he was seeing right. The newcomer wore a black cowboy hat, long leather coat swept back to reveal a pair of pistols hanging on his hips. A blue bandana pulled loose around his neck. A forked beard yellow as the sun, long hair the same color, hands hovering dangerously over the pistols.
The Beast squinted. “What the fuck are you?”
“Cut that man loose,” ordered the cowboy.
“Kiss my ass.” But the Beast’s eyes flicked to the man’s twin six-shooters.
“Mister, I’m gonna tell you just one more time.” He eased forward as he spoke, one deliberate step at a time. “Let that man go and piss off. That’s your only chance to live.”
The Beast dropped to the ground, rolled, came up behind Mortimer in a kneeling position. He grabbed Mortimer’s face and pulled him close until the two were cheek to cheek. He pulled the police special, put it against Mortimer’s head. “I don’t know what your interest is in this guy, but I’ll splatter his brains all over the mountain if you don’t stop right there.” With his arms spread along the length of hickory, Mortimer provided good cover. Only half the Beast’s face and a bit of shoulder showed.
The cowboy froze. He squeezed his fists so tight, Mortimer heard the knuckles crack. They all waited for something to happen.
A split second later it did.
The cowboy dropped into a kneeling position, one six-shooter flashing from its holster. His arm shot out straight, and he sighted along the barrel, one eye mashed closed, biting his lip in concentration. It all happened in a heartbeat.
Bang.
The Beast screamed, a high-pitched mix of surprise and pain. He stood, staggered, blood trailing from his shoulder. He swung the police special to return fire.
The cowboy was already on his feet. He fanned the six-shooter’s hammer twice, and the Beast fell dead in front of Mortimer. Blood pooled in the Beast’s empty eye sockets.
The girl, Sheila, who’d been twenty paces behind the whole encounter, turned and screamed back up the road and out of sight.
The cowboy trotted to Mortimer and knelt next to him, began to untie his wrists. “Hold on, mister. We’ll get you free shortly.” He had a yellow handlebar moustache to go with the forked beard.
“Thanks,” Mortimer said. “Who are you?”
A smile across the young face, under thirty years old. “Who do I look like?”
“George Custer.”
The smile fell. “Damn. I was going for Buffalo Bill.”
VIII
After Bill had cut him loose, Mortimer lay in the road, groaning and rubbing the circulation back into his wrists. His finger stump throbbed. The cowboy squatted next to him muttering encouraging things like “You’ll be okay, partner” and “Live to fight another day” and so on.
Mortimer didn’t mind. He’d give Buffalo Bill a big wet kiss on the lips if that’s what he wanted. Mortimer Tate was alive. He’d escaped the Beast.
