forearm aside even as he slammed into me. His shoulder caught me full in the sternum, and I was smashed onto my back. I thought my chest would burst.
Cutter had let go of his rifle as he sprang, and now, straddling me, he whipped a pistol from under his belt and jammed the deadly end against my neck.
I did not understand why Blue Water Woman had not fired. Then I saw her over his shoulder; she rushed up and pointed the rifle at the back of his head. Whether her intention was to shoot or take him prisoner as I had requested was rendered moot by the click of his pistol. He glanced at her, showing his teeth in vicious glee.
“Go ahead, squaw. You shoot me and I shoot him. All it will take is a twitch of my finger.”
Blue Water Woman hesitated.
“I thought so,” Cutter crowed. “Drop the rifle and step around in front of me.”
“Don’t do it!” I cried.
Cutter, frowning, gouged the pistol into my neck. “Not another peep out of you.”
I writhed in pain but dared not push at his arm for fear the pistol would go off.
Blue Water Woman was a study in indecision. My folly had placed us in a dreadful predicament. She could shoot him, but at the possible cost of my life. Our eyes met, and for a moment my pain was of no consequence. Then, reluctantly, she lowered her rifle, saying, “Very well. Do not kill him, and I will do as you say.”
I was heart struck. She was sacrificing herself for my sake. This gentle woman whose friendship I valued so highly would lose her life because of my stupidity. I couldn’t have that. I would not let her perish.
Cutter was looking at her, not at me. In his arrogance he had forgotten something; the knife I still held. He sneered at her, and I stabbed him in the belly.
I must say, the result was not what I expected. I thought he would collapse on top of me, dead, but I had no more luck stabbing him than Blue Water Woman did when she stabbed Jordy. Instead of collapsing, he roared like a wild beast and exploded into motion.
Cutter reared up off of me, hitting me with his pistol as he rose. Blue Water Woman tried to level her rifle, but he whirled and was on her in a bound. He swung the pistol and caught her above the ear. Down she went.
“No!” My head was spinning, but I heaved off the ground. “Get away from her, you slug!”
Cutter spun. He began to raise the pistol, then smiled and did the last thing I expected; he slid it under his belt. Not because he was giving up, but so he could draw one of his knives. He wagged it in a circle and said with relish, “I’m going to like doing you. You will die a hundred times before I am done.”
“A person can only die once,” I responded, struggling to clear my head. I was under no delusions. I was no match for him, none whatsoever.
As if the situation were not dire enough, hooves pounded and through the aspens came Jess Hook. He drew rein and aimed his rifle at me.
My time had come.
Chapter Eighteen
Life is a fickle mistress. She dispenses happiness and sadness with no regard for those under her sway. I had come to the Rockies for the sole purpose of expanding the horizons of human knowledge, yet my lofty goal counted for nothing when weighed in the balance by the scales of death. I was on the verge of being sent beyond the veil.
“No!” Cutter bellowed. “Don’t you dare!”
Jess Hook did not lower his rifle, but he did look at Cutter and say in annoyance, “I have as much right as you. They killed my brother.”
“She did!” Cutter said, pointing at Blue Water Woman’s unconscious form. “Do what you want with her, but I do fancy pants here.”
“Stop calling me that,” I said.
Cutter’s shirt was bloody, and scarlet drops were dripping over his belt and down his leg. “I mean it. Look at what he did to me. He’s mine, and that’s that.”
Jess Hook straightened. “All right. The squaw is mine and he’s yours. But we should take a look at you first. You’re bleeding bad.”
“I hardly feel it,” Cutter said. “We’ll look when I’m done with him and not before.”
And just like that, he sprang.
I was not prepared. My head was still fuzzy and I was staring at Blue Water Woman, not at him. As it was, I evaded his knife only because I instinctively threw myself backward, and in doing so, tripped over my own feet. His blade cleaved air inches from my throat.
I landed on my back and scrambled away from him using my elbows and heels. Cutter came after me, slicing at my legs. I rolled to the right and pushed to my knees.
Cold steel arced toward my chest. I countered, and my knife rang on his. It jarred my arm to the bone.
Cutter was incensed. He redoubled his efforts, thrusting and slashing. I reacted without thinking and managed to block or avoid his blows. Suddenly he drew back, breathing heavily, which enabled me to get to my feet.
“Let me shoot him!” Jess Hook offered.
“No!” Cutter had his other hand pressed to his gut. The dark stain had spread and the top of his pants were now crimson.
“We’ll tie him and you can kill him after I stitch you up!” Jess hollered.
“No,” Cutter said again, and came at me in a fury.
How I stayed alive I will never know. His blade glittered and streaked. I dodged and ducked and danced to one side or the other. Self-preservation is a powerful instinct, and I attribute the fact that I was unscathed when he stopped and stepped back to a force beyond myself.
We were now a good thirty feet from Jess Hook, who yelled, “Damn it, Cutter! You’re killing yourself!”
Cutter did not look well. He was pasty, his face sprinkled with beads of sweat. He swayed slightly as he stood there glaring at me. His lips were drawn back from his teeth so that he seemed more akin to a rabid beast than a rational human being.
What makes people do what he was doing? Why, in the face of all reason, do we ignore what is best for us and do that which will only heap hardship on our heads? Is it pride that makes us think we are immune to the folly of our actions? Or is it that we think we are invincible when we are not? Whatever the cause, I was grateful Cutter was no different from any other mortal; he was too stubborn for his own good.
“Did you hear me?” Jess Hook shouted.
“Quit pestering me!”
“Fine. You’re on your own.”
Hefting his knife, Cutter crouched. “It’s you or me. I won’t stop until one of us is done for.”
“You should listen to him and let him bandage you.” I was stalling.
Cutter cocked his head. “I hate you.”
Why he said that, at that moment, was a mystery to me. But it was not all he had to say.
“I hate you more than I have ever hated anyone or anything. You are all that is wrong with this world. You are why I am as I am.”
That made no sense whatsoever. I figured the loss of blood had brought on delirium. “We are each of us accountable for our own actions,” I responded.
“There you go again, using big words. I hate that, too.”
Now I ask you, where was the logic in that? Why hate a person’s vocabulary? “What you need is a cup of tea. My grandmother always claimed that calms the nerves.”
For some reason that drove Cutter berserk. Roaring like a mad bear, he charged me, his knife weaving a tapestry of death.
I did the only thing I could.
I turned and ran.
