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They had just gained the bank near the willow when the man who was in the lead saw them. He kicked the pinto, raising his rifle, just as Otio lifted the Spencer and drilled him through the neck.
“He is dead,” Otio said walking up to the other one, a woman.
Suddenly she had drawn a knife and charged him. But he was quicker, stepping to the side and tripping her, while with the heel of his hand he smashed her in the lower back. She lay on the ground, doubled in pain, her breath coming in grunts. All at once, the fallen Indian woman uncoiled and dove at his legs. Seizing her arm, he swung it around behind her back. A cry broke as he pushed her down on her face and, after a moment, she stopped struggling.
Slowly Otio lessened the pressure on her arm and quickly turned her over on her back. She was not a woman at all. She was a young girl. A beautiful young girl...