Flat against a tree, he swept the surroundings. The man might be right around here, frozen in ambush. Or the man might have gone after the horses to get away.
Gamble that he made for the horses. Burgade moved out. It was a risk, but everything was. The men had been rousted by the grass fire, they hadn’t had time to gather belongings. They’d made their run for it in confusion. It was worth the gamble that the automatic had been the man’s only weapon and that now, without a gun, he was on the run. Burgade took a chance and hurried: he wanted to get the man before he got on a horse and rode out of range.
The noise had driven the horses up in the direction of the mountain passes, but it was doubtful they’d gone very far. Burgade decided to check them out. If he didn’t find the missing man he’d give up on him, get aboard one of the horses, and go around after Provo after scooping up the dead men’s weapons, Gant’s and Quesada’s.…
That’s two, he thought savagely. Two stupid mistakes tonight. Of course that was where the man was headed. Not for the horses. But back to the trail—to get Gant’s gun, or Quesada’s. And by now it was probably too late to stop him.
In a bleak rage, embittered by his own blunders, Burgade wheeled back toward the trail, crowded by urgency. He came swinging past the thick dark bole of a pine, and that was when Portugee Shiraz jumped him with a knife.
His sluggish reflexes wouldn’t have been enough to save him if he hadn’t been moving faster than a man ought to move through dark timber with an enemy nearby. Shiraz plunged out from behind the tree, whipping the knife up in a wicked arc that should have split him from crotch to chestplate. But Shiraz hadn’t expected him to be moving so fast. Shiraz had to correct his aim and when Burgade’s slow reflexes took effect and began to wheel him to one side, the knife lodged point-first against his breastbone with Shiraz’s dark lean weight behind it.
Burgade was in momentum: his unstoppable forward lunge knocked Shiraz’s arm aside. The knife had pricked the skin and scraped the hard bone, that was all, and now he was falling-away to the side in unbalanced reaction to the collision.
Shiraz was faster, surer on his feet. He had his balance now and he was closing fast against the threat of the rifle. Shiraz’s boot slammed down on top of the rifle, banging Burgade’s knuckles against the earth. The knife was whipping forward again but Burgade saw it in time and blocked Shiraz’s wrist with his own; locked his fist around the dark forearm and twisted, pulling, using Shiraz’s own fast-moving inertia to propel him past. Shiraz went right over him. Shiraz’s boot slipped and turned on the hard surface of the rifle and when Shiraz fell, the rifle skittered away into the brush, propelled by his skidding bootsole.
Burgade rolled over violently, away from Shiraz, and fumbled for his holster.
It was empty.
The revolver had fallen out when he’d rolled over—and Shiraz was coming at him now, no time to hunt for it. He scrabbled away from the attack, getting his feet under him, and Shiraz tripped. Shiraz didn’t fall, but it gave Burgade time to get on his feet. When Shiraz had finished windmilling his arms for balance and straightened up, Burgade was crouching, facing him, both arms wide, ready for him, watching from the pained depths of his red sleepless eyes.
The air was charged with sudden quiet. Burgade’s breathing was tight and shallow, his sphincter contracted, his palms damp.
Shiraz studied him, moving slowly with the knife circling in his outstretched fist, slowly driving Burgade back ahead of it. Shiraz’s eye sockets were sunken and charcoal-fiery, emanating hatred. He bit a hangnail on his thumb and knitted the brows of his black vulpine face. “I’m onna admire to stick this knaff in you, Burgade.”
Burgade didn’t waste wind talking. He felt a tree at his shoulderblade: he wheeled, curled behind it, and used that brief moment of respite to whip his jacket off and wrap it around his left forearm in a heavy muff.
Shiraz came prowling past the tree, after him, in no hurry, measuring him. Burgade kept circling. Shiraz moved closer, moving the knife in a little spiral, and then Burgade lunged, swiped his wadded coat at the knife, snagged the blade against the cloth and deflected it, spun half to one side and used his foot—cracked his heavy boot-heel against the front of Shiraz’s shin.
It was a hard kick, almost hard enough to break the bone. Shiraz stumbled, withdrawing the knife. Burgade got both hands on the knife arm, bent it back, used his weight to push Shiraz over. They fell into a bush. A branch raked Burgades cheek, almost got his eye. Gripping the knife wrist, he smelled Shiraz’s sour breath and heard gristle snap in his own shoulder; he heard himself gasping.
Shiraz’s black face was drawn with pain but he had strength and speed all over Burgade. He wrenched himself aside and broke Burgade’s grip and fell off the bush, never losing his grip on the knife handle. The blade ripped away the jacket from Burgade’s arm and Shiraz rolled free.
Burgade batted his arms at the bush getting free, ripped his flesh on nettles, spun toward Shiraz and, when the man got his hands down to lift himself off the ground, kicked Shiraz in the face.
Shiraz’s head rocked back. Burgade kicked him again. He heard the snap of cartilage in Shiraz’s nose; blood sprayed over his boot and Shiraz cried out. Burgade stamped his boot down on the knife hand and twisted his boot, grinding, until the fingers splayed open. He reached down, scooped up the knife, and plunged it up in a short sweeping arc into Shiraz’s exposed belly.
He yanked the knife out and stood wobbling, unable to get breath into his throat.
Shiraz’s hands clutched his belly, trying to hold the blood in.
Burgade straightened up very slowly, soaked in his own juices. There was a powerful tremor behind his knees. Vomit pain convulsed his stomach but he stood there motionless and watched Shiraz fall back onto the earth. The hands dropped away and when blood stopped spurting from the long slash he knew the heart had stopped pumping. Shiraz’s mouth hung open, the bad teeth exposed, eyes open and staring at the moon.
He made sure Shiraz was dead. He closed the eyelids and went prowling for his guns. Found them, straightened up, and said to himself, “Horse, next.” And then the reaction hit him: a chill, a tremor, a hot flush that prickled his scalp. He closed his eyes and felt a dizzy nausea, bright red flickers on the insides of his eyelids, a trembling faintness against which he locked the muscles of his stomach and pectoris and biceps. His whole body began to shake. He had to cling to a tree. There was a wave of flaccid weakness, almost unconsciousness. The quaking tremor seized him again, and he had to grip the tree with all his strength.
Finally the spasm passed. His muscles loosened. He gasped for breath, sucking and gulping; he felt very cold.
The horses had gone farther than he had anticipated. Their track was easy enough to follow, even after the moon descended, but he had to stop and rest three times and didn’t catch up with them until almost dawn. Then he just sat down near them and let them get used to having him around, smelling him, watching him. He closed his eyes momentarily, his head back against a tree trunk, but jerked them open immediately. He’d almost fallen asleep.
Methodically he filled the magazine of the Springfield from the loose shells in his pocket. He examined his revolver to make sure the fall in the dirt hadn’t plugged its muzzle; holstered it snuggly and had a very hard time lifting himself to his feet. He staggered toward the horses, talking low in his throat to soothe them, and although a few of them backed away with alarmed rolling eyes, two stayed put, unconcerned, and he got his hand on a trailing leather rein. He gathered the reins over the horse’s withers and tried to lift his left foot into the stirrup but he just didn’t have the strength. He closed his eyes and leaned against the saddle, dragging breath into his chest. There was a painful sting where Shiraz’s knifepoint had dug into his breastplate, but when he touched it with his fingers inside his shirt, he felt the sticky dryness of a forming scab and knew it was all right, it wasn’t bleeding. His cheek was hot with pain too—a branch had raked him—but that was no more serious than a shaving cut. He was intact, but barely; there was no energy left. Just getting on a horse was beginning to appear beyond his capacities.