gobbled down all the jerky as if he hadn’t eaten for a month and looked at Will for more. When none was forthcoming he began to walk to a blotch of shade—and began weaving, as if he couldn’t keep his balance, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, with a singularly goofy look in his eyes. He collapsed halfway to his piece of shade. Will picked him up, grunting at the wolf dog’s weight, and carried him to the desert pines. There he took a double wrap around Wampus’s neck and did the same with the best of the poor selection of trees. Wampus slept without moving, snoring sibilantly, his breathing even and strong.
“How long is Wampus goin’ to be out?” Will asked.
“Hard to say—a few hours, at least. We’ll be back or dead by the time he wakes up. If we’re dead he’ll get through that rope after a good bit of work an’ maybe a couple busted teeth.”
Will nodded. He didn’t like the idea, but it was all they had.
Dusk was beginning to turn to night when the men saddled up. “I guess we might jist as well have at it,” Ray said.
“Let’s ride, pard.”
“I s’pose,” Ray said, “you was wonderin’ what I was doin’ except fetchin’ a jack when I rode out.”
“I figured you’d tell me sooner or later.”
“I’ll show you in a bit, is what I’ll do.”
Although not as bright as the previous night, there was good light. The shadows were a bit deeper and visibility wasn’t quite as long, but it was a good night to hunt outlaws—or be hunted by them.
When they were a hundred yards from the rim, they saw the first outrider. Ray held up his hand to indicate a halt. The man on horseback could barely be seen, but his movement made spotting him easier.
“Watch,” Ray said quietly.
He slid his bow off his back and pulled an arrow from the quiver attached to his saddlehorn and handed it to Will. Will looked at it carefully. An eightinch piece of black-powder composition was lashed neatly to the shaft of the arrow with latigo.
Ray wet a finger in his mouth and held it up over his head. “No breeze ’tall. That’s good.” He nocked the arrow to the bowstring and pulled the string back to full draw, bending the stout bow so far Will was certain it was going to snap. Then he released the missile, aiming high.
For a couple of seconds nothing happened. Then a slash of light as bright as a photographer’s magnesium lit up the sky and all that remained of both the horse and the outrider was an explosion of dirt and rock and a reddish pink mist that faded with the residual light of the flash.
“Holy God,” Will said. “You got enough arrows?”
“Plenty.”
“Then let’s git them sonsabitches!”
They rode on a short distance and left their horses secured to rocks. The stink of scorched hair and burned flesh and leather hung heavily in the still air as they walked to the rim.
Twenty or so renegades stood in front of their saloon, many looking dazed, others firing pistols and rifles uselessly toward where the explosion had taken place.
Ray began firing arrows as smoothly and with as much accuracy as a good rifleman operates his weapon. The saloon was immediately ablaze and several men ran out through the batwings on fire, screaming.
A cluster of a half dozen men partially hidden by the charred hulk of the freighter went up like Fourth of July skyrockets, arcing ten feet into the air, clothes and hair flaming, ammunition in their gun belts firing from the intense heat.
Will was prone, firing his .30-30 quickly but carefully, aiming each shot and rarely missing. Dead and dying outlaws littered the street—and burning things that may or may not have once been men were scattered about.
Ray set his bow aside and reached for his rifle. “Clear outta—” he began.
That’s when the battle ended for Will and Ray. The impact of rifle butts on the backs of their heads removed them from the fracas and everything else.
A bucket of water from a trough brought Will and Ray back to consciousness. They were on their backs, hands tied behind them, with heads that hurt more than either man thought a head could possibly generate pain.
One Dog stood at their feet, muscular arms folded, face painted with war paint, the red hand of death imprinted in dried blood on his forehead.
“Sit up.”
When the two bound men didn’t comply immediately a group of about twenty men moved in, prodding and kicking Ray and Will with their boots. They struggled to sitting positions, legs extended in front of them, hands already becoming numb from the tightness of the rope around their wrists.
A thought flashed through Will’s mind as he looked about him.
Will had heard that Dog constantly smoked ganja and that he used the sacred mushrooms almost daily. He looked closely at the Indian’s eyes but saw none of the dilation and wet glistening the drugs brought.
One Dog spoke again. His voice was calm, but there was an obvious tone of hatred beneath his words. “I will fight and kill each of you with my friend, the serpent’s fang.” He held out a knife in one hand. It had a fairly narrow, double-edged twelve-inch blade. “The second to fight will watch his friend die—and I will not kill quickly.”
“We gonna stay tied while you kill us, you chickenshit savage?” Will snarled.
“Just like you tied women an’ kids when you killed them?” Ray said.
“You don’t have the balls of a prairie dog, you woman who wishes to be a man but cannot, because she’s a coward.” Will spat toward One Dog. “I’ll fight you to the death right now, with or without a knife. A coward dies easily. I won’t break a sweat.”
“The coward will piss himself,” Ray added. “That’ll be fun to see.”
Dog took a step closer to Ray and swung his right fist hard, connecting with the man’s mouth. Ray spit out blood and bits of smashed teeth. Still, he managed a bloody-lipped, derisive grin. “Your type of fightin’, no? When your enemy is tied an’ helpless. Your sow mother gave birth to a worm, a cowardly worm that—”
One Dog swung again, smashing Ray unconscious, head lolling to the side, draining blood and enamel.
“Cut me loose an’ we’ll fight,” Will shouted. “Any goddamn way you wanna fight—jus’ cut me loose!”
“We will fight,” One Dog growled. “Here’s how, white-eyed snake. A short piece of rope will be tied to our left wrists. In the other we will hold knives. The winner lives. The loser’s guts are fed to the coyotes and vultures.” He fingered the deerskin belt around his waist with many globs of hair attached to it. “Thirty-one times I have fought in this manner. My belt holds thirty-one scalps. Yours will make thirty-two.”
“Don’t bet on it, coward.”
One Dog took a quick step behind Will. Will wasn’t at all sure whether the Indian was going to slash his throat or free his hands. He breathed in relief as his hands fell to the grit of the road.
The Indian motioned to a renegade wearing a Union officer’s hat, a rebel shirt with several bullet holes in it, and a pair of men’s dress trousers several sizes too large for him held up with a length of baling twine. He carried a piece of rope about six feet long.
Will struggled to his feet, the pain from his head almost knocking him back to the ground. His hands were numb. He shook them—hard—to restore sensation to them.
The renegade moved to One Dog, who held out his left arm. “Pew! You stink, you swine,” Dog said as the man took two wraps around One Dog’s left wrist and secured the rope with a knot. The outlaw did the same with Will, leaving five feet or so between the two combatants. One Dog had been quite right about the stench of his man; he smelled like a rotting corpse under a long day’s hot sun. Will shook his head to clear it and immediately regretted the move. What was left of Dog’s army formed a rough circle around the bound-together fighters.
One Dog nodded and an outlaw handed Will a knife. It was a decent piece of work: twelve-inch single-sided blade with a smooth blood channel and finely worked bone grips. Will tested its weight and balance and was satisfied.
“We will fight,” Dog said grimly.
“You bet your red ass we will.”
They circled each other once and then again, the rope taut between them. Then, surprising Will, One Dog
