A Congregation of Jackals by S. Craig Zahler Page A

“The toddler can speak Appanuqi.” D asked how he learned that. Quinlan answered, “He captured one two years ago. It took a few months, but he forced the words out of him with a hammer.” It was then that I knew for certain we’d made a huge mistake throwing in with these men, and I saw it in the eyes of my fellows too. Just the same, we knew there’d be a gunfight if we backed away from this deal and the twins looked as fast as any of us on the draw, probably faster
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    “So he can speak Appanuqi,” I said, wanting to know more
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    Quinlan went on, “We are going to take over a tribe I’ve been marking for half a year. Intimidate them and get them under our heels.” He explained how he intended to do that, which was mean business. The other fellow asked him what would happen if the Appanuqi didn’t go along with the scheme or if they just came at us straight away
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    Quinlan said, “We have enough firepower to put a third of them down before reloading and I have plenty of grenades to finish off the rest. As long as nobody hesitates, we are in no danger.” He said this last bit to my gang, as if we might be squeamish
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    I mentioned to you once right after Benjamin was born that my father was killed by Indians, so you can figure I didn’t object to putting some down—especially savages like these—but I knew I couldn’t bring myselfto shoot a child or a woman no matter what race they were or what was happening. I kept these thoughts to myself
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    We rode far. The sun had set and I heard some coyotes on the wind. J talked about buying a house and getting some dogs someday, but he was nervous and didn’t believe what he was saying. D, the other fellow and I were silent
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    We made camp and huddled around a pit fire to make it less visible from high vantage points. Everyone kept their guns on while they chewed beans and dried beef and peanuts. The only ones who talked were the twins to each other, and I soon realized I shouldn’t listen to their stories because I would get into a brawl that would probably turn into a shootout
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    When the moon was halfway up the sky, Quinlan said, “It’s time to conduct our interview.” He pulled a strap with eight grenades over his shoulder and gave the twins two more with just as many. We climbed onto our horses and rode southwest toward a ridge of mountains
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    That ride was three hours, but it felt like a week. Our horses clumb the slope, their hooves getting louder and louder as the slope got steeper and steeper. Soon that clopping was the only sound I heard. We went up the incline, at the edge of which hung the half moon, then on its way down. When we reached the edge of the escarpment, we looked into a huge gorge. Two dozen fires burned in the settlement down below, which was by a small pond. Seventy wigwams were arranged in a large circle around a central building that was round and made of stacked flat stones. The curving wall of this structure was decorated with white pebbles, which—when I got closer—I saw were human skulls
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    Quinlan told us that he had counted two hundred and thirty Appanuqi in this settlement, which was made up of mostly warriors—the closer to white men they got, the more braves in a settlement, it seemed. A few of them sat by the fire, but most were asleep in their wigwams
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    We rode down a steep switchback trail they had carved in the side of the gorge. As we descended, they starting calling out to each other. The toddler told us that they were saying “Eight white men,” and some were saying “Breakfast rides in.” The Appanuqi were also cannibals. Quinlan lit the cigar in his mouth, as did the twins
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    By the time we reached the bottom a score of braves had gathered to meet us, hatchets out. Quinlan and the twins lit the fuses of three grenades with their cigars and lobbed them into the group—the metal balls exploded the moment they hit the ground, they timed it so perfectly. Nine Indians lay dead and six more lay dying in the dirt,