Deadly Shoals by Joan Druett Page A

the salt lake. There was a reddish effect just below the surface of the salinas, which seemed to creep, very slowly, as if some incredible life-form lurked there, in the form of animalcula, perhaps. It emanated a greenish froth, which scudded toward them with a frisk of the breeze, and was the source of the terrible stench. When the wind died down the smell became so strong that it seemed to have physical force.
    â€œThe horseman traveled farther,” said Bernantio, who had dismounted to study the ground again, and gestured toward the west, where the vultures still patrolled the sky. “And,” he added, “I can see now that one other rider went the same way.” He climbed back into the saddle, and spurred his mount into moving again. Like the others, Wiki silently followed.
    *   *   *
    Just as the sun began to dip below the horizon a strange landmark bobbed into view, standing out black against the sky. It was on the top of a rise, and proved to be a huge thorn tree, its trunk about a yard around at the base. Its horizontal branches extended out for several feet, seeming quite luxuriant though very stunted in height. The sun was setting in a garish display of red and purple behind it.
    As they came close it was apparent that the tree’s branches were dense with foliage—peculiar foliage, which turned out not to be leaves at all, but objects tied to twigs and impaled on the spines. Wiki counted broken bridles, bolas, animal skins, and pieces taken from old ponchos. Even more eerily, this strange tree was surrounded by scores of horse skeletons, some still complete, others widely scattered. A great heap of salt lay directly at the foot of the eminence where it grew, blown into the typical dunelike shape.
    A vulture, colored dirty white so that it blended into the stony soil, hopped away as they came close. One of the horses snorted, and the bird spread black-tipped wings and clumsily flapped into the air, emitting a vile stench of decay as it went. Directly above, its brethren circled on and on in the paling sky.
    Captain Stackpole pointed at the tree, and said, “What’s all that junk?”
    Wiki asked Bernantio about it. “This is the Gualichú tree,” the rastreador explained. “It is revered by the Indians. Those objects are offerings. One must not tether one’s horse to this tree, or use any of its branches for firewood.”
    â€œWhy the horse bones?”
    â€œSome say they sacrifice old horses here to make the young horses strong and fast, but I think maybe the real reason is that this is where they hold their feasts. The Indians like to eat the flesh of mares. I have seen them eat it raw, with the blood pouring down their chins.” Glancing up at the birds that hovered high in the sky, he observed, “They wait for yet another sacrifice.”
    But Wiki had stopped listening. His whole attention was taken up by what he had suddenly glimpsed poking out of the salt—a human skull, with tiny scraps of flesh still adhering to it despite the attentions of the vultures. It was obviously still attached to a body that was buried in the dune, like the head of a man who had been lying on the sand, and buried up to his neck as part of some seaside game, then forgotten and left to die.
    Wiki slid off his mare, keeping a convulsive grip on her bridle. For a moment, there was a jerk of nausea in his throat. When he crouched down, the skull grinned up at him, misshapen where the hard beaks of the vultures had hacked at the bone, the eye sockets vacant. There was a hole in the front of the skull where a bullet had penetrated the forehead, which looked like a third eye.
    Hearing a step, he looked up. Captain Stackpole was standing close by, holding on to his own horse.
    Wiki asked, “Do you have any idea who it was?”
    â€œNo, of course not.” Whaling was a hard trade that made hard men, but Stackpole looked and sounded shaken.