Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

PASNUTA MEANS ARENA OF DEATH! By Richard Prosch

Alone in the middle of a wood-fenced corral, wrists cuffed with two feet of rusty chain, Adam Schreck struggled to stay on his feet. He remembered being captured in the outlaw town by Gordon Trask’s men, worked over and shoved through the gate.

“Bounty hunter,” said a drunken voice behind him.

Schreck flailed for the missing belt at his waist, reached again for the grip of a Colt revolver that wasn’t there. Without a hat, with the sandhills summer sun pounding his skull like a hammer, it was hard to think.

“Trask?” said Schreck, turning. He poked his tongue at dry, peeling lips.

The bad men surrounding the fence hooted and cheered. Through swollen eyes, Schreck tried to count heads, lost track after twelve.

Behind them, at least twice as many Indians circled in an eerie dance, chanting, “Pasnuta! Pasnuta!”

Schreck had heard the word before, couldn’t quite remember where.

At one end of the corral was an enormous livery barn, its entrance like the mouth of a cave, at the other end, a broken church pulpit sat beside the gate. Gordon Trask spoke from there, a three hundred pound killer with a double-barreled scattergun held high.

“What is this, Trask?” said Schreck.

“This here is your death,” said Trask.

A wail of rage came from the barn and two Indians ran into the ring raising a cloud of dust. One of them carried a pitchfork. Another scream and the sun was blotted out. Schreck spun, fell flat into the creature’s shadow, and remembered the word from whispered Ponca legend.

Pasnuta.

The mammoth.

The hairy prehistoric beast drove toward him, savage eyes rolling to show bloodshot whites. Schreck gagged at the animal stench, rolled from the madly swinging tusks. Blood flowed down Pasnuta’s flank. The men had used the pitchfork to goad the behemoth into a frenzied rage.

Schreck slapped at the monster’s enormous legs with the chain between his wrists, then backpedaled into the fence where one of Trask’s men kicked him. A bolt of agony went through Schreck’s spine.

“C’mon you filthy devil,” the outlaw said, “give us a good show.”

The Indian with the pitchfork had fallen before he could reach the other side of the corral, and the beast bore down with wild vengeance.

Struggling to stand, caked with sweat and grime, Schreck was helpless as the Indian was torn inside out in a flurry of blood and entrails. Just beyond the gruesome spectacle, Schreck saw the pitchfork in the dust.

Covered in gore, the mammoth roared, flipping the dead man skyward like a child’s toy. The white men cheered, and Trask waved the shotgun triumphantly, a 19th century Caesar.

At the fence, a dozen jeering Indians had gathered to fend the animal back toward Schreck. With a shake of its massive head, the bloody mammoth turned toward him.

“Pasnuta! Pasnuta!”

Schreck eyed the other man’s scattered wet remains, the pitchfork beyond, and clenched his jaw. The diversion had bought him some time to catch his breath.

Again the mammoth charged. Again Schreck dove to the side, felt the hairy coat brush his arms as the animal passed by.

Scrambling ahead on all fours, he got to the pitchfork just as Pasnuta turned. Schreck used the handle like a crutch, hoisted himself to his feet, and then held the pitchfork in both hands. Compared to the bulk of the monster, the three iron prongs looked puny and useless.

Shrugging off pain and exhaustion, Schreck pushed forward, limped ahead at an angle, meaning to dodge the swaying tusks and drive the pitchfork into the mammoth’s neck. But Pasnuta stopped his forward march and countered the attack with unbelievable speed, rocking Schreck to the side, tearing his shoulder open with a massive tusk. The bounty hunter’s arm went numb, and he released the pitchfork as he fell.

And again the mammoth came at him. Again Schreck went for the pitchfork but this time couldn’t reach it in time. On his knees Schreck scuffled to the mammoth’s flank, got his legs under him and jumped. He caught fistfuls of the stinking oily wet hair and tried to climb. Climb!

“He thinks this is a rodeo!” yelled one of the men at the fence.

“Ride ‘em cowboy,” mocked another.

But he couldn’t hold on. The hair was too slick. The mammoth’s full weight missing him by scant inches, Schreck hit the ground. Everything went red, then black.

Then the blinding sun again and like a dream Schreck watched the shadowy men dance and call. He saw Trask standing above them, waving his shotgun…or was it a sword?

The blustering mammoth paced around the ring breathing hard and blowing foam.

“Give up, bounty hunter,” said Trask, with a swoosh of the gun.

Schreck saw it then, the way Trask waved that gun around.

Each breath like a razor, Schreck tried to stand, stumbled, and rolled to a spot just in front of Trask’s pulpit. Gray spots blossomed just above his line of vision and the world tilted on its side. Schreck forced himself to breathe through the pain, to focus because he would only have one chance. His timing would have to be just right.

Holding the length of chain that bound his wrists, he aimed for that madly swinging gun barrel and sprang up.

“Yaagh!” Trask yelled in surprise, instinctively striking out. Schreck caught the gun with the loop of chain, crossed his arms and yanked it away. The weapon landed at his feet. Pulled off-balance, the fat man fell from the pulpit directly into the corral.

Schreck scooped up the shotgun. He aimed, pulled the back trigger. At point blank range he couldn’t miss.

The cedar board gate splintered and broke free.

Pasnuta turned toward the explosion and charged.

Schreck threw himself into the gate and through it, the thundering mammoth close behind.

From his hands and knees Trask looked up and squealed in terror. The mammoth ground him into the dust.

A dozen cowards ran from Pasnuta’s rampage through the gate and Schreck waded into them. One of the hardcase men dared to draw, but Schreck swung the shotgun around, cutting him in half with the blast. Holding the hot double-barrel in both hands, he swung it like a club, connecting with another outlaw. From the dead man’s belt, Schreck claimed a pair of six shooters and fired in every direction.

Men scattered into the surrounding woods, running from the sudden chaos, while a small group of Indians chased behind the mammoth.

In the confusion, nobody challenged Schreck as he made his way back into the arena to stand over Trask’s broken remains. It had taken weeks to follow the fat man up the Missouri, days more to track him to this hidden canyon in the unorganized Niobrara river country.

Now it was over, and they both had their reward.

BIO:

After growing up on a Nebraska farm, Richard Prosch has worked as a professional writer and artist while in Wyoming, South Carolina, and Missouri. His western crime fiction captures the fleeting history and lonely frontier stories of his youth, where characters aren't always what they seem, and the wind-burnt landscape is filled with swift, deadly danger. He blogs regularly at http://www.RichardProsch.com and http://www.MeridianBridge.com