Realizing his newly-healed arm alone was too weak to choke the Indian, he threw his weight forward and followed through. The two men tipped off the bank and plunged into the creek. As the water closed over his head, Crawling-Snake released Quantro’s knife hand, his fingers clawing to free his throat from the choking pressure.
Quantro was his knees, showers of water kicked up around him by the thrashing feet of the Apache. Crawling-Snake broke the hold and his face, streaked with warpaint, came up out of the water. He was gagging, spewing out a stream of water, but his eyes were wild with the promise of death.
Quantro held his knife in-over and smashed his fist into the Apache’s jaw, sending him sprawling back into the water. His knuckles caught on the jawbone, jarring his hand numb. His fingers opened of their own accord and the hunting knife fell into the creek bed.
He threw himself forward to grasp the Indian’s neck, blocking a wild swing of the scalping knife. His hands closed around Crawling-Snake’s windpipe, and he pushed him back under the surface, straddling the muscled bronze chest. He wondered how long he could keep pressure on the grip. His left arm was rapidly weakening. The pain he could stand, but enduring pain would not guarantee his hand would do the work he bade it.
When they had fallen, they had entangled themselves in the fishing line. It was this that Quantro grabbed to use as a weapon against the Apache. The line had caught no fish, and as he stretched it, the hook caught in the corner of Crawling-Snake’s right eye as he broke the surface. The rising movement strained the line and the razor-sharp hook dragged downwards, gouging a ragged, zigzag trough down the Indian’s cheek. Crawling-Snake screamed a blood-curdling wail that echoed back and forth among the tall pines of the quiet glade. Blood poured from his face, mingling with the streaked scarlet of his warpaint, giving the impression his whole face was a mask of stomach sickening gore.
In his frenzied struggle, the Apache drew himself up into a standing position. On the bank, White-Wing clutched her dress to her as she saw Crawling-Snake’s ruined face. She screamed.
At the sound of her voice Quantro feared an attack from a new direction and whirled round to face her. Crawling-Snake seized his advantage and as White-Wing screamed a warning he flung himself on to Quantro’s back.
The white man was driven forward onto his knees, the fishing line still wrapped around his hands, dripping Apache flesh impaled upon the bone hook. His head went under, eyes flooded and blind, his nostrils and throat choked as the water was sucked towards his lungs.
White-Wing caught sight of Quantro’s Winchester propped against a thick tree trunk. Forgetting her self-consciousness at her nudity, she dropped her dress and grabbed for the rifle. She lifted it to her shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Just a click. She panicked then remembered the lever. She worked the unfamiliar mechanism and pulled the trigger again.
The sound of the Winchester crashed out among the trees and Crawling-Snake was flung bodily from Quantro’s back. He crashed down into the water and lay still, face up.
Quantro’s head came up, his long blonde hair dripping and his chest heaving for air. He was greeted by the sight of White-Wing, straddle-legged, glistening with the sweat of fear from head to foot, clutching the Winchester to her naked breasts, the hot barrel sending up a haze of gun smoke.
He looked over his shoulder at the spread-eagled body of Crawling-Snake, then back at her. He coughed, massaging his aching shoulder. When he spoke, it was with a half smile.
“Now what’d you go and do that for? I was just getting started.”
She looked at him in disbelief, then when he laughed she smiled shyly and lowered the Winchester’s smoking barrel. He stepped up out of the stream and handed her the doeskin dress in exchange for the rifle. When she lifted her eyes she gasped aloud and he swung around, following her gaze.
Crawling-Snake had gone.
***
As Quantro saddled the buckskin he explained to the crying girl why he had to go. He sighed. No matter how he said it, there never seemed enough reasons to leave her behind. As he packed meat into his saddlebags Pete came over and stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably.
He sniffed. “Leaving?” he asked needlessly.
Quantro nodded. “I guess I just wore out my welcome.”
“Yeah,” Pete agreed. “I’ll be moving on soon too.”
Quantro looked over his shoulder, his eyes performing a slow appraisal of the man who had became his friend.
“Well, I’m riding north to Arizona, then on to Colorado. Trail should be easy to follow.”
“I’d know the prints of that buckskin anywhere,” Pete replied with the hint of a grin.
“I suppose so,” Quantro said, turning back to his saddlebags.
Pete placed a gentle hand on the shoulder of the sobbing girl. It was the same reassuring touch he would have used with a nervous horse. Quantro fastened the last buckle. He was ready to ride. He looked down at White-Wing’s tear-streaked face with a soft smile, and cupped her chin tenderly.
“Shame,” he said. “I thought for a moment back…”
She sobbed. Quantro’s voice tapered off as he looked at Pete, motioning with his head to the girl. It was one of those looks that said you’ll-look-after-her-won’t-you? The older man nodded almost imperceptibly, then watched as Quantro hoisted himself into the expensive saddle that he had so admired the first time he saw it out in the desert.
The sun behind him, the weakening rays making a halo around his blonde hair, Quantro looked down at the man who had saved his life on the Devil’s Plateau, and the Indian girl who had almost become a part of that life.
It was a steady, concentrated stare. A stare to retain the picture for the long time ahead.
Pete sniffed, then winked and patted White-Wing’s shoulder.
Quantro nudged the buckskin stallion with his heels and pulled the reins over the horse’s neck so it turned northwards. North to Colorado. The stallion jerked his head, rattling the bit between his teeth, then stepped out with long powerful strides.
***
As the sun was dying Quantro reined in at the top of a narrow pass and looked back down to the canyon below, at the switchback trail he had ridden up less than two hours ago. He was sure he could see three horses moving down there. As they came closer he could make out two riders. One was astride a tough paint pony and leading a pack-horse. The second rider was small, perhaps a woman.
Quantro looked at the sky in the west. It was shot through with a broad band of red, like foxfire, the pale orb of the sun sinking behind the majestic vista of the blue Sierra Madre Mountains.
He smiled and patted the buckskin’s neck.
It would be a good day tomorrow.
THE END
The Quantro Story Page 14
