Arizona Moon. J.M. Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ valley, and he swung the hammer with all his might. The peen met the Marine’s head with a sickening thunk, pitching him onto his side before a single utterance escaped. He lay still.

      Sau grabbed Vo’s arm and fought his own charged nervous system to construct a whisper.

      “Tell Nguyen to go, now,” he hissed, and Vo scrambled up the side of the mountain.

      The unmistakable smell of fresh blood permeated the quiet space that now seemed overly crowded.

      Binh groaned, clutching at his side, and Sau grabbed one of the Marines’ towels and pushed it into the wound. “Can you walk?” he asked.

      Binh nodded, but when he tried to speak, thick red blood gushed through his teeth.

      “Duong. Help me here,” Sau said, and the two reached under Binh’s arms and lifted him to his feet, causing Binh to groan anew. Bloody air bubbles exploded from his nostrils, and Sau knew that the blade had pierced a lung.

      Co picked up one of the Marines’ rifles and started looking for others.

      “Leave them,” Sau said.

      “These weapons are a danger to us,” Co said, holding the rifle out.

      “Not that one.”

      Co looked down at the rifle in his hand. The butt stock was cocked at a strange angle.

      “We must go quickly,” Sau said. “Leave everything and help with Binh.”

      Reluctantly, Co laid the broken rifle across the legs of the Marine sprawled against the tree and turned to the still form in the weeds. He shoved a shoulder with his foot, rolling the body onto its back and leaned down, knife in hand. A focused beam of moonlight framed the head. Gravity had directed streams of blood from the head wound to illustrate the face, and Co looked down on a savage countenance, half red, the rest streaked with random lines. The blood and the man’s facial structure gave Co the odd impression he was looking at war paint. Then he noticed the leather pouch with its dangling fringe and bright beads. He stood up and pointed down with the tip of his blade.

      “An Indian,” he said.

      Sau and Duong were moving away, supporting Binh while he pressed the soggy towel to his side and wheezed and gurgled with each step. They weren’t listening.

      Co watched them leave then turned back to the body at his feet. “A real Indian,” he said. “Truong will never believe me.” He leaned down again and brought his knife to the Indian’s throat. In one quick move he sliced through the rawhide cord and lifted the beaded pouch free. “A damned Indian,” he said to himself. He hurried to catch up with the others. In less than half an hour the rising sun would push the night from the face of the Ong Thu. The fruition of the long night’s work took less than a minute. A minute full of short, harsh seconds.

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