“The priest, Christofferson,” Henson said, after a pause.
“Indeed. Did you know he published a book in Denmark about his time in the Arctic? You’re mentioned in several places, quite favorably. He writes about the time he told you about the Seqinek fable.”
“So?”
“So, when Ootah was shown around Copenhagen by the priest, he apparently let slip more than he intended. How you two had nearly lost your lives in an underground cavern. But he clammed up thereafter. Still,” he gestured, “that was an inadvertent corroboration.”
“Why made you believe the story in the padre’s book?”
“I believed it because Leeward kept a dairy. Peary turned everyone’s diaries over to the Natural History Museum, except for yours. Being enamored of your expeditions, envious even, I poured over those documents. And I’d read your rather tame memoir twice. Too bad you weren’t allowed to tell it straight. I mean, you mention Leeward, how sad it was that he “accidently” lost his life. But his account makes it clear of what he thought of you. A fellow like that must have truly grated on your nerves.”
“He did,” Henson admitted. It also occurred to him Davis must have been searching for Ootah before now. But once the millionaire determined he didn’t have the Daughter close, it was better to get him out of the way should his friend get wise and try and send word to him.
Davis was near the knives again. “Curious then he should disappear in the crevasse. Maybe you and Ootah bumped him off simply because he was a Son of the Confederacy who deserved it. Or maybe there was another reason. I knew deep down it wasn’t a gold strike or a stratum of coal you were protecting. That sort of wealth doesn’t seem to motivate you, Mr. Henson. And even if greed was your North Star, you would have returned to extract those riches. But the Daughter is so much more than mere earthly treasures.”
“Here we are, then.”
“Yes. No more artifice, no hidden machinations of would-be puppet masters. Just you and me, and our will to survive. As it should be.” Like he was a salesman indicating watches in a counter case, Davis gestured toward the knives. “Please, be my guest.”
Henson picked up one of the knives. The handle below the curved metal hilt was carved hickory and had heft to it. Davis picked up the other knife and backed up several feet from his opponent. The unstated rules were simple, fight until one of you couldn’t any longer. No throwing the knife, but you could use your free hand. If you ran, then your cowardice and shame would be the stone around your neck forever. Besides, the only way out was up the rungs and the other man would sink the knife in your back before you made it out. Knives extended, the two circled each other. Davis feinted, and Henson blocked with his blade, the clinking of the steel echoing in the cavernous space. Again, they moved around each other warily, eyes alternating from glancing at the other’s knife then to their face, then to the weapon again.
Henson charged at Davis with an underhanded effort. The millionaire side-stepped, and Henson punched him with a solid left. Davis’ head reared back but he wasn’t that stunned, and mostly avoided a slash from Henson’s blade, though he did slit the other’s sleeve and the forearm underneath. The two shifted more, their blades striking and sliding off each other. Moving closer to each other at one point, Davis successfully grabbed Henson’s wrist, yanking the other man off-balance. The knife was raised in his other hand and he plunged it downward, intending to sink it into Henson’s chest. Henson acted fast and drove the flat of his blade against the other knife.
Both men grunted and gritted their teeth as they now had their respective left hands on the other’s lower forearm, the knives momentarily locked as they each pushed them to overpower the other. Henson turned his body, trying to whip Davis around. But he let go, and stumbled. Henson pressed the attack and Davis swiped at his chest, driving him backward. His shirt marked the path of the knife along with a diagonal line of blood underneath.
Once more, they allowed several feet between them as each man sought an opening to attack. Davis hunched forward, then, twisting to the side, made Henson miss with his thrust. Davis’ knife pierced Henson’s upper thigh, but he pulled free before more damage was done.
Davis leaned his upper body in again, tossing the knife back and forth between his hands to try and throw Henson off as to which direction he’d make his assault. In a burst and a blur, the knife in his left, Davis brought the blade up toward the other man’s stomach. Fortunately for Henson, his reflexes were faster, he and ducked aside, chopping his knife at the other’s wrist and lower arm of his knife hand.
“Shit,” Davis swore, a deep wound lacerating that part of his arm. He moved off, sweat dampening his brow. He went far enough away that he bumped against some of the crates. Their creaks a graveyard resonance in the momentary silence.
Henson didn’t come forward, but kept the distance between them. He knew a wounded Davis was a dangerous man, one not to be underestimated. Plus, in that gloom he might not see the flash of the knife until it was too late. His leg was hurting but he was too excited and too scared to let that bother
