“Spare a coin?” asked one of the men.
“You wouldn’t begrudge us a few coppers,” said the other, a grim-looking man with long, greasy hair and a lurid scar across one cheek. “We’d like to take a rest and perhaps have a drink at a nice inn, but unfortunately we haven’t fared well lately. I’m sure you’d like to help.”
“I haven’t any coin,” Quinn said, in honesty.
He tried to keep walking past the men, but they guided their horses to block his path.
“Hey, that’s no way to treat your neighbors,” said the first man again. He had a long, curved knife stuck through his belt without a sheath. The blade was rusty and nicked.
“I don’t want trouble,” Quinn said. “I’ve got some hard bread rations and water, and I’d be happy to share with you.”
“Oh, come now,” said the greasy man. “Travelers here on the coastal road always have more than some moldy bread. I tell you what. We’ll split what you have three ways, if you give it up without a fight.”
“It told you, I don’t have any coin.”
“I don’t believe him, do you Wol?” said the greasy man.
“No, I don’t,” Wol said, drawing his rusty knife.
“Last chance,” said the greasy man. “Split your money or we’ll split your skull.”
Quinn just smiled a cold, deadly grin.
“Give it your best shot,” he said.
The two outlaws hesitated for moment. They hadn’t expected Quinn to seem happy about a fight. Wol was the first to strike. He spurred his horse forward and slashed at Quinn with his knife. The blade almost caught Quinn’s shoulder but he dropped to his knees just in time to avoid the attack. Then, as the first outlaw passed Quinn launched himself at the other man. Quinn was sure the greasy outlaw had a weapon, but he had not drawn it yet. He jumped up and grabbed the man, who tried in vain not to fall off his horse. The horse reared up on its hind legs and both men fell. Quinn managed to land on top of the outlaw, with all of his weight driving the wind from the greasy man’s lungs. Then Quinn spotted the small knife in the outlaw’s belt. It was little more than a utility knife and probably used for everything, from cleaning his horse’s hooves to cutting his own meat for supper.
Quinn snatched up the knife. The blade was no longer than his hand. He turned and saw Wol riding quickly toward him again. He drew back his arm and threw the knife. It was a poorly made weapon, certainly not well balanced for throwing, and Quinn knew he had only a slim chance that the knife would do any real damage. The knife hit the outlaw in the breastbone handle-first, but it was thrown hard. The outlaw dropped his own weapon and fell back, one hand clutching his chest, the other grasping desperately for the saddle horn.
Quinn hurried over and retrieved the rusty, curve-bladed knife from the ground and felt a little better now that he had something to defend himself with. The greasy outlaw was struggling to stand up, while Wol, now weaponless, rode further and further away.
“Get on your knees,” Quinn said. “And put your hands on your head.”
The outlaw complied without comment, which only made Quinn more wary. He approached the man slowly, from behind. He turned the curved blade around so that it arched back over his forearm in a defensive position. He was just about to search the man for hidden weapons when the outlaw spun around, falling on his back and kicking up at Quinn with a hook motion. There was a blade protruding from the outlaw’s boot. Quinn knew it before it struck, but he had no way to stop the blow. The boot tip, with its small, pointed blade, hit Quinn in the thigh. The kick alone was hard enough to cramp the muscle, but the blade gashed into the flesh, causing Quinn to cry out and stagger backward.
His left hand dropped to the wound instinctively, and he felt warm blood welling up between his fingers. The pain was bad, but his adrenaline was pumping, fueled by anger at the outlaw. He lurched forward as quickly as he could, swinging the rusty knife in a wide swipe that caught the outlaw across his back. The man,staggered forward, his back arched in agony, his hands reaching for his back in an effort to stop the pain. Quinn lurched forward again, and this time he slammed the knife down into the base of the outlaw’s neck. The greasy man stiffened and then fell dead on the dusty road.
Quinn looked up to find Wol, but the other outlaw had not stopped riding. As he stood, panting from exertion and pain, he knew he needed to do something about his leg. The outlaw’s horse was not far away, but it seemed nervous, probably because it could smell the blood. Quinn limped toward the animal slowly, trying his best to ignore the pain in his leg. He held out his hand and made no sudden movements to set the horse at ease. A few minutes later he was leading the horse back to the greasy outlaw’s body. Quinn patted the man down and searched his pockets. He found only a few copper coins, but it was more than Quinn had had. He pulled the curved knife out of the outlaw’s neck and wiped the blade on the man’s clothes. Then he cut the sleeve off his own shirt. It wasn’t as clean as he would have liked, but it was certainly cleaner than the greasy outlaw’s. He could feel the blood running down his leg and into his boot. The wound was painful, but he doubted that it was serious, as the blade wasn’t long enough to have reached the bone. It was painful to walk on, but he now had a horse to ride, so he could rest the leg and perhaps make even better time than walking.
He tied the cloth around his leg, knotting it tightly, and then climbed up into the saddle. The saddle wasn’t much more than a leather strap with a saddle horn and stirrups. There were no saddle bags, and the saddle blanket was thin and worn through in more than one place. Quinn pulled his small satchel and canteen over his head and hung them from the saddle horn. He took a long drink of the lukewarm water and then nudged the horse’s flank with his boot. The animal set off, walking at a slow pace. Quinn urged it into a trot, but the heavy-footed animal’s gait was so jarring that soon he slowed the horse back down.
It took three hours to reach the next village, and the sun was beginning to set when he arrived. He asked a man carrying buckets of water from a well if there was a healer in the town. The man pointed at a small cottage and Quinn thanked him. He rode to the small building and climbed slowly off the horse. His leg was throbbing with pain and was too sore to hold any weight. Quinn tied the horse’s reins and hopped to the wooden door. He knocked and waited a few moments before the door opened.
“Eh, can I help you?” the man asked.
“I’ve got a wound here that could use some tending to,” Quinn said, pointing at his leg. “I’ve got four coppers.”
“Well, that’s enough for me to stitch you up. Come inside.”
The cottage was plain, just a single room with a small bed in one corner, a fireplace in the other, and a sturdy-looking table in the center of the room.
“You can pull your pants off, or I can cut them off for you,” the healer said. “One way’s less painful, but if you don’t have spare clothes I suggest you pull them off. Of course, you might start a new fashion style, one sleeve, one pants leg,” he joked.
Quinn nodded and started with his boots. It was difficult but he managed it. Then he untied the makeshift bandage, which increased the pain. His leg had swollen and the wound was still seeping blood. He had no belt, and the pants came off without too much trouble. He nodded at the healer when he was finished.
“That’s fine, just hop up on the table there,” he instructed.
Quinn did as he was told, and the healer stretched the injured leg out so he could inspect it. He lit a lamp and held it close to the wound. He pressed around the inflamed flesh and smelled the wound. Then he stood up.
“It’s dirty,” he said. “You get cut with a dirty blade?”
“A knife in the toe of an outlaw’s boot,” Quinn said.
“Yes, I suspect that’s about as dirty as they come. I hope you repaid the bastard.”