The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 Read Free Page B

toward his horse. It stood alone. No Indian held it.
    The Apache closed swiftly, thrusting wickedly with the knife. Ches, who had learned knife-fighting in the bayou country of Louisiana, turned his hip sharply, and the blade slid past him. He struck swiftly, but the Apache’s forward movement deflected the blade, and it failed to penetrate. However, as it swept up between the Indian’s body and arm, it cut a deep gash in the warrior’s left armpit.
    The Indian sprang again, like a clawing cat, streaming blood. Ches moved aside, but a backhand sweep nicked him, and he felt the sharp bite of the blade. Turning, he paused on the balls of his feet.
    He had had no water in hours. His lips were cracked. Yet he sweated now, and the salt of it stung his eyes. He stared into the malevolent black eyes of the Apache, then moved to meet him. The Indian lunged, and Ches sidestepped like a boxer and spun on the ball of his foot.
    The sudden sidestep threw the Indian past him, but Ches failed to drive the knife into the Apache’s kidney when his foot rolled on a stone. The point left a thin red line across the Indian’s back. The Indian was quick. Before Ches could recover his balance, he grasped the white man’s knife wrist. Desperately, Ches grabbed for the Indian’s knife hand and got the wrist, and they stood there straining, chest to chest.
    Seeing his chance, Ches suddenly let his knees buckle, then brought up his knee and fell back, throwing the Apache over his head to the sand. Instantly, he whirled and was on his feet, standing over the Apache. The warrior had lost his knife, and he lay there, staring up, his eyes black with hatred.
    Coolly, Ches stepped back, picked up the Indian’s knife, and tossed it to him contemptuously. There was a grunt from the watching Indians, and then his antagonist rushed. But loss of blood had weakened the warrior, and Ches stepped in swiftly, struck the blade aside, then thrust the point of his blade hard against the Indian’s belly.
    Black eyes glared into his without yielding. A thrust, and the man would be disemboweled, but Ches stepped back. “He is a strong man,” Ches said in Spanish. “It is enough that I have won.”
    Deliberately, he walked to his horse and swung into the saddle. He looked around, and every rifle covered him.
    So he had gained nothing. He had hoped that mercy might lead to mercy, that the Apache’s respect for a fighting man would win his freedom. He had failed. Again they bound him to his horse, but they did not take his knife from him.
    When they camped at last, he was given food and drink. He was bound again, and a blanket was thrown over him. At daylight they were again in the saddle. In Spanish he asked where they were taking him, but they gave no indication of hearing. When they stopped again, it was beside a pole corral, near a stone cabin.
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    When Jimmy spoke, Angie got quickly to her feet. She recognized Cochise with a start of relief, but she saw instantly that this was a war party. And then she saw the prisoner.
    Their eyes met and she felt a distinct shock. He was a white man, a big, unshaven man who badly needed both a bath and a haircut, his clothes ragged and bloody. Cochise gestured at the prisoner.
    â€œNo take Apache man, you take white man. This man good for hunt, good for fight. He strong warrior. You take ’em.”
    Flushed and startled, Angie stared at the prisoner and caught a faint glint of humor in his dark eyes.
    â€œIs this here the fate worse than death I hear tell of ?” he inquired gently.
    â€œWho are you?” she asked, and was immediately conscious that it was an extremely silly question.
    The Apaches had drawn back and were watching curiously. She could do nothing for the present but accept the situation. Obviously they intended to do her a kindness, and it would not do to offend them. If they had not brought this man to her, he might have been