“He says they are only a half mile behind him,” Itzcoatl said, unable to control his own shaking voice. “And they come this way. This way.”
Crushing Bull was down, slumping to hands and knees, less than two hundred yards away from them. But nobody made any effort to try to go to the aid of the helpless man.
Ryan unslung the Steyr rifle from his back, working the bolt action and levering a 7.62 mm round into the breech. He brought the walnut stock to his shoulder and drew a bead on Crushing Bull through the laser image enhancer, glanced sideways at Itzcoatl, who nodded once.
Ryan’s index finger tightened on the trigger of the powerful rifle. There was the sharp crack of the explosion, and the stock kicked against his shoulder.
At that range, on a motionless target, it wasn’t likely that Ryan could miss.
The bullet struck the crouching man between the puffed, bleeding eyes, kicking him over on his back, blood, brains and bone splattering the ground behind him. The native’s legs kicked two or three times, then he was still.
“Thank to you,” Speaking Eagle said.
“Best way.” Ryan ejected the brass cartridge case, which tinkled on the bare rock. One of the youngest of the warriors dived in and snatched it up, tucking it into the small leather pouch around his neck.
“It will be good magic,” Itzcoatl said.
“Sure.” Ryan looked around. “Well, we got the news. Best all get ready.”
FOLLOWING RYAN’S ORDERS, everyone crouched behind the rear wall of the rocky basin, out of sight. He had told them to keep completely still, so that the lead ants didn’t pick up on any vibrations through their delicate antennae.
The mess of honey-covered meat did its stuff.
The first outrunners appeared, barely visible, tiny spots of fire among the vivid green of the lush grass, picking their cautious way closer to the rim of the sandstone, followed by dozens more.
Hundreds more.
Thousands.
Then millions.
“By the Three Kennedys!” Doc breathed. “I swear that the sight is just as Mr. Leiningen described it. An army that covered the ground like a living blanket of flame.”
“Everyone keep still,” Ryan warned.
To Itzcoatl he said, “Pass the word quietly through your people that nobody is to move until I give the word.”
“I hear and obey,” the chief muttered, sending the message through the waiting natives.
“Think they’ll smell the gas?” J.B. asked.
Ryan considered a moment. “Wind’s right for us. Blowing light from the east. Carry it away from the ants.”
The tantalizing odor was driving the swarming insects frantic. The mass was rolling forward, overwhelming the scouts, flooding into the basin to gorge on the feast that had been planned for them.
“Wait,” Ryan said, sensing restlessness among the watchers. “Soon.”
For the countless horde to fill the bowl of sandstone took more than an hour. But by then the whole place was a seething mass of tumbling, crazed ants.
“Itzcoatl?”
“Yes?”
“Make sure that your people understand that they must move away before I set the fire. They can watch, but it must be from a safe distance.”
“I have told them. They understand this. We are not stupid, you see.”
“Sure.”
Ryan stared down at the insects, trying to judge the moment. The torrent seemed to have slowed to a stream and the grass was visible behind them, showing that most of the army had already followed the scent of the meat and honey.
“I think now,” he said.
Itzcoatl raised his fan and gave a great shout, the sound echoed by cheering from all around the rim of the basin, a noise that didn’t seem to have any effect at all on the gorging mass of fire ants.
Every container from the village had been used, gourds and buckets and bowls, all filled to overflowing with the precious predark gasoline from the yellow tank. Now it was tipped over the edge of the steep-sided basin. Splashing down, darkening the color of the rocks, soaking the top layer of the ants.
“Quicker!” Ryan yelled. “Moment they suspect a trap they’ll be out of here!”
The air filled with the heavy fumes of gasoline as gallon after gallon poured down the sloping sandstone.