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The snap is wildly violent in the obscene quiet of this place. The Indian’s face heaves up from its downcast gaze, and you take him in. A white mask, whether skin or lime chalk you couldn’t say. Soot around the eyes, red eyes. He drips corruption from his face and nose, scars and stains where it has dug itself in. He is of medium height, his body spindly, his shoulders slumped.
He leans his staff into the crook of his arm and stares south, towards Mack and Quinton. You pray they don’t step out. They step out. Mack’s gun leveled and ready. You can hear Quinton’s labored breathing from twenty feet away. The Indian’s mouth turns up into a small smile. <span class="mu-i">”Deeu Yúli jit náwaya.”</span> The words seem more focused somehow, more directed. Quinton clears his throat. If he’s looking for your position at least he doesn’t make it obvious. <span class="mu-i">”Adwai’il”</span>, he says, the language sounding uncomfortable and un-practiced coming from his mouth. <span class="mu-i">”Adwai’il, Obot núwya.”</span> He gestures to Mack and himself.
The Indian smiles wider, then wider, looking at Mack. He points towards him and cocks his head. He laughs, a hoarse, breathless laugh. He points towards Mack again and holds up a hand, the universal sign to wait. He puts his hand to his face, and like tearing off a rag, tears off his face. Underneath is another, one that looks much like Mack, eyes sodden with tears, mouth open, screaming. The screams go on and on. Horrible, inhuman things. Then he puts his hand and its short yellow nails back to the screaming face and rips it off again, to reveal the original Indian behind it. Both of your men look shocked, mouths agape. Mack’s eyes are bloodshot. Still chortling to himself the Indian looks off far into the darkness past them, and clicks his tongue. The faint crying that’s been on the edge of your hearing for the past while begins to grow slightly louder.
Before you can sort what just happened you hear Mack bellow out, <span class="mu-i">”GOD DAMN YOU!”</span> and the report of his smoothbore thunders forth. The Indian turns at the shout and as the ball erupts from the gun he opens his mouth, and eats it. The skin of his cheeks split, his jaw dislodges from its perch an extra foot and a half, and he devours the bullet in flight. He chews on it for a moment, and spits a black slime that catches Mack in the face. He topples to the ground, clawing at it. Before he falls Quinton is already charging, shoulders forward and axe in both hands. The Indian is turned away from you facing Quinton, and you have the slope on him. That crying is getting louder. God help you.
