Tales of the Territories
-a dime novel-"Night of the Red Hot Tigers"
-a 'Red Hot' Ryerson adventure-fiction by
Arref Mak
Welcome back, Dear Reader, to Tales of the Territories.
You have read in these pages our cheery tales of 'Pecos' Jaynie, 'Sonata' Wolf and 'Mean' Mitch McGee, as well as other less well-known characters such as Reverend 'Sin', 'Bluesman' Brown, or the mysterious 'Lucky' Jack Diamond.
In this volume we ask that you not read our tale while children are in the parlor, or that you insure that our material is not left idly about where underage or tender hearts might pick up our pages out of innocent curiosity.
This tale we call the "Night of the Red Hot Tigers". Our faithful, real-to-life protagonist is one 'Red Hot' Ryerson.
You may, as always, write to the publishers of this material and enclose one dime to receive a Territories wanted poster of Mr. Ryerson signed as authentic by Marshal Byam T. Grosnan of the Federated Department of Justice.
We are not responsible for damage to materials sent postal.
. . .
Mr. Ryerson woke wet and cold.
John Henry practiced warm up swings on his head. This situation would not have been undue harsh or unusual, but Ryerson was also naked. In truth, this layer of complication could have been excused as merely unusual, but Ryerson was also bound at the wrists.
Not even in Texorami is this the way a gentleman takes his mornings.
With a calming swear word we shall not print here, Ryerson found that naked and bound included removal of his boots, and certainly the derringer there. By this he knew that he was in alien hands, for not even a savage takes a man's footgear in the territories unless he is dead.
For a moment, Ryerson considered whether he might be dead.
Then he commenced remembering Petty Mae McCormick. It was from her window that Ryerson was stealing when first the awful darkness came upon him like lightning. He grew concerned now. A gentleman might worry a bit about whether a gal would tell a fellow's friends that he had been jumped leaving her window.
Or she might, for some greater than savage reason, be dead. A man in alien hands might wonder how bad things are once his boots are taken.
And our story moves forward as Ryerson finds things are indeed quite worse than being dead.
A trio of shadows falls upon our bound gentleman.
As an omen, they had made no noise--even as John Henry's blows to his head made no noise. When they hoisted him up and attached his wrist restraints to some depending chain from overhead, Ryerson bade them good morning. "Brandy, gentlemen?" he rasped.
There was no reply. They hung him up.
Still he could see that they were all of them wrapped in black silk from footgear to covering headgear, except for their dark eyes and tanned skin about those eyes. By this he knew that somehow, the Night Tiger Cult had found him even in the Territories so far beyond western cities where they held great power. With this news, the morning promised to be more unfortunate than expected thus far.
Dear Reader, do not look to your collected works of these tales to understand why Mr. Ryerson feared the Cult, for those stories are not yet published, nor are likely to be for the standards of our times draw a veil on those events.
Suffice to say, that even as we set these words to page, we are quite concerned for Mr. Ryerson.
Once he was hung up, as we have said, by his wrists, the three silent figures left.
Ryerson tested his considerable physical skill. This then is when he discovered he had been beaten badly during his period of senselessness. His body could not respond as he asked. He tried them all, as he knew many escapes. The 'Jenny Flip'. The 'Hoxanchi Eel'. Even--we are lead to believe--the purely mythic 'Waterfall Kip' was attempted.
And time passed. We note now that neither food nor water were provided to him. Yes, Reader, you may set our tale aside now, as things are quite grim.
Mr. Ryerson became weaker.
We might expect he thought fondly of other things.
By certain observation and tiny stirrings of sounds above him, Ryerson determined that he was underground with many quiet people going about business above. His room was quite dark and yet tiny knives of daylight slit down between old rough floorboards over his head. There was no particular peculiarity in this; many farmhouses in the territories had roofs and walls that never kept out the wind, let alone daylight. He considered shouting. Where you or I, Dear Reader, would certainly have tried, Mr. Ryerson did not.
This, we understand, had something to do with the image of a gag in his mouth, the likelihood of this being a sure way to receive neither water nor brandy as things might move forward.
Things did: move forward.
Mr. Ryerson had another visitor, clad in black, who thrashed him with a stick of alien wood known in some western cities as bamboo. For something less than two hours.
This finally produced a new period of black sleep.
. . .
In a land of terrible dreams, Ryerson was a thirsty horse in a black wasteland.
His rider wore black silk.
His bridle was leather tasting of salt and blood.
The ride was not entirely unpleasant.
Whereupon there was water.
Rest.
. . .
Hanging yet and once more awake.
Presently Mr. Ryerson had yet another visitor clad in black, who thrashed him with a stick of bamboo for something less than four hours.
This also produced a new period of black sleep.
. . .
Again in the ebony desert, Ryerson was a thirsty horse with words of encouragement whispered to him.
His black rider rode hard to no destination that he could see. Once, he thought he saw a queen of spades on the ground. He tried to stop. His bridle stung sharp in his mouth and he knew he could not try to get the card.
Still, the ride was not entirely disagreeable.
Whereupon there was water.
Rest.
. . .
Hanging. Awake.
Another visitor arrived clad in black.
Ryerson swallowed. "Excuse me, son? Isn't there some shorter distance between these points? Some interesting tale we might share?"
No words. Six hours of thrashing.
A period of black sleep.
. . .
Desert. Black and dry. Riding silent and harsh.
Ryerson made a large effort, biting hard. The bridle in his mouth parted. He tasted blood. He twisted his head to the rider. "Say. Miss. I don't. Suppose. We know. Each other?"
She slowed. She tossed the bridle aside.
He squinted through black, feeling only the pressure of her and the silk she wore. Then he felt the blade at his throat.
"I know you, Ryerson," she whispered like wind on water. "My father died because you fouled the taking of the governor's life and saw that which is not seen."
He nodded, not enough to worry the knife edge. "Reckon'd that."
"Giddap," she hissed.
The ride was not entirely unpleasant.
Whereupon there was water.
Rest.
. . .
Hanging. Awake.
Visitor. Clad in black.
Ryerson moaned. "That bamboo is mighty fine. But it hurts a lot more with a brandy chaser. I don't suppose you'd consider?"
No words. Eight hours of thrashing.
And black rest.
. . .
Dreams.
He roused as the rider removed her hand and slid herself home. He licked his broken lips. There was no bridle now. "Evenin', Miss."
She laughed quietly. "I don't require you talk."
"About your father. You must know I intended no disrespect. You might say I was just passing through."
"I care nothing for my father."
He let her ride in silence while he considered that. "Ah'm a might confused then."
"My father used me as a toy to further his reward of good performance from the Tigers. From them, I learned enough that I could be both hard and sharp. Now I lead."
"What became of him?"
"Your prolonged ability to escape his search ended him. The Tigers are only obedient with success. Form is important."
He squinted at her place of darkness. "So why am I alive?"
"What makes you think you are?"
"You mostly. Hell doesn't include human calamity."
Her breath came faster. "This word. Calamity. It means?"
He strained. "Tragedy. A queen of spades. With four hearts."
There was a silent explosion. Then peace. Then a touch of brandy at his lips. Tears leaked from his eyes as he sipped. "Good," he whispered. "Thanks."
"You are a horse with four hearts. Then I would be the queen of spades." She lifted away. "Calamity. As long as you amuse me." She left in silence.
This was the kind of mercy that got a man ready to die.
Rest.
. . .
Hanging.
Visitor.
Ryerson watched. All the Tigers seemed slight and short. He realized it could even be Her. "Mornin' friend. Wouldn't happen to have a cigarette?"
No words. Thrashed. Nine hours.
Black rest.
. . .
Dreams. Smoke blown in his face. He came up through the scent not as muddled. It took a moment to realize that rice was being pushed in his mouth. He ate.
He squinted at the dark; surprised then as fingertips prodded at his neck. Ryerson felt a pinch. No, it was a needle. His first moment of panic then. He hissed, "Delta's sake woman, just slit my throat."
"Be quiet."
That wasn't her voice. Then he noticed the pain was much less. There was more rice, smelling savory to his nose. He ate. He couldn't remember things rightly now. It had been a long bit it seemed that he hadn't had food. Maybe a week. That wasn't likely. He had lost his idea of time.
Ryerson worried too, when his stomach seemed to fill so quickly. A starving man can't eat right.
Light fingers pulled the needle from his neck.
"Any chance of getting' me out of here?"
She said nothing.
"No point in feeding me or being kind if this is the way it goes, I'd rather it was quick."
A soft sound. "Who are you talking to, Ryerson?"
He closed his eyes against the dark. "Myself." His ears strained, trying to learn if the other girl was hidden or near.
A rustle of silk. His rider slid over his stomach and he despaired when her body told him how thin he had become. Weeks. He'd lost weeks or months.
"I brought you something nice," she whispered and blew dreams in his face.
. . .
In a black wasteland, he rode a steady gait. His black rider liked her legs tight about him.
She wore black silk. And one of them, he couldn't remember who, smelled of salt and blood.
The ride was very pleasant.
Whereupon there was water. Sometimes brandy.
Rest.
. . .
The darkness slapped his face. "You must eat."
The sweet rice was at his lips. He turned his head away.
"You must. Why be her beast and refuse my help?"
He thought about that for what seemed a long time. She was right. He tilted his head and ate what she'd brought. The same as before. When had before been?
And this time there were three needles. He felt stronger when they were in place. Her fingers were so delicate. He peered at the black. "How long?"
"Three turns of the moon."
He dry swallowed. "I'd like to thank you. I reckon you're not supposed to be here. Brave lady."
"Perhaps she sends me to keep you strong."
He shook his head. "Nope. She means to kill me. She's just a might curious about how long it will take and willing to find out."
She was quiet while he finished the food. "How do you stand it?"
He wondered for a bit, then realized she probably meant the daily beatings. "Don't remember them anymore. I think that's how."
"I meant Her. She is filth to do this to a man with so much heart."
"I've met worse. Not on a personal level--and not with this sort of dance card. Who're you, Miss?" Ryerson worried she might leave.
"No one. A mouse."
He cleared his throat weakly. "A younger sister mouse, or an older sister mouse?"
She sounded surprised, "Younger. How did you know this?"
"Voices similar. Ways you handle the language tilted about the same. You both learned from the same person."
There was only black for a while. "You are a clever man."
"Dead man," he grinned. "Best you get out now. Maybe think about not coming back. I have a feel she'd do you some hurt if she found out you're ruining her experiment."
She left as quiet as a mouse.
He hoped she'd come back. He was thinking about escape.
. . .
A whisper of silk.
His rider slid over his stomach and her tight legs immediately sent hot fire through his groin. He was well trained and not happy about it.
"Nice horse," she whispered and blew dreams in his face.
. . .
In the black wasteland, there was an oasis. The ride to it was long and good.
His rider slid off, humming to herself. "If there was a man I respected with your heart of horse, Ryerson, him I could wed and live with sweetly."
She went to the water and drank. He heard her lips and mouth savoring it. His imagination was too darn good.
"Alas. I enjoy this darkness too much. I must change it. No more water. Whatever spirit looks over you, it is powerful. I will not order your death. My father did and now he is dead. However there will be no more water. Nothing. This is your ending then."
The black rider poured out the oasis on the floor and walked away.
His tired eyes closed. Rest.
. . .
Ryerson squinted against the sun and realized this was new. Probably dangerous too. He smiled.
He surprised himself by being able to sit up. The next surprise was that he was wearing all white. A thin hand that was probably his came to his bidding and rubbed at the white pants and shirt.
Ah. Cook whites.
A sound.
He looked up and was blinded by the radiant around the slim silhouette. His hand in front of his eyes, he could barely make out the slim figure.
"You are awake?" Mouse. She sounded surprised he was up. "I have water."
"And I'd like some," he rasped.
She crouched at his hip. The water was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.
He nodded he was done. "You drag me this far?"
"Hai."
"I'll take over from here. You'd best get back." The glare gave him a powerful ill in his head.
"This is wilderness. The nearest town is a half a day. Can you walk?"
"I'll do what I have to. I want you safe. Get back before they find you gone." His eyes watered on everything he tried to bring into focus.
"Here."
His fingers found the gun belt shoved at them; her tiny hands. He wanted to know more about her. Ryerson smiled. "That's mine. Don't suppose you found my boots?"
"No."
"My thanks, Mouse. Now best be goin'."
Inexplicably, she threw her arms around him and hugged him. Then her steps moved off as he peered into the light around her. He thought of something. "Mouse?"
Her steps halted.
"I've never really seen her. What's your sister's name? I may need to know that while I'm running."
A soft forlorn wail came from her. The sound instantly raised the hair on his neck. He pushed himself hard up to his feet. Swayed there and found the smooth grip of his '49 in his hand. "What? Which direction?" He squinted near-blind at the parched scrub around the spot. "How many?"
He wouldn't let them take him easily now.
A soft sound. "How did you get out, Ryerson?"
He turned, shifted and blinked. A slim dark form stood ahead in the dry wind. "Don't come any closer. I don't make a habit of shooting ladies."
"What makes you think there are cartridges in your pistol?" She moved forward, her voice sent a cold flutter through his middle. He strained listening for horses or other soft footsteps around him.
Nothing.
"How did you escape?"
He grunted, decided the weight of the '49 felt about right. It was loaded. Her bluff was good, though. His eyesight wasn't worth spit, but he didn't want to prove that one way or the other. He feared her getting close. He shot the ground at her right.
A nice loud sound. She froze. The dry cloud of dust moved slowly off.
"Guess I've got some leverage," he said. "We should talk."
She hissed. "Why so?"
"I don't want to shoot you. Wouldn't solve anything. You lead the tigers now. You tell them I'm not a problem anymore. Tell them you broke me. Tell them I'm your trained pup. Tell them whatever suits. Just don't come after me."
He had the wary feeling she was measuring the distance between them. Ryerson hadn't forgotten she'd said she knew the tricks of the Tigers. He kept talking. "No one's with you. No one seems to have heard the shot, either. You came harin' out after me alone. Let's trade. You live. I get free. We stay away from each other. Deal?"
She spit. She said something in her tongue.
He tensed--waiting to find out she had help he hadn't heard.
Nothing.
Her voice was firm. "You live. I live. That's all. I will find you again, Ryerson. Next time, I will train you better. You will become my trained stallion."
His manhood ran hot and readied itself. He held off panic from his reply. "Don't bet on it." That was all he trusted himself to say. A wedge of ice slid in and sat on his thoughts even as his blood ran hotter.
He realized he should kill her now. But he was certain he could not.
The quiet firmness in her voice was the same as Mouse's. Just the same. The queen of spades was also the queen of hearts. Every card had another side. Usually they didn't have a face on both sides. That soft wail from Mouse had been the card flipping over.
What had her father put her through? Whatever. The Dark Lady of the Tigers was mad.
He shook his head. He cleared his throat and tested himself, backing up a bit. Not nearly steady enough. "Well, I hate to threaten and run, but I'm leaving and you have business of your own to take care of, I'm sure."
She had no answer.
He walked backwards into the sun.
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