The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1) by Brad Dennison (microsoft ebook reader .TXT) 📗

His goal was what appeared to be a thicker grove of trees beyond the water Temperance had been swimming in. He would hide his trail, then search for a way out of this canyon other than the pass he and Dusty had been brought in through. He had noticed White-Eye wasn’t among the audience for the fight, and figured he had been assigned guard duty. And that pass into the canyon, the only entrance a rider could use, was where the guards seemed to be always posted.

Josh was leaving the canyon, and he would return to the ranch to warn Pa and the others. But he would be back. Dusty was risking his life to give Josh a chance, and would probably lose his life in the process. Josh didn’t forget his debts. He would be back to resume the quest he and Dusty had set out on originally – to bring Vic Falcone and the other raiders to justice, or kill them in the process.

He emerged from the trees at the edge of the small pond, and found Temperance facing him. She wore a faded range shirt, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. The front of the shirt was buttoned a little more conservatively than usual, and she wore levis that conformed to the roundness of her hips in a way Josh could not help noticing, despite the urgency of the situation. In one hand was a bowie knife which she held before her, the tip of the blade pointing toward him.

He looked silently at her. He didn’t want to hurt her, but didn’t want to lose time, either.

“I thought you were Loggins,” she said, and lowered the knife.

She had been crying, he realized. Her eyes were reddened, and a little puffy.

“Are you all right?” he found himself asking.

“I’m not going to let him touch me again. Not ever.”

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “While they’re all focusing on the fight. I’m getting out of here, but I’ll be back.”

She nodded.

“Will you tell them you saw me?”

She shook her head. “No. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Take me with you.”

Kiowa moved in on Dusty with a series of sudden swipes and thrusts, forcing Dusty backward. One thrust he parried with his knife, as though he were fencing, but the others he found himself continuously leaping away from.

His back collided with the wall of the cabin. This had been Kiowa’s plan, Dusty realized, to pin him against the wall and rob him of his mobility. Kiowa was taller, stronger, and Dusty’s only hope had been to out-maneuver him.

Dusty began a swipe at Kiowa’s face, but Kiowa caught Dusty’s right wrist with his left hand before the blade could find its target.

Kiowa raised his own knife for a strike, but Dusty reached with his own left, and grabbed Kiowa’s knife-hand by the wrist.

A contest of strength began.

Kiowa dug his feet into the sod and drove Dusty back, slamming him into the wall. Once. Twice.

He then drove the knuckles of Dusty’s knife-hand into one of the pine logs that made up the wall, and jarred the blade free of Dusty’s grip.

Dusty brought one knee quickly up toward Kiowa’s groin – not exactly clean fighting, Dusty thought, but when you’re fighting for your life, you toss most rules aside.

Kiowa instinctively twisted his hips at the motion of Dusty’s leg, so the knee missed and caught instead the inside of one thigh, not doing the damage Dusty intended, but the momentary distraction enabled Dusty to pull his right hand free of Kiowa’s grasp. Dusty then balled his fingers into a fist, and drove a right cross into Kiowa’s cheekbone.

Kiowa’s head rolled back with the force of the punch, and as it came forward, Dusty let loose again with his fist.

With Kiowa momentarily dazed from the two punches, Dusty grabbed the wrist of Kiowa’s knife hand with both of his own, and brought Kiowa’s arm down across one knee. The knife fell from Kiowa’s grasp.

Kiowa shook away the cobwebs brought on by Dusty’s fists, and leaped at Dusty, wrapping his arms about Dusty’s ribcage and lifting him from his feet. Kiowa couldn’t match Dusty’s youthful speed with his fists, and was not about to waste energy even trying. He would instead use his superior strength to squeeze the life from him.

He slammed Dusty back and into the wall again, and Dusty’s skull bounced against a pine log, which started his head swimming.

Dusty felt the air being forced from his lungs by the pressure of Kiowa’s vise-like grip. Kiowa shook him from side to side to keep his opponent from regaining his bearings.

Dusty yanked Kiowa’s shoulder-length hair but it had no affect. He raised one fist and gave a couple short jabs to the side of Kiowa’s head, but the limited distance of the punches took away from their effectiveness.

Dusty then swung both hands wide to either side of Kiowa’s head, and then with all of the strength he could muster, he slapped Kiowa’s ears with his open palms.

That did the trick. Kiowa released his grip on Dusty, and brought both hands to his ears, howling with pain.

Dusty spread his feet wide, and sent a left jab into Kiowa’s face, then another, then a wide hook punch, rolling his torso into it, rocking Kiowa’s head back and opening a gash above one eye.

Kiowa staggered backward, then leaped – not toward Dusty, but to one side.

Dusty realized a moment too late what Kiowa’s goal was, as Kiowa’s fingers curled about the handle of Dusty’s knife where it lay in the grass.

Kiowa sprang to his feet and charged at Dusty, raising the knife for a strike.

The blade began a downward arc that would bring it to Dusty’s chest, but Dusty raised one forearm to make contact with Kiowa’s wrist and block the strike.

Kiowa gripped the knife with both hands, and began forcing the knife downward with all of his strength, grimacing with the effort.

A stream of blood was flowing from the cut above Kiowa’s eye, traveling