He barked again and made a panting sound, then withdrew his hands as the two prisoners neared.
“Sounds like a dog,” Seward grunted.
The stranger was crouching out there against the wall and in the flickering firelight looked to be covered in a layer of mud in which star shapes, swirls and skulls had been etched.
The odd fellow looked across the compound to where the fat man in the red skull-mask scraped a knife over something on his butcher block.
The drums pounded, and the sound passed over the celebration like thunder.
Seward and Jacob stared at their visitor. He was large-framed and more heavily muscled than any man the ranger had ever seen. He was naked save for a black, fur loincloth and some arm and leg bands similar to what their captors wore; and he was armed with a long knife at his waist.
The stranger brought his face close to the bars again, and some trick of the light made it look like his eyes were made of flame.
“Gazda!” he said in a harsh rasp, thumping his deep chest with a fist, before he tapped the window bars nodding. “Ginny!” He made a panting sound, swaying in a half-crouch.
“Ginny!” Jacob said, gripping the iron bars. “Miss James?”
“Tell us more!” Seward hissed, casting desperately past the man as shapes moved toward the festival grounds. By their unsteady movements he could tell that the rum was still flowing, and they were likely blinded by the flames of the cook fire for none approached the window.
The stranger then chattered in a way that sounded like a mix of animal growls, savage lingo and the jabbering of monkeys.
“Ginny, go...” he said suddenly, standing by the window. He made a throwing gesture. “Harkon!”
“Is Ginny here?” Seward asked with a halting voice.
“Please Lord, no!” Jacob added dismally.
The man frowned, lambent eyes staring. Then he smiled and shook his head slowly, before studying the barred window, sniffing the edge and licking the stone.
“Dang it, he’s an idiot!” Seward pressed against the wall.
The stranger hooted quietly.
“Look!” The ranger tapped his own chest and Jacob’s. “We must help Ginny and Lilly.”
“Lilly?” The tips of the stranger’s slanted eyebrows jumped up to his arching hairline, and slumped over a sad expression before he snarled, “Bakwaniri!”
He snapped his long, sharp fangs.
There was a sudden noise to his left; he glanced that way and was gone the other.
“How quickly he goes!” Jacob craned his neck to see along the wall.
“With our only hope—wait! Someone’s coming,” Seward said, as a metallic clang echoed in the hall outside their cell, and feet started toward the door.
CHAPTER 31 – March to the River
Van Resen slipped and fell into the mud like his companions. Their captors grunted orders in the ranks and a rest was called. The masked men moved to where buttressed tree roots offered comfortable seating from which they could watch their prisoners on the river bank.
The scientist rolled onto his back and peered up at the trees; the sky was lightening between the leaves. He heard his friends panting for breath nearby, but he lacked the energy to offer encouragement.
Van Resen had lost track of time in the endless night.
He, Phillip Holmes and Virginia James had been forced to jog and walk farther than they could have ever imagined traveling afoot. The elder Quarries and Lilly had been spared the potentially lethal exertion by being tied to long poles and carried like game.
Mr. Quarrie put up a tremendous fight when first faced with this indignity, and things might have gone badly had his wife not begged him to postpone the Alamo for another day, saying that she had already been bound to a 12-foot pole and could not tolerate being widowed as well.
Poor Lilly had remained unconscious while being manhandled onto a pole for carrying, with Miss James and Van Resen making every effort to communicate her delicate condition to their inscrutable captors.
But their entreaties had gone unanswered. Instead, six savages had approached with a length of rope that they used to tie Van Resen by the neck to Phillip Holmes who was connected in similar fashion to Miss James, the last in their train.
Trussed in this manner, there had been nothing to do but move forward.
In all there were 30 masked warriors that had overwhelmed the yurt, and against such massive numbers Van Resen doubted they could have defended themselves, even if they had been armed with guns.
Immediately following their capture, the castaways had been taken out to where the bulk of the invaders were gathered in the dusk, and there they were prepared for travel as a few higher ranking warriors struck a torch and searched the yurt.
They took no pillage when they left, though one made sure the door was tightly shut as he exited to which the scientist had whispered mournfully, “They will return for our possessions later.”
Upon overhearing this, one of the warriors had grunted a muffled warning through his mask but offered no punishment and so the castaways continued their whispering for the rest of the journey—whenever they could find breath.
Remarkably, those who had not been tied to poles were offered food, and a bitter drink that burned the tongue and left it tingling. Van Resen had convinced his companions to take the drink, and tangy fruit—especially the pink strips of meat that they all found to taste like pork.
“What are they planning?” Miss James had asked, nibbling fruit.
“A march of some distance, since they are carrying our older and youngest companions,” Van Resen guessed. “It’s possible that we have only trespassed and may end up friends yet!”
But the scientist’s voice had risen with a false note for he had already identified the human finger bones that comprised their captors’ necklaces and had been sewn along with yellow ribs into their protective vests.
“Why are they masked?” Holmes had asked, licking his fingers, and then offering his wrists up to a savage who bound them with rope.
“Some primitive cultures use the skull to symbolize life,” Van
