CAMERON STEPPED INTO the rope and yelled, “Bring me up!”
There was no reply, but the rope yanked taut with surprising force, squeezing the air from his lungs. He was jerked off his feet and slammed against the wall of the pit, smacking his head so hard his vision swam.
Cameron dropped the torch as the rope wrenched him up the wall like a side of beef. Grunting against the sudden, violent jerks, feeling as though the rope was going to pull his shoulders out of joint, he used his feet and hands to push himself away from the stony sides of the pit.
Who the hell was up there, anyway? Cameron already knew it wasn’t anyone he wanted to see.
He was at the top of the pit before he knew it, lying facedown beside the hole, his sides sore and burning from the violent chafing of the rope. He’d started to push himself up when a brusque hand took over, grabbing him by his hair and collar, jerking him to his feet. A rancid, sour odor of sweat and human filth filled his nostrils.
No … it couldn’t be …
Marina screamed.
Cameron blinked, then stared.
By the light of the candles Clark had placed around the room, Perro Loco regarded Cameron with amusement. Cameron would not have been more surprised to see the devil himself standing there.
Maybe Cameron had been knocked out in his ascent, and he was only dreaming. But he’d never dreamed a smell that strong …
“H-how the hell…” he began. The Indian brought a roundhouse punch into Cameron’s jaw. It was a solid, brain-twisting, vision-blurring blow that sent Cameron sprawling across the hole, one leg falling into the pit as he clutched the floor.
Marina screamed again. Instinctively, Cameron reached for his .45. His hand grazed the cool barrel just as the Indian removed the gun from his holster.
He was waiting to hear the hammer click back and feel a bullet tear into his skull when the Indian said in guttural, stilted English, “No. No guns. You, me, Cameron. We fight with knife.”
Cameron raised his head to look up into the broken-toothed grin.
“To death,” the Indian added happily.
Cameron turned onto his back, got his legs under him, and climbed to his feet, feeling wobbly from the punch that had cracked his lip and sent blood trickling down his jaw. Wiping the blood with the back of his wrist, he glanced around the room, getting a fix on the situation.
Jimmy was lying in the entrance to the room, where he’d apparently been flung, arms and legs spread. He was either dead or out cold. Clark lay nearby, on his chest, blood spreading onto the rocks and dust beneath him.
Marina sat on the ledge above Clark. Her hat was off, her hair was mussed, and her blouse was torn. She stared at Cameron, her brown eyes bright with fear.
Cameron dropped his eyes to the holster on her waist. Her pistol-gripped revolver wasn’t there. Shuttling his gaze to Loco, he saw the gun, as well as two others—probably Clark’s and Jimmy’s—residing in the Indian’s waistband.
The Indian followed Cameron’s gaze. He lifted his head and smiled cunningly. He jabbed a finger at Cameron, then thrust it into his own broad chest.
“You, me, Cam-er-on. We fight again. No guns.”
He tossed Cameron’s Colt into the pit, then removed the three other revolvers from his waistband and tossed them down as well; they clattered as they hit bottom. Grabbing the big bowie from the scabbard on his hip, he held out the wide, razor-sharp blade for Cameron’s inspection. It was smeared with fresh blood, probably Clark’s.
Perro Loco dropped his eyes to the bowie on Cameron’s waist. “Knife … we fight like men.”
The smile again, drying Cameron’s throat and pricking his loins with cold, wet dread.
Cameron grabbed his bowie, trying to convince himself the situation was not without hope. He had a chance. The problem was he hadn’t fought with a knife in a long time. He knew that Perro Loco, like most Apache warriors, fought with knives often, and prided himself on his proficiency with the weapon.
Cameron glanced at the Indian’s sharp steel blade, buttery with reflected candlelight, and his mouth filled with the coppery taste of fear. Okay, so he’d probably die. He only hoped he could somehow take this big Indian bastard with him …
Why the hell he hadn’t put a bullet in the back of the man’s skull when he’d had the chance, he didn’t know, but he didn’t have time to kick himself for it now.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Marina slide forward. “Stay where you are!” he barked at her. “No matter what happens, just stay where you are! You get too close, he’ll kill you.”
Another grin formed on the Indian’s pocked, broad-boned face. He lunged forward, swinging his bowie in a wide arc. Cameron feinted as the blade sliced his tunic about midway up from his belly button, and jumped to his right, barely avoiding disembowelment. Just one quick, penetrating slash of Perro Loco’s well-trained hand, and his guts would be spilling around his ankles.
Loco lunged in again with a grunt. Again Cameron feinted, then reached in with his own knife, opening a shallow gash on the man’s wrist. Loco darted away, keeping his eyes glued to Cameron’s, trying to read his mind, to anticipate his next move … enjoying the fear he smelled in his opponent.
Loco faked a slice from the right, cutting it off midmotion and bringing his weapon toward Cameron’s belly. Cameron deflected the arm with his own.
Recovering, the Indian stepped back and kicked him glancingly on the hip. It was a powerful blow, but not enough to knock Cameron off his feet.
“So we’re using our feet, eh?” he said. “You should’ve told me; I’d’ve taken my boots off.”
The Indian responded with a thin smile and came in again with a short jab. Cameron caught the arm with his left hand, swung the Indian to the left, and jabbed his knife at the Indian’s belly. Loco deflected the blow with his own knife. The two blades clattered together, the two men locked in a grunting, cursing fighters’ embrace.
Ten seconds later, the Apache gave a savage yell and pushed Cameron off with his left arm. Cameron staggered, trying to catch his breath. The Indian drifted right, holding both hands out for balance, the edge of the knife pointing up, the point angling toward the floor—ready in an instant to stab and slice, to plunge straight in and angle up for Cameron’s heart.
Cameron was on the defensive, a position he hated. Loco was more adept with a knife than he, and the Indian had him reacting instead of acting … for the moment, anyway.
Trying to remedy the situation, Cameron lurched suddenly forward, wheeled, then came around again, this time going in for the kill with two quick slashes that caught the Indian off guard. Loco feinted away at the last second, but Cameron’s forward slash had opened a thin red line across his chest.
The Indian looked down, stunned by the accomplishment of his inferior foe. Cameron took advantage of Loco’s surprise. Circling, careful to remain at least two steps beyond the pit, he lashed out again, his knifepoint angled up. He thought he had him, but the Indian was suddenly gone, like a ghost. He appeared again to Cameron’s left. Screaming, he kicked Cameron in the balls.
Cameron’s knees buckled with the pain. He crumpled, groaning.
This is it, he thought behind the agony that seared through his groin and into his stomach, nearly making him retch. Well, I gave it the old college try. If only I could take the bastard with me …
Fatefully, Loco hesitated, enjoying the moment. Instead of finishing off Cameron quickly and efficiently, Perro Loco wheeled around in a pirouette of sorts, building steam for a fatal kick to Cameron’s head.
The problem was he’d gotten too close to the side of the pit, and nearly fell in. Catching himself, he teetered on the edge of the pit for a full second.
Cameron swallowed the pain engulfing him and flung himself forward. He rammed his head into the Indian’s belly and bulled the man over onto his back.
Loco gave a startled cry as his head hit the rock floor with an audible crack. Still, he managed to bring his knife hand up with a vengeance. Cameron grabbed Loco’s wrist just before the knifepoint went into his throat.
The Indian clenched his broken teeth together. His sweat-soaked face wrinkled in outrage. Channeling all his strength into the fist with the knife, he strove to bury the blade in Cameron’s neck.
Meanwhile Cameron brought his own knife to bear. The Indian grabbed the hilt with his free hand.
For several seconds they were at an impasse, the Indian’s knife only a half-inch from Cameron’s throat, Cameron’s knife six inches from the Indian’s jugular. Each man brought his waning strength to bear. Sweat streamed down their faces—jaws clenched, lips stretched wide, teeth grinding, belabored grunts welling out of their throats.
Slowly Cameron’s knife inched toward the Indian’s throat. Loco’s horrified eyes watched the blade disappear under his chin.
With a final cry and thrust, Cameron shoved the knifepoint into the leathery skin at the Indian’s throat. The point went in a half-inch, then an inch.
Loco lifted his chin and yelled what sounded to Cameron like a prayer or a chant, summoning help from the other world.
“Go ahead and pray, you devil,” Cameron snarled through clenched teeth, “no god can save you now.”
Then he drove the knife into the man’s neck up to the hilt. Blood washed over Cameron’s hand as though he’d punctured a wine flask. Loco gave a sigh. His head went back and his eyes rolled up in his head.
Resting on Loco’s body, Cameron caught his breath and felt relief wash over him like cool water. He licked his salty lips and swallowed, then heaved himself onto his knees. He stared at the dead Indian, hardly able to believe his luck, then wiped the blood from his knife on the dead man’s leggings. Standing, he returned the knife to the sheath on his hip, then headed toward Marina.
She sat on the floor next to Clark, watching Cameron with terrified, expectant eyes, one hand on her chest as if she could not believe he was alive. Cameron wasn’t sure he could believe it, either. He sighed and shook his head.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
She nodded, eyeing Clark. Cameron turned to the man and knelt down.
“What happened?”
“The Indian stabbed him in the chest,” Marina said. “He is not conscious but he’s alive.”
Cameron put his fingers to Clark’s throat, feeling for a pulse. The man groaned, coughed, and rolled his head, muttering. He was starting to come around. Cameron inspected the splotch of blood just above his right breast. It looked nasty but not deep. If they could get it bandaged, he’d probably be all right.
Jimmy had sat up with his back against the wall. He was looking around groggily. Cameron knelt before him and looked into his eyes.
“You all right?”
The kid swallowed and nodded, brought a hand up and rubbed the goose egg growing on the back of his head. “The bastard flung me across the room like I was a sack of grain.”
“Well, he won’t do it again,” Cameron said.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Jimmy said. “He caught me by surprise. I would’ve killed him, I swear I would’ve, if I woulda seen him. He’s just so sneaky.”
Cameron nodded. “Oh, I know all about Perro Loco,” he said, and gave the kid a grin.
Jimmy’s eyes lifted to something behind Cameron, then widened in horror as the kid screamed, “Look out!”
Cameron jerked around and stared, aghast. The Indian stood behind Marina, his big bowie held at his side. Marina turned as well. She screamed and recoiled against the wall.
Blood covered the Indian’s chest from the gash in his neck. “Girl … dies, Cam-er-on. Too … bad.”
He lunged toward Marina, bringing the knife back for a fatal thrust. A gun exploded behind Cameron. Cameron saw the bullet smack into Perro Loco’s face and knock him back against the wall.
Then the gun roared again. The second bullet smacked Loco’s chest. He slid down the wall, smearing blood, and crumpled up on the floor, dead.
Cameron turned to look at the shooter and gaped, befuddled. It was She-Bear.
The squat, round Indian woman lowered her smoking rifle and shuttled her gaze to Cameron, who was still crouched next to Jimmy.
“My man—he not here. He … dead?”
Cameron sighed, dropping his eyes, and nodded.
She-Bear accepted the information with her customary stoicism, her expression remaining wooden. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder as she said matter-of-factly, “You got more trouble out there. Many men on horses.”