CAMERON KNEW HE didn’t have time to draw his pistol. He threw himself sideways and rolled, trying to separate himself from the Indian.
It didn’t work. Just as he was pushing himself up with his hands, the Apache was on him—all sweaty, smelly, grunting two hundred pounds of him—big hands clamped viselike around Cameron’s neck, cutting off his wind.
Cameron fell back. The Indian scrambled to kneel on his chest, face twisted into a mask of pure hatred as he pressed both thumbs into Cameron’s throat and pounded Cameron’s head on the hard rock beneath him.
Cameron wrapped his own hands around Perro Loco’s wrists and tried to wrestle free, but the Indian’s hard-knotted arms would not budge. Cameron began seeing red, felt himself weakening from lack of oxygen, and knew that in a few seconds he would pass out … and then he’d be finished.
His right hand found his pistol and brought it up as he thumbed back the hammer. Perro Loco jerked away, releasing Cameron’s throat. Dragging a mouthful of air into his lungs, Cameron pulled the trigger. The gun barked loudly, making his ears ring, but the Indian had shoved Cameron’s hand and the bullet spanged off a rock above them.
Then they were fighting for the gun, Perro Loco keeping one hand on Cameron’s throat, the other on the gun. They rolled over once … twice … three times, grunting like embattled grizzlies. Cameron cursed and sucked air down his battered throat, trying to maintain his grip on his gun while keeping the Indian’s immensely strong right hand from pinching off his breath again. He wanted to go for his bowie but knew that to do so he’d have to release either the gun or the hand on his throat.
Either way, there wouldn’t be enough time to bring up the bowie before he bought it.
Finally he let go of the hand squeezing his throat and placed his left hand on the Indian’s big, slippery face, feeling for the eyes. Finding them, he dug in his fingertips, pushing Perro Loco’s head back. The Indian released Cameron’s gun and yelled in pain.
Cameron smashed the gun against the man’s head with as much force as he could muster in such close quarters. It was a good blow. The Indian’s other hand dropped away as the man fell sideways. Cameron braced himself on one knee, thumbed back the pistol’s hammer, and fired into the dark body of the man only two feet away.
The gun exploded with a sharp flash of orange light, temporarily destroying Cameron’s night vision. When he could see again, the Indian was gone.
Cameron heard footsteps, saw a shadow separate from the rock out of the corner of his right eye. Turning that way, he emptied his revolver, but there was nothing before him but a jumble of black rock, ghostly wisps of gunsmoke, and the coppery smell of burnt powder.
Above, the stars shone indifferently, flickering like distant lanterns across a lake.
Cameron cursed, looked around for his carbine, found it, and started running after the Indian. Following a faint trail through the rocks, he stopped to listen. The Indian was dead ahead, only a few yards away. Cameron tracked him by the raspy sounds of his breath and the occasional rattle of rock as he ran.
Cameron hurdled rocks as they took shape in the darkness, racing along the pale ribbon along the edge of the spur, then down the other side, holding the rifle out for balance. He paused twice more, holding his breath, and heard the Indian’s labored breathing above the pounding of his own heart.
The third time he stopped—
Silence. Then a cricket sounded somewhere behind him.
He was wondering if the Indian had doubled back when Perro Loco slammed into him from behind, throwing him forward and knocking the rifle out of his hands. Cameron flew face-first into a mesquite shrub.
He turned quickly to the Indian, who was coming at him, holding something over his head. From its size and shape, Cameron could tell it was a good-sized rock. At the last second Cameron sprang to his right.
The rock crashed into the shrub where Cameron’s head had been. The Indian was still recovering from the lunge when Cameron hit him with a roundhouse right to the face. The Apache fell backwards and down, beyond the mesquite shrub, and disappeared …
Cameron looked for him. Nothing but darkness. It was as though a black cloth were held before him. He heard a thrashing from somewhere in that blackness, a grunt and several muffled words that could only be Apache curses, then a sudden yell. The yell was loud at first, but it quickly diminished in volume until the man went silent.
The cricket continued to chirp.
Cameron took one cautious step forward, then felt around with his right foot. The ground gave way just beyond the mesquite shrub. It shelved away for several feet, then dropped sharply—how far, Cameron couldn’t tell with only the stars for light. But from the sound of Perro Loco’s cry, it was a good distance.
Picking up a hefty stone, he dropped it over the edge. It took nearly two seconds to smack rock and clatter away, which told him the drop was enough to kill a man—even an Apache of Perro Loco’s caliber.
Cameron gave a sigh and stood there peering over the ledge. He had an uneasy feeling. He wanted to see that the Indian was dead, but there was no way he could know for sure … unless he climbed down there in the dark and risked breaking his neck.
It wasn’t worth the risk. He’d wait for morning and take another look around. Hopefully, the body would be visible at the bottom of the chasm.
He gave another sigh and, rubbing the sore knuckles he’d nearly cracked when he’d belted Perro Loco, looked around for his rifle. Finding it, he rubbed the sand off it and looked for a good place to settle in for the night, maybe catch a few more hours of sleep. His lungs were raw from the climbing and fighting, and his hand hurt. His eyelids were heavy with weariness, but the adrenaline was still coursing through his veins.
Hoping to calm himself, he dug his tobacco pouch and papers out of the breast pocket of his tunic and rolled a smoke. He smoked and listened to the faint night sounds, trying to empty his mind. Finally he rubbed out the quirley, settled back against the rock wall he’d found in the dark, and slept.
He didn’t wake until a gold shaft of sun warmed his eyelids like a hot stove on a chill morning. Birds were chirping and a cicada sang. A breeze stirred. Cameron gave a jump, remembering Perro Loco and what he’d been doing here.
Blinking sleep from his eyes, he got up and looked around, stretching the kinks out of his legs and back. Things certainly looked different in the light of day.
Moving around, he discovered that he had followed Perro Loco southward off the spur, onto a finger of rock that was no more than a hundred yards long and about twenty-five yards wide. It was a jumble of granite, sandstone, sparse grass, and a few shrubs, a piñon or two growing from fissures in the rock. Cameron soon located the mussed mesquite shrub where he’d fallen and Perro Loco had gone over the ledge. Cameron peered over the edge into a wide canyon with serrated walls, filled with boulders, dry water courses, and shrubs.
The Indian lay about thirty feet straight down, his leggings a soft tan in the golden morning sun. The man was lying in a sandslide, head turned to one side, one arm up, elbow crooked. His legs were splayed. There was a red splotch in the sand near his mouth.
He was dead. No one could survive a fall like that. But just to be sure, Cameron jacked a shell and lifted the carbine to his shoulder. Then he thought better of it; a rifle shot would echo around in that canyon forever, alerting who-knew-how-many Apaches to his presence. He regretted leaving his field glasses at his first campsite on the ridge—he could have used them to double-check Perro Loco’s condition. He sure wasn’t climbing down there—the way was impossibly steep. Then he shook his head. No, he reassured himself; the Apache had fallen nearly straight down—only one broken bush gave sign of his journey down the canyon’s wall. The man was dead.
The only problem was, Cameron didn’t have any proof. The soldiers at Contention City were going to have to take his word the Indian was dead … or ride out here and see for themselves.
Cameron gave a satisfied nod, pursing his lips. “Sleep well, you bastard,” he said to the dead Indian, then turned and walked away. “I’ll see you in hell.”