THE CAMP CONTAINED upwards of fifty Indians. Less than a third were women, and there were no children. The tipis spread in concentric circles outwards from the apex formed by three big hide tents. Mustangs were tethered outside the conical dwellings, two and three at a time, while more ponies grouped in a herd further up the slope, watched over by the younger warriors.
Long Lance waved for Azul to dismount, squatting at the entrance of the largest tipi and motioning for the half-breed to seat himself opposite.
The escorting riders disappeared amongst the tents, and two Indians came out to sit either side of the chief. One was a man in his middle years, his hair hidden beneath a buffalo head-dress, the hide shading his face, horns slanting forwards. He wore a buckskin shirt decorated with intricate beadwork, and fringed leggings with patterns sewn into the material at the sides. There was a knife and a big rattle tucked into his belt and as he stared at the half-breed, Azul saw the puckered line of an old scar descending whitely down the left side of his face. It tucked his mouth out of line, twisting the corner into a permanent grin that was belied by the coldness of his dark eyes. The other was around Azul’s height, his hair bound in two long plaits fastened with red ribbons. Three black-tipped eagle feathers were fixed behind his head. He wore a quill shirt and flaring blue pants with wide yellow stripes down the sides. Around his waist there was a broad belt containing a sheathed knife and a tomahawk. He held a Winchester rifle cradled in his arms, and around his left bicep there was a stained bandage.
His eyes flickered over Azul’s face, and the half-breed grinned back, settling his own rifle over his knees.
‘Buffalo Man.’ Long Lance pointed to the man on his right. ‘Lame Bear.’
‘We have met.’ Azul caught Lame Bear’s gaze and held it. ‘Lame Bear took my horse.’
The chief laughed. ‘Did Braddock,’ it sounded like Brah-hock, ‘send you here to tell us that? A man who cannot keep his horse cannot be much of a warrior.’
‘Ask Lame Bear how he got the hole in his arm,’ said Azul. ‘Ask him about the two dead warriors he left behind. I want my horse.’
Long Lance translated the words. Lame Bear snarled, gesturing at Azul as he gave vent to a rapid flood of guttural Sioux. Buffalo Man smiled with the other side of his mouth, and interrupted the argument.
‘You did not come here to talk about your horse.’ Long Lance spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. ‘But we might talk about it later. What does Braddock say?’
‘He’s ready,’ grunted Azul. ‘That was all: Braddock is ready.’
Again, Long Lance translated, and this time Lame Bear smiled.
‘Good.’ Long Lance slapped his bare thigh. ‘Tell Braddock we shall be there when the moon is full. He will get his money.’
‘And my horse?’ Azul said. ‘What about that?’
Long Lance chuckled, his eyes roving over the camp before settling back to meet Azul’s gaze. ‘Braddock will give you another horse. Go away now, we have things to talk about.’
‘No.’ Azul shook his head, ducking it in Lame Bear’s direction. ‘This man took my horse. I want it back.’
As he spoke his forefinger tightened slightly on the trigger of the Winchester, his thumb settling firm over the hammer. He opened his left hand so that the rifle balanced on the palm, held in place by the thumb.
‘If I gave the word,’ said Long Lance, ‘there would be twenty warriors around you. All with weapons.’
‘And you would be dead.’ Azul smiled, taking a long gamble. ‘Lame Bear and Buffalo Man with you. I could kill you all before I die.’
Buffalo Man grunted something, and Lame Bear replied. Long Lance nodded, turning back to face Azul.
‘You are a brave man,’ he said. ‘It is a pity you are not an Indian. Buffalo Man has said that you have the right to win your horse back. Lame Bear agrees, but you must win it in fair fight. As it was taken.’
‘I agree.’ Azul kept the Winchester at the ready. ‘How?’
‘Lame Bear chooses lances,’ said the chief, slowly. ‘Can you use a lance?’
Azul nodded.
‘You are a very strange white man,’ grunted Long Lance. ‘Not many would dare face Lame Bear with his own weapons.’
Azul grinned, though little humor showed on his face. ‘My mother was Chiricahua Apache. I am half Indian.’
‘Lame Bear beat you before,’ said Long Lance. ‘He says he would have taken your hair if more white people had not come by.’
‘Lame Bear was with his friends then.’ Azul calculated the insult carefully. ‘He had help. Had he faced me alone, I would have killed him and saved us all this nuisance. All I want is what belongs to me. I will fight Lame Bear to get it back.’
‘So be it.’ Long Lance chuckled again, and translated for the others. ‘Come with me.’
The Indians camped along the flank of the black hill gathered to watch the combat. They formed two long rows to the west side of the river, each line of eager watchers divided by a thirty-foot gap. Lame Bear smiled at Azul as he fetched the gray stallion to one end of the line.
The half-breed cursed as he realized the advantage the Sioux had gained. Whatever moves Lame Bear might attempt, Azul would be forced to defend three targets: one would be his own body; the second, his mustang; the third, the gray horse ridden by the Sioux warrior. He handed his rifle to Long Lance and took, in return, the twelve-foot pole offered by the chief. It was a straight length of fire-hardened wood, set with a stone head at one end, the flint tip bound to the pole with strips of water-tightened rawhide. It thickened out at the rear, more hide bound around the haft to form a secure grip. Lame Bear’s lance was of the same design.
Azul mounted the sand pony and balanced the lance in his hand. A shield was passed to him, and he buckled the circle of hardened leather over his left arm. Then he couched the lance between right elbow and hip, controlling the nervous pony with his left hand.
Lame Bear took position at the far end of the line. Still smiling.
‘When I drop my arm.’ Long Lance took the center of the impromptu alley. ‘You attack.’
He dropped his arm and Lame Bear kicked the gray to a gallop.
Azul dug heels against the sides of the sand pony and thundered towards the screaming Sioux. He had used a lance before – when he was a boy – but it was not a usual weapon of the Apache. The long poles were favored by those Indians living on flat, open country, rather than the Apache, who inhabited the mountainous areas of Arizona and New Mexico. There, a bow or a gun was of more immediate use, striking from the heights where a lance was too short-ranged to be effective
But he still remembered what he had been taught. He held the base of the pole firm, lowering the tip so that it drooped on an angle that brought the head in line with the gray stallion’s chest. At the same time, he raised his shield to cover his belly, crouching in the saddle so that little more than his face showed above the circle of cured hide.
Lame Bear’s point lifted as the two animals closed together, swinging up to dart at Azul’s groin.
Azul took the blow on his shield, his own lance clattering from the Sioux’s , riding up and over as the warrior ducked.
The half-breed pushed the shield over, forcing the deadly stone head away from his body.
The two men thundered by one another.
Lame Bear reined in, dragging the gray round and coming back down the alley with no loss of momentum. Azul rode to the end and turned the sand mustang, seeking to gain extra velocity from the longer run.
The Sioux’s lance rose towards his belly, probing for the gut-thrust that would lift him clear of the saddle, Azul deflected it on his shield again. And turned his own pole across his chest, heeling the mustang against the charging gray.
The lighter Indian pony careened off the big stallion. Azul’s pole struck where he had intended: the heavier butt slammed against Lame Bear’s shield. Bounced off. And drove hard against the Sioux’s wounded arm.
Lame Bear grunted, a sudden staining of blood bursting from under the cloth covering his wound. His shield drooped.
Azul spun the mustang round and charged back. Lame Bear turned to face him, his previous confidence evaporating fast as the half-breed closed the gap between them.
They closed again, and this time the half-breed’s lance point caught the top side of the Indian’s shield. It tore through the rawhide just under the upper rim of the wood that held the cured leather in place. Had it continued along its natural trajectory, it would have driven into Lame Bear’s chest. But the Sioux turned in his saddle, twisting away so that the tip glanced off his quill breast-plate and got caught in the shield. He allowed his own pole to be deflected, yanking the shield down and round to turn Azul’s stroke.
The half-breed felt the lance tear loose from his grip as the two horses went by, the leverage afforded Lame Bear permitting the Indian to twist the pole from his opponent’s hand.
He shrieked a victory cry, the sound echoed by the watching crowd, and galloped to the end of the combat space. Along the way he shook the captured lance free, then swung the gray stallion round and came back at full speed, lance angled for the killing stroke.
Azul turned the mustang as soon as he felt the lance tear from his hand. He reached towards his belt, dragging the Bowie knife clear of the sheath, grasping the leather-bound hilt with his right thumb set firm against the tang, the blade set with the curved cutting edge upwards.
As the two horses closed again he brought his shield over and down. Lame Bear anticipated the move, expecting the same kind of defensive counter that had stripped the half-breed of his lance. He adjusted the angle of his attack so that his pole deflected from the upper edge of Azul’s shield at the half-breed’s face.
But the face was no longer there.
Instead, it was swinging down as Azul slumped to the side, reaching in under the Sioux’s arm to drive the Bowie knife deep into the gap between quill armor and leather belt.
The blade tucked hard into flesh.
Cut round and tore loose as the two men rode past one another. Around Lame Bear’s right side, following a foot long gash, there appeared a wide band of blood.
The Sioux groaned. The crowd fell quiet.
Azul swung his mustang round and hurled the shield loose from his left arm. His face was set in cold, hard lines, the tension in his cheeks emphasizing the bruise mark down the right side.
Lame Bear turned, driving the gray back at his enemy. Blood flecked the stallion’s hindquarters as the wound in the Indian’s side sparkled streamers of crimson behind. He crouched in his saddle, moving his shield over to protect his body as he pointed the lance on Azul’s midriff.
The half-breed slammed both feet hard against the sand mustang’s flanks, yelling as he urged the pony to fresh effort. The mustang responded, churning divots from the ground as its unshod hooves dug in and launched it forwards in a wild charge.
Azul dropped the reins around the saddle horn, leaving both hands free. As he closed with Lame Bear, he brought his right across and up, glancing the blade of the Bowie knife under the probing tip of the lance. At the same time he reached over to slam the lance vertical with his left hand. His right continued in a straight line, the Bowie jutting out like a massive claw at the end of his arm.
The heavy blade went in under Lame Bear’s shield as the lance was wrenched up and over. It drove beneath the Sioux’s ribs, grating on the bone, piercing the sac of the stomach three inches to the inside of the first cut. Lame Bear screamed. The Bowie punctured his stomach, slicing through intestines and organs as the warrior’s own momentum pushed him deeper on to the blood-sticky steel.
The knife tore loose, carving a deeper gash above the first wound. Lame Bear let go his lance, slumping over the stallion’s neck as glistening ^entrails spilled from his belly.
The sour odor of blood and belly fluids spooked the gray, and it caught up short, beginning to buck as panic took hold.
Azul rode back, slicing the Bowie hard and deep over the Indian’s spine as he went by. Lame Bear screamed again, his body snapping upright as the heavy blade hacked through flesh to cut at the vital bones in his back.
Azul spun the mustang in its own length. Lame Bear was still fighting the terrified gray, trying at the same time to fetch the tomahawk from his belt. He had no time, for Azul rode in close, slashing the Bowie over his arms to produce a network of ragged gashes that spilled scarlet streamers down the Sioux’s limbs.
The half-breed felt the knife grate on bone. Saw a red-lipped gap open above Lame Bear’s hand. And stretched sideways in his saddle to ram the blade deep into the center of the Indian’s stomach. He carved it round in a circle, driving the point upwards. Lame Bear opened his mouth to scream afresh, but no words came out, only a thick spill of blood.
He released his hold on the gray stallion and life at the same time, his blank eyes staring at a sky he would never see again. Then he fell from the saddle, crashing on to the blood-stained soil, left hand still wound round with the reins.
The gray fought to get clear. It bucked and kicked, driving its hooves indiscriminately against the ground and Lame Bear’s corpse. The Sioux’s chest and face got pulped before the watching Indians closed in to pull the horse away. Azul stayed mounted, sheathing the Bowie knife as Long Lance and Buffalo Man approached.
‘You fight good,’ said the chief. ‘Like an Indian. The horse is yours.’
Azul dismounted. Long Lance handed him the Winchester. ‘Now you own Lame Bear’s things. You want to take them with you?’
Azul shook his head. ‘All I want is my horse, and two things from the saddlebags. If Lame Bear had a family, share his things amongst them. The sand pony, too. If not, then let the village share them.’
It was the Indian way, and it brought a murmur of approval from the onlookers when Long Lance translated. A successful warrior might win prestige for himself by bringing home trophies won in battle or on a horse-stealing raid, but to enhance his standing within the confines of his own village he would distribute most of his spoils amongst his family, his friends and the poorer members of the tribe. It served to maintain a loose equality, guaranteeing that those warriors more skilled in battle – or the highly-regarded art of horse theft — did not amass too great a weight of wealth.
Azul’s gesture was both instinctive and calculated. He felt no desire to load himself down with the possessions of the dead Sioux, and by giving them away he could win a degree of trust.
Long Lance said, ‘It is well done, but what are these two things you want?’
Azul paused, weighing the odds. Two bars of silver would buy the Indians plenty of guns, and it was possible that Long Lance would refuse to hand them back. But he had won the right to ask for them, and he doubted the chief would lie about their presence.
‘There were two ingots of silver,’ he said evenly. ‘When Lame Bear took my horse, the bars were in the saddlebags.’
Long Lance’s face clouded and he grunted in surprise. He set his right hand, palm down, against his chest. The gesture indicated that he spoke only the truth.
‘Lame Bear came to us with the horse and a rifle. Nothing more. There was no silver.’
Shock tensed the half-breed’s body. With an effort of will he kept his face impassive, staring at Long Lance. He could read no guile in the Sioux’s eyes, but in his mind there opened vistas of deceit.
‘I speak the truth,’ said Long Lance. ‘There was no silver.’
‘I take your word,’ Azul grunted. ‘I must seek the truth with others.’