She moved around the coach to the shaded side and stood there to see how long it would take Colt to convince the Indians to leave. It had better take the rest of the afternoon for what it was costing her. But it was no more than a couple of minutes before Colt was about-facing again.
Jocelyn stiffened. That easy? That no-good, rotten opportunist! But no, he rode only halfway back. And one of the Indians followed him, dismounting when he did, about twenty yards away from both interested parties.
So they were going to talk privately. Very well. She could see where that would be to Colt's advantage.
He was probably going to make certain ungentle-manly threats. After all, he was much taller than the Apache, and broader in frame. The full-blooded In-dian was in fact short and wiry, to the point of look-ing undernourished.
But they didn't do any more talking. The Apache, whose bare, knobby knees showed between his high moccasins and a yellowed cloth that hung halfway down his thighs, put his rifle down. His loose, long-sleeved cotton shirt was store-bought or traded, and he was one of them who wore only a single cartridge belt about his waist with a long-bladed knife stuck through it. Now that he was closer, Jocelyn also noted that his skin was much darker than Colt's, his black hair worn much shorter, barely reaching his shoul-ders, and with a red headband to confine it. Small he might be, but he looked distinctly menacing as he stood there waiting for Colt to face him.
Colt was meanwhile removing his buckskin jacket. Jocelyn hadn't noticed before, but today his shirt was also buckskin, long, and worn outside his pants with a wide, elaborate belt over it. When he turned to hook his jacket over the horn on his saddle, she saw that the front of the shirt held some type of design in
… Blast the distance. It looked like white-and-blue beadwork topping the shoulders, but she couldn't be sure. The extra long fringes next to it flowed across the top of his arms, as well as all the way down the sleeves to his wrists, and each one seemed to have a bead attached to the end.
He removed his hat next, and Joeelyn could only stare openmouthed as he parted his hair just behind his ears and braided each side. When the gun belt came off after that, she felt her first stirring of alarm. She took a step forward, only to stop as she watched Colt tear off one of the longer fringes and hand it to the Apache before turning his back on the Indian. What the devil.?
A moment later she gasped when Colt faced the Apache again, and she wasn't the only one to make a sound of consternation. Her guards were also whispering among themselves, wondering why Colt would let the Apache tie his right hand to the back of his belt, rendering that arm useless, but that was exactly what he had done. In another second they had their answer.
The two men drew their knives for what could only be called a very primitive challenge. Colt had allowed himself to be handicapped, severely handicapped, since Jocelyn knew him to be right-handed.
They both held their knives in fists, with the long blades facing outward in a stabbing, rather than a slashing, grip, yet it was slashing they did in this backward manner, the Apache first.
He was quick, and agile, and definitely going for blood, but (hen so was Colt. Apparently the object of this combat was to slash each other to ribbons. Colt had the advantage of a longer reach, but that was all. His disadvantage was in not having that other arm for balance, or for blocking. If he should fall.
The result didn't bear thinking of.
Obviously, the Apache came to realize that too, for after receiving several slashes across his torso, without scoring any in return, he changed his tactics. He began to leap at Colt, instead of away, and to try to get behind him. When that didn't work, he tried to trip him.
Jocelyn finally came out of her horrified daze and started to run forward, but was immediately blocked by Sir Parker. "You mustn't, Your Grace. He said any interference on our part could draw their fire."
"But we have to stop it!"
"It's too late for that. Best hope those Indians un-derstand some English when we have to deal with them after—"
Her total loss of color silenced him. After Colt was dead? Did they all think he didn't have a chance?
No, he couldn't die. She would give them Sir George.
But it was too late. When she looked at the com-batants again, it was to see Colt already down, with the Apache on top of him. She nearly fainted with the realization she could never reach them in time to stop it. She could only watch, as the others were doing, as the Apache immobilized Colt's only defense by holding his knife hand to the ground with his own left hand and prepared to stab him with the right.
Jocelyn swung around, unable to bear witnessing the fait accompli, but it was a complete turn she made, for she couldn't bear not knowing either. And in those mere seconds, Colt had pulled off the impossible.
He was now on top, his knife at the Apache's throat.
"What? How?"
Sir Parker seemed disgusted by the outcome. "The Indian didn't have the strength to keep his arm pin-ioned. Thunder managed to bring his knife over to block the stab. The Indian lost his blade in the pro-cess, and his balance, since he was still holding onto Thunder's wrist when it happened."
Jocelyn started to smile, but it wasn't over yet. Or was it? Colt got up slowly, reached behind him to cut free his right hand, then offered his left to help his opponent rise. So he hadn't killed the Apache, though the man's lack of movement until then had made her think otherwise. But the defeated man refused his of-fer, got slowly to his own feet, and moved directly to his horse.
, Colt waited there until the Apache had rejoined his companions and they had all ridden away. He then mounted up and returned to the coaches, annoyed to see the duchess still outside hers. When he stopped by her, her eyes seemed anxious as they roved over his body, looking for signs of blood. She also seemed relieved to find none, and that annoyed him even more. He didn't want this woman worrying about him. Her concern worked like talons against his heartstrings, making him feel. Christ, just more frustration because he could never have her.
"I'm glad you didn't kill him." She smiled up at him.
Her smile brought out his worst frown. "Are you? Were he Cheyenne, I would've had to, for my people would rather die than face the disgrace of defeat. But Apache customs differ in many ways from mine.
They prefer to live to fight another day, so I've allowed him that."
That got rid of her smile. "And if that other day brings him back to try for Sir George again?"
"It won't. I told him the stallion was mine. That being the case, as he saw it, his only chance to gain him was to kill me, which he failed to do."
"You mean you… he… Sir George would have…" She gritted her teeth for a second in ex-treme agitation, completely forgetting her soaring relief of a moment ago that he was alive and unhurt. "What, pray tell, would have happened if you had lost?"
Colt infuriated her even more by grinning before drawling, "That wouldn't have been my problem, Duchess, now would it?"
Chapter Nineteen
Vanessa gave a weary sigh as she watched Jocelyn through the coach window, stirring up a great cloud of dust as she exercised Sir George. She didn't ride the stallion far anymore, not since that encounter with the Apaches, which Vanessa was still grateful she only had to hear about instead of witness. Against a vivid blue sky the duchess made a splendid picture, despite the drab landscape surrounding her.
It was getting depressing, that drab landscape, though Jocelyn seemed not to mind in the least. At one point. lavender mountains had surrounded them on every ho-rizon, but so far in the distance they seemed unreacha-ble. More than anything else had been the endless stretches of flat, parched land, cracked in more places than not, the only green an occasional cactus, everything else, from scrub brush to patches of wilted grass, all washed silver by the blazing sun.