James Axler – Stoneface

“It’s okay,” Ryan called. “A run-in with a mucksucker. Taken care of.”

Turning to Zadfrak, Ryan squeezed the man’s left shoulder. “We thank you for that.”

“Had to watch my son die,” Zadfrak said faintly. “Rad cancer got him. Ain’t fair to be chilled when you mean no harm.”

Supported by Ryan, Zadfrak managed to walk rubber-legged to the bank. Mildred examined the wounds in his arm. “We’ll have to try to draw out the poison.”

“We have some fixings for a poultice in the wag,” Krysty said.

Held up by Krysty, Zadfrak followed Mildred back to the campsite. J.B. studied the mucksucker’s carcass.

“We spend a day salting it down, we’ll have a month’s supply of meat.”

Doc pursed his lips, as if tasting something sour. “If the axiom ‘you are what you eat’ is indeed true, are you sure you want to consume the flesh of a creature that feeds on offal and excrement?”

“Eaten worse,” Jak commented, unsheathing a long knife and striding out toward the mucksucker.

Doc retrieved his Le Mat and the rod and reel. J.B. glanced toward the river and said, “Your rainbow got away. Flopped back into the water. It was a genuine whopper.”

Running his fingers through his mud-caked hair, Doc replied, “They all are, my dear fellow. They all are. And they always get away.”

Under the watchful eye and blasters of Ryan and J.B., Doc waded waist deep into the river and washed the mud and slime from his body and clothes. Jak continued his single-minded task of cleaning the mucksucker. It wasn’t particularly hard work, though it was bloody. Ryan reckoned the job almost too difficult for one man, but Jak was from the Louisiana bayous and obviously had experience.

By the time the sun had topped the horizon, the white-haired youth had flayed the rubbery skin and excised the body from dorsal to ventral.

J.B. and Ryan returned to the camp, since Doc had volunteered to stay behind and watch the teenager’s back. A fire had been built, and a noxious odor wafted from a bubbling pot hanging from a spit over it. Mildred was tending to the pot, stirring it with a long wooden spoon.

J.B. wrinkled his nose. “I hope that’s not breakfast.”

“It’s Krysty’s poultice,” Mildred said. “I don’t usually have a lot of faith in folk remedies, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

Ryan bent over Zadfrak, who was lying in his sleeping bag. Eyes closed, his face filmed with perspiration, he was shivering as if from a chill. His lips had a slight bluish tinge. Pressing a hand to the man’s forehead, Ryan felt a terrible heat. “He’s burning up.”

“I know,” Mildred replied. “He’s having an extreme reaction to the toxin. A healthy man might be sick for a day, but our guest is anything but healthy.”

Guided by Krysty’s instructions, Mildred stirred the heated mixture of herbs and plants. She poured the pulpy paste onto a square of porous cloth, then tied the four corners together to make a leaky bag. Moving over to Zadfrak, she stretched out his swollen right arm and applied the cloth over several of the punctures.

“That’s supposed to draw the poison out?” J.B. asked.

“Supposedly. Even so, the shock to his system may be too severe for him to rally.” Standing, she wiped her hands clean against her pants. “All we can do is wait.”

They waited. The prospect of remaining in the area another full day and night didn’t disturb Ryan. He owed Zadfrak the chance to pull through. Besides, they had a supply of fresh water and, Doc’s objections to mucksucker meat notwithstanding, plenty of food. Also, they were well hidden, or so he hoped.

Along toward late afternoon, while a mucksucker stew cooked over the fire, there came the stealthy sound of feet treading on leaves and dry twigs.

Everyone within earshot of the sound reacted immediately, rolling to their feet, blaster barrels snapping up, bodies assuming combat stances. A black-and-white pinto pony stepped lightly from the underbrush at the western perimeter of the campsite.

Astride the horse’s back was a slightly built but lithe-looking Sioux warrior. He wore a fringed buckskin hunting shirt and leggings. His black hair flowed freely down his back, and red hawk feathers were pinned to the back of his head. His face, though unpainted, was a mask of restrained ferocity.