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to interrogate the Waw’ai prisoner. The Kid had brought along a lamp and hung it from a hook fitted into the roof for that purpose. As Dusty and the Professor entered, the other two Texans put the final touches to fastening the Waw’ai to the wall.
    Although called a store cabin, the building served mainly as a workshop for saddlery repair. Harness, spare saddles, bridles and other horse equipment lay around the single room. In its centre stood a stout table and two heavy benches were set against the walls. Looking around him, Hollenheimer saw a number of items which might serve as instruments of torture, although their true purpose was the repair or making of leatherwork. Tearing his eyes from the stout needles and short, sharp, curved bladed knives, he looked at the prisoner.
    Clearly Mark and the Kid had wasted no time on their arrival. Already the Waw’ai stood with his back to the wall, arms drawn up and apart with ropes secured to pegs in the wall and his legs held apart, fastened to the work benches. Tied in such a position by experts in the use of ropes, the Indian could barely move.
    Hollenheimer studied the Indian with some interest. Most Comanches tended to be short to medium in height, with stocky, robust bodies. Although showing a wiry, muscular development, the Waw’ai was tall and slim. He had the normal straight black hair of all Indians and the slightly Mongoloid features of the Comanche. All he wore was the smallest breechclout Hollenheimer had ever seen and his body glistened in the lamp’s light. If he felt afraid, the Waw’ai did not show it, but scowled defiantly at his captors.
    ‘He said anything yet?’asked Dusty.
    ‘Only one thing,’ the Kid replied, lips twisted in a wolf-savage grin. ‘I won’t tell you what.’
    ‘Ask him why he came here,’ Dusty ordered.
    Turning back to the Waw’ai , the Kid repeated Dusty’s question in Comanche. At first the Indian made no reply, then he grunted something.
    ‘He allows they came to steal horses,’ interpreted the Kid then swung back to the prisoner. ‘That’s a lie. No Waw’ai ever raided over the ridge behind his village. You came here to kill me.’
    Only a grunt left the Waw’ai’s lips and he hung his head in a surly manner. Mark shoved the man’s head back, forcing him to look straight ahead. Taking out his knife, the Kid held it before the Waw’ai’s eyes and then lowered it to the level of the breechclout.
    ‘Tell me who sent you, or I’ll make you half a man,’ he growled.
    For a moment fear flickered in the Waw’ai’s dark eyes and the Kid thought his threat might work. Then the Indian stiffened his features into a cold, expressionless mask,
    ‘Strike, Pehnane dog-eater!’ he snarled.
    ‘Aiee, Namae’enuh !*’ said the Kid, using another name for the Waw’ai . ‘Would you go back to your people and not be able to make children with your sister?’
    ‘Strike, don’t talk!’ the Waw’ai spat back after a brief pause. Watching the Kid at that moment, Hollenheimer wondered how he ever thought the other looked young and innocent. Nothing in the Kid’s cold Dog Soldier’s mask of a face led the Professor to believe he would hesitate before castrating the prisoner. Nor did there seem to be any chance of Dusty or Mark making a move to prevent it happening. Suddenly Hollenheimer’s mouth felt rather dry and he ran his tongue tips over parched lips, wondering what he ought to do.
    However the Kid understood Indians far better than Hollenheimer, academic knowledge and international reputation notwithstanding, ever could. All too well the Kid knew how an Indian would stand up to pain. Mere torture could not bring out the required answers. No Comanche would doubt that another Nemenuh aimed to carry out a threat of torture, yet the Waw’ai seemed resigned to the hideous fate of losing his manhood. That meant the Waw’ai must have some strong puha , medicine power, behind him. The Kid knew the futility of using