Steampunked by Joe R. Lansdale Page A

derringer was no longer an issue; like his clothes, it had been taken from him.
    The Dark Rider, his hat removed, his face red with Hamner’s blood, strands of Hamner’s flesh hanging from his teeth, said, “I’m going to save you, Mr. Beadle, until last, and just before you the Indian. And you, what is your name?”
    “Blake. Mr. James Blake to you.”
    “Ah, Blakey. Defiance to the last.
    “Moorlocks …” the Dark Rider said.
    The Moorlocks all leaned forward, as if listening at a keyhole.
    “Gnaw his balls off.”
    They rushed Blake, and there was an awful commotion. Beadle and John Feather struggled valiantly to loose themselves from their bonds and help their friend, but the best they could manage were some lame, ignored kicks.
    Blake was lifted up screaming, and while his legs were held apart by Moorlocks, the others, their heads popping forward like snapping turtles, tore at Blake’s testicles, and when they were nothing more than ragged flesh (they got the penis too), a stake was rammed in his ass and he was dropped down on it. He screamed so loud Beadle felt as if the noise was rocking his very bones.
    The Moorlocks carried Blake to a prearranged hole, dropped him in, pushed in dirt, and left him there. Courageously, Blake yelled, threw his legs up as high as he could. The movement dropped his weight, and the sharpened stick went through him and out of his throat, killing him quickly.
    “That will be the way to do it,” John Feather said. “It’s how we should do it.”
    Beadle nodded.
    The Dark Rider, who sat in a large, wooden chair that had been brought outside from the museum, said, “My, but he was brave. Quite brave.”
    “Unlike you,” Beadle said.
    “Ah,” the Dark Rider said, “I suppose this is where you are going to challenge me, and with my ego at stake, and your ass at stake, so to speak, I’m going to take you on, one on one, and the winner survives. If I win, you die. If I lose, well, you all go to the house.”
    “Are you too much of a coward to do that?” Beadle said.
    The Dark Rider removed a handkerchief from inside his vest and wiped Hamner’s blood from his face and put on his hat. He tossed the handkerchief aside. A Moorlock grabbed it and began to suck at the blood on the cloth. A fight broke out over the handkerchief, and in the struggle one of the Moorlocks was killed.
    When this moment had passed, the Dark Rider turned his attention back to Beadle.
    “I don’t much care how I’m thought of, Mr. Beadle. Since very little causes me damage, and I have the strength of ten men, it’s sort of hard to be concerned about such a threat. And besides, in the rare case you did win, my Moorlocks would eat you anyway. In fact, if I should die, they would eat me. Right, boys?”
    A murmur of agreement went up from the Moorlocks. Except for those eating the corpse of the loser of the handkerchief battle. They were preoccupied.
    “No, I’m not going to do that,” the Dark Rider said. “That would be too quick for you. And it would give you some sense of dignity. I’m against that. In fact, I actually have other plans for you. You will get the stake, but not before we’ve had a bit of torture. As for the red man, well, I can see now that the stake, if you’re courageous like your friend, can be beat. I could tie your legs, Indian man, of course, stop that nonsense. But no. I’m going to crucify you. Upside down. And keep the boys off of you for a while so you’ll suffer. As I remember, a saint was crucified upside down. Perhaps, Mr. Red Man, you will be made a saint. But I doubt it.”
    *****

A cross was made and John Feather was put on it and his hands were nailed and his feet, after being overlapped, were also nailed. John Feather made not a sound while the Moorlocks worked, driving the nails into his flesh. The cross was put in the ground upside down, John Feather’s head three feet from the dirt, his long hair dangling.
    Beadle was taken away to the museum. The