Rafe Read Free Page B

pit, broken only by the soft pat-pat as the Creek to Rafe’s left slapped his tomahawk lightly against his painted leg.
    Rafe now knew all he needed. Without hesitation he leaped toward the one on his left. As the warrior broke across to the center of the pit where his companion met him, Rafe hit the wall, spun from it and headed for them. The Indians, taken by surprise by the rapidity of his attack, stood their ground instead of splitting up. Rafe’s whirling machete accidentally struck flat-edged against one of the tomahawks, knocking the weapon from the Indian’s hand and breaking the machete halfway down the length of the blade.
    The charge sent him between the two braves, carried him almost to the wall again. A trickle of warmth ran down his leg. One of the knives had ripped a jagged wound open across the side of his right thigh. His back burned where a tomahawk had struck a glancing blow, ripping from him a chunk of skin and flesh. From above him and as if in a dream, he heard the excited clamor of the crowd as bets changed frantically.
    Rafe forced the wounds from his mind and stepped away from the wall. Glistening with sweat, the Indians arced out to the sides and cut back, pressing to the attack, coming in for the kill. Rafe backpedaled, forcing them to come at him at a closer angle. The knives flashed low and high as he had thought they would. His leg went over the low knife, striking the brave in the chest and sending the painted warrior reeling away in a drunkenlike, gasping, slippery fall. Rafe’s torso, low, went under the second knife, the broken machete aimed at the brave’s exposed belly. The blunt end entered the abdomen with an audible pop as skin stretched in and finally burst, ripping to the sides as the broad blade cut its way through the living organs and struck the backbone.
    The mortally wounded Creek staggered back and clawed at the hilt as if to draw it from his body. Instead, he turned it viciously in a suicidal grip. His face contorted in silent pain as the blood gushed freely from the gaping wound and he pitched forward, dead.
    Rafe straightened as he heard the scream from behind him. The remaining brave, his shriek of rage echoing hollowly from the walls, launched himself through the air, knife in hand, hate and revenge burning in his eyes. Rafe responded with the only weapon left to him—his hands. His right fist, a massive bony club, struck out like a serpent and met the Indian’s face, the left hand simultaneously blocking the swinging knife arm arcing from above. Rafe felt the blow up to his shoulder blade, his right hand and arm instantly numb. The Creek’s airborne momentum was abruptly shattered with a loud crack as face bones crumbled and splinters drove into his brain. Dead already, the wrenching snap of neck bones followed, and the Creek collapsed to the packed earth, his head twisted grotesquely back.
    Rafe the victor, blood streaming from leg and back, stepped away from the dead men and flexed his fingers as the feeling and searing pain returned to his arm, shooting its length in great spasms. Cheers and curses from the blood-sated watchers above broke into his consciousness, but he forced himself to keep his eyes and face down to the dead sprawled to either side of him. Then slowly he turned and walked to the looped chain being lowered into the pit. Praise rained down on him but he remained as mute as the clay-smeared bronze corpses crumpled behind him. As always, only one man would leave the pit alive.
    Ezra smiled graciously to Monsieur Bernard, and offered in his most pleasing and infuriating tone to bury the dead braves for the losing landowner. The Frenchman handed Clayton a sack of gold coins and muttering something about letting them rot where they lay, gathered his retinue and stalked off toward his horse. He mounted and rode off furiously, leaving his followers scattered behind.
    Ezra waved languidly to his rival’s back, then turned to