They walked in silence for a spell.
Hickok, despite his extreme fatigue and discomfort, was racking his brain for an out. There had to be a way to escape! He had valuable information to get back to Blade. There was more to these Watchers than anyone had guessed.
The stream curved ahead, the bend littered with small stones and pebbles lodged there by periodic heavy rainfall. To their right, a ragged ravine cut into the trees. The ravine was packed with growth and cluttered with large boulders.
Hickok scanned the mouth of the ravine. If he could reach it and plunge into the dense undergrowth, he just might be able to follow the ravine to safety. But how should he make the break? There was only one way. He might end up with a bullet in his head, but he had no other choice. The longer they marched, the weaker he would become. He had to act now, while he still had some strength remaining.
Pete rounded the curve.
Hickok deliberately slowed, moving his feet at a shuffle, weaving.
“How many times I gotta tell you?” Harry demanded. “Move your ass!”
He used the stock of the Henry and jabbed Hickok between the shoulder blades.
Hickok pretended to trip and fall to his knees.
“Damn you!” Harry angrily roared. “Don’t give out on us now! We’ve still got a ways to go.”
Pete had slowed and was looking back over his left shoulder. “Can we stop now?” he hopefully asked.
“No!” Harry approached Hickok on his right side. “What the hell is the matter with you? Did that conk on the head do some internal damage?”
Hickok sagged, refusing to answer. He needed Harry to move around in front of him, to place his stocky body between Pete and the ravine, to reduce Pete’s line of fire with that Springfield.
Harry thumped Hickok on the right shoulder. “Get up, you son of a bitch, or I’ll finish you right now.”
Hickok groaned.
Pete had stopped twenty yards away. “Can’t you see he’s exhausted?”
“He’ll be dead if he doesn’t move!”
Hickok bent over at the waist, his head almost touching the water. He gathered his energy, his leg muscles tightening. Come on, blast you! Move around in front!
“Okay, sucker. I warned you.” Harry stepped in front of Hickok and raised the Henry.
“Wait!” Pete yelled.
“Why?”
“Won’t the shot carry for miles?”
Harry nodded, understanding. His anger had nearly gotten the better of him. If he fired the rifle, the friends of this buckskin-clad fool might hear and come running.
“I’ll make it quiet,” Harry promised. He lowered the Henry and reached for a large hunting knife held in a sheath on his left hip. “I’ll slice him from ear to ear.” He grinned.
It was now or never!
Hickok surged upward, ramming his right shoulder into Harry, knocking the man aside, his arms and legs flapping as he tried to recover his balance.
“Harry!” Pete exclaimed. He jerked the Springfield to his shoulder, prepared to fire, but Harry was between him and the prisoner.
Hickok darted into the ravine, head first, the underbrush grabbing at his body, barbed limbs tearing at his exposed face. He disappeared, the thicket closing behind him.
“Son of a bitch!” Harry fumed, enraged. He had regained his footing as Hickok vanished, and brought the Henry up, too late to fire.
“What do we do?” Pete ran back and joined his companion. “Let him get away?”
“Like hell!” Harry spat into the water. “We kill him, that’s what we do.
Don’t worry about the noise either. We’ll be long gone by the time any help could arrive.”
“What then?”
“You take the left bank,” Harry said, pointing at the sloping southern ridge of the ravine, “and I’ll take the right. We’re bound to find him. When you do, shoot to kill.”
“Maybe we can catch him in a cross fire.”
“Just so we catch him! Move!”
Pete scrambled up the left ridge, fighting the thick vegetation every step of the way.
Harry did likewise on the northern slope.
Pete reached the top and crouched, his eyes probing for any sign. The brush below was quiet, undisturbed by human passage. Locating their captive would be difficult. He could hide in dozens of places, wait for them to pass him by, then backtrack to the stream and make his escape.
Harry stopped at the top of the other ridge, getting his bearings. He could see Pete searching for the target. Where the hell was he? Harry moved along the ridge, avoiding the trees and boulders blocking his way.
He skirted the thickest brush, always keeping to the ravine side, seeking his quarry. Those buckskins shouldn’t be too hard to spot, even with the growth as bad as it was. All it would take would be just one revealing shaft of sunlight.
Ahead, a bird twittered. The call was answered by another bird on Pete’s ridge.
Harry stepped carefully, minimizing his noise. He noticed three large boulders down in the ravine, arranged in a naturally shaped triangle, with a small space between them. A space big enough for a man? It would make excellent cover and ideal protection from shots fired from the ridges.
If I were hiding down there, Harry told himself, that’s where I would go to ground. He stopped next to a tree and crouched, biding his time. Sooner or later that bastard would show himself.
There was no sign of Pete.
Harry shifted his weight from his left to his right leg. The left was beginning to cramp. He was sick and tired of this field duty! He wanted to get home, back to civilization, where he belonged.
There was a soft scuffing sound behind him.
Harry casually turned his head, not expecting any trouble, knowing the prisoner couldn’t possibly have climbed the walls of the ravine in his condition. So he was completely startled to see a man in green, with brown eyes and short black hair, standing four feet away, holding a hatchet or something similar over his head.
“Pete!” Harry screamed, pivoting, bringing the Henry to bear.
Geronimo, one of his tomahawks upraised, leaped, hitting the Watcher square in the chest, bowling him over, both of them tumbling down the ravine.
Pete, on the opposite ridge, heard Harry’s warning shout. He ran as quickly as he could, trying to spot Harry. Damn it! Why had he let Harry get out of sight? He spied a commotion on the slope of the northern ridge.
Harry was fighting another man! Pete hurried, hunting for an open spot, needing a clear shot if he was to come to Harry’s assistance. He found a level spot below a boulder and stopped, raising the Springfield to his shoulder. Come on, Harry! Give me a shot!
Harry had lost his rifle. He was grappling with a man in green, the two rolling in the brush. Harry clutched his hunting knife in his left hand, and his attacker held something resembling a hatchet in his right. Both men strained, trying to gain the advantage. Come on, Harry! “Drop the gun!”
The voice came from behind and above him. Pete instinctively ducked and swung the Springfield, cursing his stupidity for not realizing there might be another attacker.
This new menace was perched on top of the boulder, a muscular man with a large knife in his right hand.
Pete got off a hasty shot, knowing he had missed, watching in horror as the man made an overhand motion. He caught the gleam of the streaking blade, and a shock struck his chest as it entered.
“No!” Pete managed a croak, his limbs sagging as he gaped at the knife handle protruding from his chest. “It can’t be,” he added, losing his grip on the Springfield. It fell to the ground, and a moment later he followed it.
Blade jumped from the boulder, landing beside his fallen foe. “You really should have dropped the gun,” he said.
The struggle on the other slope was intensifying.