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  He spit at Ryan, who slowly lifted a hand and wiped the spittle away.

  "One time more, you stupe bastard…I'm not fucking Ferryman! Not Blind Night! What do I have to do to prove it?"

  The moment stood astride a razor, and Ryan's fingers twitched for the butt of his blaster. It was clear as crystal to him that talk wasn't going to sort this out. It was going to be sorted by fighting and by chilling.

  No other way.

  The voice from the top of the cliff rang out again, obviously asking a question. The chief replied, then a general, bellowed conversation developed, questions and suggestions raining in from all around them.

  The Trader took the moment to whisper to Ryan out of the corner of his mouth. "Gut-shoot him when I say, and fly like goose shit off a shovel. I'll bring the others."

  Ryan knew it was the best plan there could be. He was obviously the main target for the anger of the Apaches. Put their leader down in the dirt, and you could make them stop and think.

  Slow Eagle held up a hand for silence, looking once more directly at Ryan.

  "The oldest of our warriors makes me think you can test your word."

  "Test?"

  "Is it not real word?"

  "Yeah. But I don't know what you mean. How can I test if I'm telling the truth about who I am? How?"

  "By blood."

  The Trader looked at the Apache. "Stop talking behind your hand, mister. Just tell us what you mean."

  "Blind Night—man who says he is not Blind Night—can fight to death against our best warrior."

  "Blasters?" Ryan asked.

  For the first time there was a hint of relaxation from the Mimbrenos chief. "Your long and small guns are too strong. If you fight it will be knife against knife."

  "Fine by me, Trader," Ryan said. "Back myself against any scrawny, half-assed little Indian son of a bitch with steel in my hand. Yeah. Tell him let's get to it."

  "Go into the redoubt. Make ready. I'll set out some rules with the chief here. Like what happens when you win."

  Ryan appreciated the confidence in the Trader's voice.

  It didn't take long. The Trader strode back, his grizzled face looking slightly puzzled. He stepped into the darkness, blinking. "Where's Ryan? Ah, there."

  "Something wrong?"

  "No. Well, yeah. If they're so rad-blasted scared of Ferryman, I don't get how they're so eager to have one of their fighters come against you with just steel. There's something—"

  "Trap?" Otis suggested.

  Garcia interrupted. "No. They give their word, then they keep it." The torn material tied around his wounded shoulder was already starting to leak fresh blood.

  "If you lose, they say we go free," the Trader continued.

  "If I win?"

  "Chief says we all go free. You as well. I kind of pressed him on that. He said the gods would decide if you spoke the truth. Some kinda heathen bullshit about the spirits of truth sitting on the shoulder of the guy who wins."

  "Me." Ryan grinned.

  "Sure. No rules. One knife each. Kicking, gouging and all that… anything goes, Ryan. Start on a word from Slow Eagle. I said we'd be ready in a coupla minutes."

  "Ready now. Where's the little bastard I have to chill?"

  The Trader sighed, rubbing the small of his back. "Think I jarred something when I dived in here. Who d'you fight? Some Apache with a real weird name. Man Who Tore His Mother's Belly Apart. Chief says they also call him Dark Cloud."

  "Man that slashed open his own mother's stomach!" July shuddered. "What a psycho sicko! Better watch him, Ryan."

  "I'll watch him." Ryan drew his long-bladed Bowie knife from the sheath at his left hip, checking to make sure it was honed to a whispering edge. He re-sheathed it, drew his blaster and handed it to July for safekeeping. He then peeled off his shirt and chucked it to Otis. The damp air struck cold against his skin, and he felt the goose bumps rising.

  "Bring on the mother-chiller."

  Ryan made sure he was out in the sunlight for long enough to get his eyes well accustomed to the brightness. All members of the recce party were lined up with their backs to the devastated redoubt, far enough away to make sure nobody started dropping boulders down on top of them. The Trader had asked the Apache leader to bring his warriors from the cliff face, and he had obliged.

  The Indians had slowly filed out from their various hiding places. It was an odd situation, with the threat to the Trader's group almost vanished. In an open firefight now, they'd massacre the poorly armed Apaches. Two or three of the crew had suggested it to Ryan and the Trader, and Ryan had given them the answer.

  "Could chill them easy, sure. They only got five old blasters 'tween them. But we don't know how many more there might be. Could do us some damage on the way back down the mountain. No. Better I beat their man and we walk easier."

  The morality of betrayal didn't bother anyone in the Trader's party, not with two corpses beginning to stiffen.

  The sun warmed Ryan's muscles, and he felt loose and ready. He'd considered taking off the heavy combat boots, but the ground where they would fight was good and hard. It was a natural arena, about one hundred feet across, with the Apaches on the wooded side and the Anglos by the redoubt. One flank was a blank wall of steep rock, and the fourth side was a sheer drop to some broken crags.

  "Where's your man, Chief?" Ryan called. "Time's passing."

  "Dark Cloud is praying for strength," Slow Eagle replied.

  "He'll sure need it," Ryan said to the Trader, who was at his shoulder.

  "Looks like he's coming," Otis said.

  The row of Indians parted to allow their champion through.

  "Fireblast," Ryan breathed, shocked.

  Dark Cloud was just about the biggest man he'd seen in his entire life.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  RYAN STARED at the hulk, only vaguely aware of the buzz of chatter from his companions.

  "Seven foot six if he's an inch."

  "Got to weight three-fifty."

  "Four hundred."

  "Yeah. Four hundred, easy."

  "Lookit the knife."

  "Fell a pine with that."

  "One blow. Whoosh! Timber!"

  Slow Eagle waved a hand toward the warrior. "This is Dark Cloud. He will fight against your man with one eye who you say is not Carson's man with only one eye."

  The Trader looked sideways at Ryan, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded. What else was there to do? They hadn't told him he was going to have to fight this menacing giant. Why should they?

  "It's fine," he said.

  The Trader looked straight at him. "Don't mix up big with slow, Ryan. Could be a real serious sort of mistake if you did."

  It was a fair point, well made.

  Dark Cloud stood completely still, holding his knife in his right hand, except it wasn't properly what you might call a knife. Ryan's Bowie knife was a substantial weapon, its blade sixteen inches long. The Apache was gripping what looked like a honed-down cavalry saber. It had a brass grip and a slightly curved blade, fully forty-five inches long.

  He wore the same kind of cotton shirt and pants that the other Indians were wearing, the legs tucked into soft fringed boots of brown leather. The other mistake that could be made was to mix up being big and being soft. Ryan's fighting eye weighed up the Apache warrior and couldn't see an ounce of fat anywhere on the huge body.

  "It is to the death," Slow Eagle pronounced.

  "I know," Ryan replied.

  "Your man is ready?" the chief asked, turning to the Trader.

  "Sure is. Let's get to it. Good luck, Ryan. Do it to him, 'fore the double-big son of a bitch does it to you."

  The only sound was the wind as it sighed through the slender tops of the surrounding pine trees and the shuffling of the feet of the two fighters.

  While he'd been waiting, Ryan had been slowing his breathing, trying to relax, knowing the fight wasn't likely to last more than three or four minutes.

  "Go," Slow Eagl
e said.

  The Apache didn't come rushing in, trying to overwhelm the Anglo with his superior weight. He stood off, narrowed eyes watching Ryan. His broad face showed no trace of emotion—no anger or hatred, no lust for blood. Just a serene, calm confidence.

  The spectators were silent, watching the two ill-matched men as they moved cautiously around each other. It wasn't like a fistfight for jack, with odds on one or other of the men. Everyone who rode with the Trader knew that concentration was vital, and if one of them called out to Ryan it might just distract him for that one vital, life-robbing second.

  Neither Dark Cloud nor Ryan wanted to make the first move. With blades, it was often better to use a counterstroke, rather than risk the first vulnerable lunge. Ryan held his own knife point up, hoping for a chance to thrust at the Indian's stomach, the classic winning blow that was amplified by a savage twist of the wrist.

  But the Apache's reach was so much greater than Ryan's that it was a difficult problem to get close enough without being cut to ribbons.

  It crossed Ryan's mind to risk it all on a single throw of the heavy knife, but the Bowie wasn't particularly well balanced for an underarm pitch. And with a man as enormous as Dark Cloud, you had to hit him in a vital spot or he'd just walk on through and hack you to pieces.

  Ryan tried to maneuver his opponent so he had him with his back to the sheer drop, but the Mimbrenos was ready for him, sliding sideways, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. Slowly he started to close in toward the smaller white man, the saber probing at the air in front of him.

  The longer Ryan waited, the slimmer his chances became.

  "Let's go," he gritted to himself.

  He slid in, crabwise, ducking under the first whistling cut of the saber and feinting at the Apache's groin. Dark Cloud was even faster than Ryan had guessed, and his backswing with the long blade was lethally quick—quicker than such a big man had any right to be.

  As Ryan dodged backward, his heavy boots slipped on the loose gravel and he stumbled for a moment. The Mimbrenos warrior didn't follow him in, but Ryan caught the flash of excitement in the deep-set eyes. It had nearly been a chance for the Indian, and he'd let it go by. And Ryan knew that he knew he'd let it slip.

  "Next time," the white man breathed.

  Again he danced in, ducking and weaving, allowing his own knife to paint a whirling pattern of polished death, coming closer to Dark Cloud, readying himself for the attack.

  This time he feinted to cut at the hand that held the saber, but again the Apache was lightning fast. Ryan was forced to duck away, and again his combat boots slipped. But this time the slip was infinitely more serious.

  This time he actually fell, crashing down in a clumsy tangle of arms and legs. As he struggled to get to his feet, something went wrong and he dropped the Bowie knife. It skittered eight or ten feet away from him, mockingly close, but an eternity beyond his reach.

  The drama dragged the crowd of watchers from their silence.

  The Apaches gave a great yell of encouragement to their man, seeing that victory was a scant handful of heartbeats away.

  "Roll, Ryan, fucking roll!" shouted a voice that Ryan recognized as Otis's. It was good advice, but he ignored it. He lay on his back and watched the giant Indian looming toward him, the saber raised for the death thrust that would pin him to the bedrock.

  Dark Cloud's impassive face cracked into the beginnings of a smile of triumph.

  Ryan moved, so fast that the Apaches were still cheering his death.

  Instead of trying to wriggle despairingly away from his opponent, Ryan made his move toward him, pushing off the palms of his hands like an acrobat, kicking out at Dark Cloud with the heel of his combat boots.

  The giant had come a half step too far, lured in by Ryan's apparent helplessness. He reared back, trying to avoid the kick, but this time he was too committed, too slow.

  In that frozen moment of time, Ryan felt the exultant flush of victory, transmitted by the solid crack as his heel made a violent contact with the right knee of the Mimbrenos. His ear caught the sound he'd been hoping for, the sickly crunch of the delicate joint imploding. Protective bone splintered, tore cartilage, ligaments and tendons. The damage was so radical that the Apache would be a cripple for as long as he lived.

  Dark Cloud screamed then, the only sound that Ryan had heard him make. He toppled sideways, arms out, the saber flying from his crooked fingers.

  "Timber," someone said behind Ryan, voice awed and quiet.

  Ryan was dimly aware that his opponent was falling, but he was too busy following through on the next step of the combat plan. He tumbled away in a sort of slanted backward roll, coming up poised on hands and knees, his hand automatically finding his own Bowie knife where he'd dropped it.

  The Indian was still trying. Despite the blinding fire of agony that blazed in his knee, he was struggling to get up on his left leg, hopping like a stork. But the pain had fogged his fighting brain, and he couldn't find his fallen blade.

  "Take him, Ryan," the Trader urged.

  Ryan didn't need telling. He moved in with lethal grace, easily dodging the clumsy flailing arms of the huge man. His razored steel pecked at the hamstring that corded the back of the Indian's left thigh, and blood seeped through the thin cotton pants. Dark Cloud fell again, clutching at the knife wound and rolling in the dust.

  The watchers were silent.

  Slow Eagle and his warriors were stunned by the sudden and horrific defeat of their utterly invincible tribal champion.

  Ryan cautiously circled the stricken giant, located the long saber and picked it up. He shook his head with amazement at its weight. To wield it the way Dark Cloud had done spoke of an almost unbelievable strength of wrist and arm. He turned back again to the Apache.

  Dark Cloud's face was beaded with rivulets of sweat, and a trickle of blood oozed from his mouth— he'd bitten his tongue in shock and pain. His eyes were screwed up, nearly closed.

  Ryan moved closer in, not taking any chances on coming within reach of those crushing arms. Dark Cloud's eyes opened wide, staring intently up at him. His lips parted, and he spoke to him, a short, harsh sentence.

  Watchful of a trap, Ryan glanced away, looking for the face of Slow Eagle. "What'd he say, Chief?"

  "He said he wished for swift passing to the mountains beyond the darkness."

  "Yeah."

  "Give it, white man. You have won. I believe you are not the creature of Carson."

  "You reckon?"

  He paused a long moment, then said reluctantly, "Yes. The gods have shown it so."

  "No need to chill your man, then."

  "It was to the death, Ryan," the Trader reminded him.

  "Wouldn't want it said all through Deathlands that Ryan Cawdor butchered a helpless man, Trader. Not for no reason."

  The helpless warrior repeated the same pleading sentence, but Ryan shook his head and began to walk away, toward his waiting friends. A shout from Slow Eagle stopped him. "No!"

  "No what, Chief?"

  "It must be done."

  "Chill him? Like slitting the throat of a penned steer? No thanks, Chief. Not my style."

  "You must. Word was given that the fight would be to the death."

  Ryan was insistent. "Won't do it, Chief. I'd have chilled him while the fight was going on, not now. Not after."

  He'd sheathed his own knife, having wiped it clear of blood in the dirt. Holding the saber in his left fist he went to the wounded man and offered a hand, knowing that nobody would still expect him to chill Dark Cloud after that.

  The monolithic warrior watched him, eyes puzzled. Finally he recognized that the one-eyed man was reaching down with a gesture of friendship.

  Wincing in pain, he stretched up and gripped Ryan's right hand. Then, snarling with a savage ferocity, he tried to draw Ryan down, the fingers of his other hand clawing for his face.

  "Fucker!"

  The final struggle lasted less than five seconds. The moment Ryan reali
zed the murderous intention of the crippled warrior, he reacted with a lethal speed. He pulled away from the clutching hands and thrust the needle point of the saber at the center of the Apache's muscular neck. He then leaned on it with all his weight.

  The steel slid into flesh like a cormorant diving into water.

  Ryan could feel the tip as it grated past the vertebrae. Dark blood trickled around the curved steel, tumbling down the sides of the man's throat, muddying the dust.

  The fingers of the Apache continued to tighten on Ryan's hand, making him wince at the clamping pressure. Breath gurgled in the warrior's chest as he tried to lift himself, pushing against the saber that pinned him to the earth.

  "Die, you bastard!" Ryan panted. Only a moment ago he'd been eager to spare the life of Dark Cloud. Now every fiber of his soul yearned for the Indian's death.

  The hilt of the saber was hurting Ryan's chest, where he was braced against it. The Apache's head rocked from side to side, hastening the ending.

  The last scene was suddenly, swiftly over.

  Ryan felt the fingers loose their hold, leaving him with swollen weals on his hand. The head stopped its shaking, and stillness came.

  The eyes went blank, looking inward. The mouth sagged open and there was a great sigh of breath, carrying crimson bubbles.

  Ryan straightened, leaving the long sword where it was, the brass hilt only three inches from the front of Dark Cloud's throat.

  Slow Eagle came toward him, nodding. "It was well done. There was honor."

  "Fuck your honor, Chief. It was just another bloody killing."

  Dusk was closing in across the land. Most of the Mimbrenos had taken away the gigantic corpse of their hero, leaving their chief behind with a couple of the older warriors of the tribe.

  Slow Eagle had done everything he could to persuade the Trader to help him and his people against the ruthless tyranny of Alias Carson. Ryan's success seemed to convince him that they were not allies of the baron, but he wrongly assumed that they must therefore be the enemies of Towse ville.

  Finally the Trader rose from the boulder where he'd been sitting and shook his head. "No. I sure figure you got a whole lot of righteous grievances against the baron, but the answer's still the same. No. We aren't masked avengers of injustice, coming in to the ville on white horses."