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matter? The boy was already dead and couldn’t suffer anymore. But Elroy suffered, watching what they did to Peter’s body. He puked all over himself when they castrated the corpse and stuffed the piece of flesh into Peter’s mouth, then sewed the lips shut. The message would be clear to whoever found Peter’s mutilated body. And only Elroy would know that it hadn’t been done while Peter was still alive.
    Would he be as lucky as Peter? He figured the only reason he was still alive was that they wanted him to take them to the others involved in the massacre. Yet, the longer they kept him alive, the more he would suffer. He could offer to tell them all he knew if they would put an end to it, but what good would that do if the bastards couldn’t understand him? And, Jesus, he didn’t know how to find most of the others. Would they believe that, though? Of course not.
    One of the Comanches bent over him. Elroy could see only a black shape because of the sun. He tried to raise his head, and for a moment he got a glimpse of the Indian’s hands. The man was holding several arrows. Were they finally going to get this over with? But no. Almost gently, the Indian probed at one of Elroy’s wounds. And then slowly, excruciatingly, anarrowhead was embedded inside the wound, not straight in but sideways, into the fatty muscle, and oh, God, they had put something on the arrowhead to make it burn. It was like a hot coal dropped on his skin and left there. Elroy gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. Nor did he scream when his other wounds were treated the same way. He held it in. He only had six wounds. He could stand that much. Then they would leave him alone for a while, letting his body absorb the pain.
    Elroy tried to will the pain away. He thought of the ladies who had been unfortunate enough to stop at his farm. He was grateful he hadn’t seen what had happened to them. And then, suddenly, he saw those haunting eyes again, looking up at him with loathing. Raping that Indian girl hadn’t been worth this. Nothing could be worth this.
    Finally, Elroy screamed. It didn’t matter that the Indian had run out of wounds. He cut a new wound and embedded another arrowhead, and with that Elroy knew they wouldn’t stop until his body was completely covered with arrows. He couldn’t bear it anymore, knowing there would be no letup in the pain. He screamed and cursed and shouted, but he was cut again, and the burning turned to fire.
    â€œBastards! Goddamn bastards! I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’ll tell you anything!”
    â€œWill you?”
    Elroy stopped screaming, the pain forgotten for a split second. “You speak English?” he panted. “Oh, thank God!” Now there was hope. Now he could bargain.
    â€œWhat is it you would tell me, farmer?”
    The voice was soft, pleasant, confusing Elroy. “Let me go, and I’ll give you the names of the men you want, every one of them. And I’ll tell you where they’re likely to be found,” he gasped.
    â€œYou will tell us this anyway, farmer. It is not your life you may bargain for, but your death—a quick death.”
    Elroy had been straining forward with hope. Now he sagged back against the ground. He was defeated. All he could hope for was that it would be quick.
    He told the Indian everything, every name, descriptions, and all the likely destinations he could think of. He answered every question thrown at him quickly and truthfully, ending with, “Now kill me.”
    â€œLike you killed our wives and mothers and sisters?”
    The Indian who spoke such clear, precise English moved down to stand at his feet. Elroy could see him clearly now, his face, his eyes…Oh, Lord, they were her eyes, looking at him with the same blazing hatred. Then Elroy knew this man had no intention of letting him die quickly.
    Elroy licked his lips. He didn’t know where it came from, but he