The buzzards that feasted stirred slightly but more or less ignored his presence. Jacques threw rocks at the scavengers to scare them off and when they retreated, he examined the remains. The dung around the body was fresh, as were the organs that not been taken. The animal had been dead only a day at the most.
That meant the banditos were close.
It didn’t take him long to pick up their trail. They were arrogant, knowing that Cotton and his men couldn’t stop them, so they rode through his land without care. Their trail was easy to follow. About thirty miles from the ranch, Jacques spotted their camp.
They were set up in an abandoned fort, used by the Mexican army at some point. He studied the small structure and saw that it was not very well fortified. Sometime in the past, there had been a complete wall but now the wall crumbled leaving gaping holes. The fort consisted of two buildings: one he guessed was the living quarters and the other a weapons storage and small jail.
He studied them throughout the day, counting the men as they came and went among the buildings. When he was sure he missed no one – he counted twelve men in all – he moved into position.
He spent the rest of his daylight surveying the place and formulating his plan. He would wait until dark and then attack the fort.
He waited patiently as the sun reached its low point on the horizon before dipping behind the distant mountains. The world filled with gray and then black and Jacques made his move. He had visualized the attack in his mind, practicing each movement, weighing each opportunity for interference.
He killed the first man just after he crossed over the wall. The bandito had his back to him and seemed to sway as he stood. Jacques guessed that the man was drunk but he didn’t take time to confirm his suspicion. He slit the man’s throat and moved on to his next target.
He stuck to the shadows, staying close to the wall of the building. As he surveyed around the corner, he saw two more men. Both of the men had their back to him. He came up behind them, put his hand over the first man’s mouth and shoved the blade into his back, through his ribcage and into his lung.
The other man attacked and Jacques sprang forward, knocking the man onto his back. Before the man could cry out, Jacques drew the blade across the man’s throat.
The other nine men were killed with the same ruthless efficiency. They were all drunk or asleep – having filled up on freshly roasted beef and whiskey. With the task completed, Jacques did something he never considered he would do. He pulled the knife from his waist and scalped the dead men. He hung the twelve scalps across the neck of his horse and then left the fort, leaving its silhouette behind him in the moonlight.
***
“It is done.” Jacques told Cotton the following morning. “They will bother your cattle no more.” Cotton stared at the scalps that hung from the horse. Dried blood crusted along the mare’s front legs that had dripped from the flayed flesh.
With that, Jacques turned and walked away into the morning, carrying the pistol and rifle that had been his recompense. He wasn’t sure why they were so important to him but they were. Perhaps they represented man’s desire to persist in a cruel world.
He walked for several days until he came to the water source that had brought him there. He gave one final glance at a world that no longer existed and then entered the portal.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Babel heard the press conference over the loudspeakers that were positioned all across the city. He knew the man who spoke during the conference was telling the truth. Quentin and his family were all dead. And it was his fault.
His first thought was of revenge. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get his revenge, he just knew it needed to come. He could feel the flames within, waiting to consume those responsible. But behind those flames was another realization: he realized that he was alone. Looking out at the street with hate-filled eyes, he realized how vulnerable he was. The Klopph, who had killed his father and his only other contacts in this world, knew about him. They would come looking for him.
Orleans wasn’t a small city but with thousands of Klopph, it wouldn’t take long for one of them to detect him, even with the barrier. It would only be a matter of time before someone noticed his unique energy reading. And once they did, that would be the end. They would learn that he was a Chokka and they would kill him.
He had to leave the city. He was familiar with New Orleans in his own world and everything he had seen so far indicated that Orleans was laid out similarly. He could make his way out of the city but wasn’t sure what would await him in the Outerlands.
He thought on all he knew of the area called the Outerlands. Quentin told him that he had been raised in the Outerlands. Triana had described the people in the Outerlands as inconnu, although he was not familiar with that expression. He hadn’t notice anything strange about Quentin, so perhaps that was a term of endearment. The way Triana had said the word, however, left doubt in his mind.
He would have to take the risk. He couldn’t stand here on the open street. If Orleans was similar in geography to New Orleans, the city would be surrounded by water. He did not know if there was an equivalent to Lake Pontchartrain or the Gulf
