Boone's boots hit dirt and he was thankful to be on the ground safely.
The descend down the ladder was haunting, the crowds roars shaking the tower so violently he nearly slipped to his doom. One woman was not as lucky, screaming as she pelted beams, until they faded hitting the ground.
Boone yanked a pearl-handled revolver from his holster, bringing it to his chest. There was a screech beside him and he drew his barrel to the sound. The ladder rose fifteen feet; a good deal out of reach.
"How do they intend on us getting out of here?" He didn't stop to think for long.
Boone crouched, walking through a narrow passage between canyon walls, trying to keep his coat from snagging on the prickly cacti that guarded his exit to the next area. Thankfully he was skinny, and slipped through without a prick.
Around him stood crossed beams, wrapped in pale-brownish hides. Thirty if he'd have to guess. "Tents," Boone said. He looked towards the sun, reminded of how his grandpappy told him to use it to find his way. "It dips towards the west, on my left, therefore I'm in the southern region."
From deep in the canyon, gunfire echoed, and the ground shook. This was not like a Wildgun and Mammoth the Kid adventure. Their fates were always certain, rescuing the dasmel, and barely surviving. But they always got out alive. Boone took a breath, uncertain if he'd have the same luck here.
He moved into the row of tents, using his barrel to push back the hide. Inside were hanging, skinned animals and a bloodied-stoned knife buried in sand. The flies were gathered for the feast.
"Gross …" Boone said, grabbing his lips, gagging. He kept the contents in stomach from spilling onto the sand. He Bent down and relieved the knife from the earth.
It was a beautiful weapon. The blade made out of obsidian and the handle, a blackish-gold metal. "Coradite," He knew, watching it shimmer.
Blood dripped from the carcass on the scabbard the blade was paired with. The boy picked it up, a black-leather case, then sheathed the blade, wrapping it around his waist.
"I'm not much with a blade … but I'm not much with a gun neither."
Boone expelled from the tent, that was surprisingly cool compared to the outside. It was midday and the sun was baking the earth. The boy wiped sweat from beneath his forehead, breathing heavy.
"I'm going to need to find water or I won't survive out here for long —"
There came a noise from the center of the tents. A high, humbling chant. Errie to his ears; a song of mourning.
One of them featherheads, the boy thought, keeping himself low, moving from one tent to the other, pressing against the stretched hide, following a sweet-earthy scent to a clearing between the camp.
Smoke rose from the piles, rising through the air, giving off the scent he followed.
Boone knew it not wise, but he couldn't help himself, he needed to see who was chanting. The smoke concealed them, standing in the center. Feeling brave, he ran to one of the piles, squinting through the cloud while covering his mouth to keep from hacking and giving away his position.
Between the smoke, the boy made out a man, positioned on his knees. His head down. Tall, rounded-brimmed hat in the sand. Long hair draped down his back, black as midnight.
Boone slipped through the pile, What is this savage doing? Now in the ring of smoke, he saw the pile of naked bodies; neck twisted and marked by thick, red lines. "The Yurks—"
E'krek clicked his hammer, drawing the barrel towards the boy.
Boone froze, "what are you doing?"
"You've disturbed my ritual … these men's spirits deserve a fair send off … not left into the sand like fallen mules."
"Your people murdered my Grandpappy," Boone yelled, "and you sit here and worship them? How dare you!"
"I worship no man," E'krek said, "and they did no such thing … Your old one came to us with inner sickness, though you were too stupid to see it. Leave now, and let me finish."
"We are to be a team! Leslie trusted you. Said you would help when needed—"
E'krek corked his head, squinting. The red warpaint that masked his face making him appear older than his age. "We are not alone …"
Boone spun on a heel. Looming over him was a boy not much older than E'krek. His eyes and hair the same midnight color, though he stood tall and burly as any man Huskman. On his neck, scabbed, hardened flesh hung like he'd been struck by the same debri Richie had.
"No," Varko said in a raspy voice, lip trembling, staring down at an older warrior with blackish-gray hair. Their face's similar. He walked over and collapsed, eyes draining, grabbing the man's hand and holding strong. "What have they done to you …"
Boone felt his heart sink. The same sadness that filled him, carried through to his enemy. He lowered his gun and slid it into his holster. "I'm sorry for your loss …" The boy said, unsure why he needed to say so much.
Varko said nothing. He only turned and glared at E'krek. Eyes red with fury. "What happened to Hrok? He was supposed to guide our people—"
"Abandoned us," E'krek shook his head. "He sent our people back to the ranch to be slaughtered, only having two tickets. He then asked me to follow him, but I took my ticket and declined."
Varko's face twisted, "if this be the truth, he would've killed you too."
"No … he looked at me like a brother."
Varko looked around though the smoke that hid the outside. "Then he is here. Come. Let us finish him." He stood to his feet, and slid a Tomahawk from his hip. "I will not let my father's death be in vain."
E'krek nodded, "then I shall go with you and together we shall honor our people."
Boone's bared his teeth, "but what about your promise ... does that mean nothing to you?"
E'krek smirked, "you've heard the tales … one can never trust a Yurk." Then he and Varko disappeared through the smoke, leaving the boy alone once again.
"I knew it …" Boone said, "I knew that bastard couldn't be trusted."