Free The Cutthroat Cannibals by Craig Sargent

of the seat, which was itself quite large, one of those pre-Collapse
     era couches that could pull out into a bed. His huge stomach poked out of his center like a beer barrel ready to explode.
     He must have weighed five-hundred pounds if he weighed an ounce. Yet it was the face that caught Stone’s attention. It was
     ugly, hideously ugly. One eye had been ripped out or destroyed by disease many years before. The chief had replaced it with
     a black stone just about the size and general shape of an eye, fitted into the optic opening. Looking at it was like staring
     into the very blackness of space, into a vacuum. The whole right side of his face was paralyzed into a stretched-out grimace,
     probably the result of a stroke, Stone thought, as he had seen such paralysis before. It made the chief look as if one side
     of his face was trying to scream, trying to let out a howl of mad horror, while the other side was completely normal, and
     it stared at Stone with a cold hatred.
    “Down, white bastard,” a voice screamed out behind him. “Bow to Chief Buffalo Breaker.” A hand pushed at Stone’s back again,
     hard. This time he couldn’t stop his fall in time and slammed down onto the ground, flat on his face. He’ heard a sharp growl
     behind him and barely had time to push himself up with his hands, screaming at Excaliber to stop. The dog didn’t take kindly
     to Stone being slammed around. The pit bull had gone into its preattack crouch, and the brave who had pushed Stone was backing
     off step by slow step, his eyes big as onions, as he moved. Stone knew that they’d both be dead meat if the dog snapped even
     one mouthful of flesh from the bastard. He reached over and grabbed the bull terrier, pulling hard at the dog’s ear, catching
     him totally off balance for a moment. The animal tumbled over onto its side, and with a pissed-off look, cooled off. The pit
     bull sat back on its haunches but glanced around at the brave, who had joined the crowd of about a hundred or so Indians who
     now stood in a full circle around the captive and their chief.
    “Who are you?” the chief asked, raising a huge staff that had once been a mop handle—only now attached to the steel clamp
     that had held the string mop was a long red fox tail, all that was left of the creature that had once flashed it proudly.
     These guys had a strange sense of decoration.
    “I’m Stone,” he answered, raising himself up only enough to address the fellow, but not so much as to start some big brouhaha
     again over showing the proper respect. “Who are you?”
    “Chief Buffalo Breaker. Run whole river. Our river, Wasatawa River—our world. You trespasser.” Then the chief seemed to hesitate
     as he looked at the dog. He seemed to become unsure just how to proceed, and studied the creature closely. Excaliber stared
     straight back at him with its own unflinching orbs. At last, as if the animal’s will was stronger than the tub of lard squashing
     down into his recliner so that its four legs dug nearly six inches into the dirt, the chief looked away.
    He turned back to Stone and tried to ask casually, though his voice seemed to catch in his throat, “That your dog?”
    “Like I said to one of your associates,” Stone said, looking up from the dirt, where he had raised himself to a half sitting
     position that no one seemed to think overly insulting to officialdom, “he’s his own damned dog—we’re sort of traveling companions,
     business associates or something.”
    The chief grunted and then grew silent again as Stone quickly looked at the crazy artwork decorating the poles staked into
     the ground behind the reclining chair. There were perhaps two dozen of the totem poles spread out in a semicircle behind the
     big man, each ten-foot pole with heads of beasts and mythical symbols carved into it. Stone swept his glance around quickly
     and saw why the Indians had acted as if the dog was some great honcho. Looking up he saw the