Quicksilver Passion (204 page)

I heard it already.”

I forgot you was a ’breed,” Jake sneered.
Got ears could hear a mouse step, I reckon.”

You cry out, you’re a dead man.”

I ain’t movin’ none,” the other assured him.

The hoofbeats grew louder, a long-legged horse moving at a fast gallop.
Suppose it was another scout or some outlaw?
Cherokee would be at a disadvantage, already holding one man at gunpoint. Cherokee considered knocking Jake across the head with the butt of his pistol so he could give full attention to the intruder. With Jake’s old Sharps rifle, Cherokee could take a man out of the saddle as he rounded the bend.

He turned his head slightly, his attention diverted by the approaching hoofbeats. He could—

Jake moved fast as a striking scorpion, his movement a blur as he grabbed up the rifle off the log and swung it hard. The butt caught Cherokee across the arm in a flash of stunning pain and his numb fingers dropped the pistol.

His arm felt on fire, but with his other hand, Cherokee grabbed the rifle by the barrel as Jake drew it back to swing again. His injured arm was too numb to use; it might even be broken. For a split second as they fought over the gun, he wondered why Jake didn’t pull the trigger, then realized Jake didn’t want to alert the oncoming rider either. Neither knew whether it was friend or foe.

His fingers didn’t seem to work, but still Cherokee braved the agony to try to use them, fighting to wrestle the rifle away from the big scout. In the struggle, the Sharps fired, the loud bloom so close to Cherokee’s ear that he heard nothing but ringing for a moment as they fought. Whoever was on the trail had been alerted now.

They were of equal strength, but Cherokee’s arm was at least badly sprained if not broken. They fought for the gun, crashing through the brush in the darkness like two great stags in a life-and-death battle.

Cherokee felt the sweat breaking out on his forehead as they struggled over the gun.
You bastard! I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

Jake laughed, seeming to realize he was gradually wearing the injured man down.
You was too much of a gentleman, ’breed! Never give the other fella an even break!”

They crashed backward through the brush, the dry branches of fallen trees cracking under their boots, the dead leaves whirling up around their legs. Then Cherokee tripped over a dead stump as they moved backward and he felt himself falling.

Jake jerked the rifle clear, and stood there looking down at him, grinning. His yellow teeth gleamed like a wolf’s in the moonlight.
’Breed, I’d really like to make this last, geld you maybe, or at least whip you blood raw, but I’ll have to finish you quick so’s I can deal with whoever that is on the trail.”

He put his hand on a Bowie knife in his belt, its blade bleaming in the moonlight.
I don’t know whether to cut your throat, crush your skull with the rifle butt, or garrote you with my whip.”

Like you did my partners?”
Keep
him
talking,
Cherokee thought.
He might get some feeling back in his arm if he only had enough time.

Like I did your partners.” The scout tossed the empty rifle into the brush.
That’s the easiest way.” He pulled the whip out of his belt.
Injuns hate to die like this. They don’t want their souls trapped in their dead bodies. Wal, I think that’s the way you’re gonna get it!”