Black Hills (9781101559116) (31 page)

Cormac was jarred out of his silly-side when, about twenty feet away and stabbing his knife high into the air with his right hand, the Indian suddenly screamed
“Hoka Hey!”
and charged wildly.

“Oh, damn! . . . Uh . . .
Chicago!”
Cormac yelled, and charged forward.

The gap between them closed. As they were about to come together, Cormac suddenly threw himself into a block at the Indian's feet. With too short of a distance remaining to stop, the Indian warrior fell over him, hitting the ground and rolling again to his feet. He rushed back at Cormac, who was also rolling to his feet and spinning to meet the charge.

With a wild lunge, the Indian sliced at Cormac's face, and when Cormac parried with his knife, quickly grabbed the front of Cormac's shirt and fell back, taking Cormac with him. With the knee of the Indian in his chest as the Indian fell backward, Cormac found himself flying through the air and over the Indian. Twisting like a cat in the air in a wrestling move taught him by the ex-wrestler, Wolfgang, Cormac landed on all fours, facing the Indian. He slammed the toes of his boots into the ground and catapulted himself forward into a headlong dive into the midriff of the still-rising Indian, who blocked his knife thrust with his own knife.

They fell again, both quickly coming to their feet in the protective stance commonly used by knife fighters, slightly bent at the waist, both hands out in front with one hand holding the knife at the ready. Circling each other, reassessing each other, the first clash was over, and they were both still unharmed.

“Indian zero, white man zero,” said Cormac aloud with a grin, remembering the description he had heard of a ball game. A puzzled look flashed over the Indian's face, and Cormac leaped forward, slashing up and to the left. A red welt appeared above the waist of the Indian on his left side, traveling upward and across to his right chest.

“White man one, Indian zero,” he said again.

“Ahhh!” the Indian growled angrily, waving his free hand as if to say “stop it.”

Much like sword fighters, they circled. Parry and thrust, circle and parry, slice and parry and thrust, feint, move in, move out, slash. A scratch here, a shallow cut there. Grunting at each other, evenly matched and each trying to intimidate the other. Both fighters cautious, but the force of their thrusts would be deadly if they connected. Engage and disengage, some hits, some kicks, some bites.

“Damn Injun bites like a bear.”

Cormac narrowly avoided being thrown through the air again, and did manage to throw the Indian over his hip, but the Indian recovered to his feet and before Cormac could take advantage of it, they came together, and the Indian tripped Cormac with a foot behind his leg. They went down with the Indian on the top and only Cormac's quickness saved him as he deflected the big knife into the dirt.

He tried, and failed, to get his own big knife into the neck of the Indian before the Indian broke off and rolled quickly to his feet. The warrior spun, hoping to find Cormac exposed, but was disappointed to find him also upright and prepared. This Wasichu was indeed quick.

Evenly matched for strength and courage, they were both tiring. One of them would soon make a mistake, a fatal mistake.

It's going to be you if you keep this up, dummy,
thought Cormac.
You're playing his game. You're not a knife fighter; he is. You're only alive by dumb luck; he's trained in this. I wonder if he'd let me stop for a minute and go get my gun. Probably not.

Cormac pretended to again trip on a prairie dog hole and stumbled backward. Eagerly, the Indian warrior rushed to take advantage and was met by a left hook and a hard right that smashed his nose into his face and started blood gushing down his chest. Surprised and not accustomed to fist fighting, the Indian fell back. Punching rapidly with left jabs and right hooks, Cormac pursued.

Trying desperately to get away from the blows, the Indian continued to back away. Advancing and unable to get set while hitting at a target that was falling away, Cormac was unable to get any real power into his punches. The Indian came under another attempt at a left hook with a right-handed knife thrust that missed the mark but stuck deeply into Cormac's side.

Cormac clamped down forcefully with his elbow against the hand holding the knife to lock it against him. Yanking his own hand that was holding his knife back, away from the Indian's grasp, he let it continue up, around, and down in a full back-circle only to complete the circle, come back up, and plunge deeply under the Indian's ribcage and up into his heart. Cormac pulled his knife from the instantly dead Indian and let him collapse to the ground.

Bleeding badly from his wound, Cormac staggered back and stood looking down at the body, exhaustedly gasping for air. Twisted in death, the once powerful arms and legs of a once prideful warrior were ungracefully pointing at odd angles.

“It's too bad. What a waste,” Cormac said out loud, shaking his head. “Why can't human beings just get along with other human beings?”

Holding his wound together to slow the bleeding with one hand, Cormac Lynch wiped the blood from his knife onto the grass and then, with the other hand, rearranged the body into a more respectful position as he remembered all too well doing for his family so long ago, crossed the well-muscled arms across the warrior's chest, and placed the Indian's big knife into the lifeless hands. He followed that by kneeling on one knee and looking into the sky to say a brief prayer for the dead Indian's family.

Cormac wiped his knife on some grass again and put it back in its sheath, turning to return to Lop Ear. Not thirty feet away, sitting stiffly upright, stone-still and watching him closely, was a another Indian, with a rifle in one hand, a lance in the other, a bow and arrow-quiver over his shoulder, and a large silver amulet around his neck.

“Damn,” said Cormac simply.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, unmoving, giving Cormac the impression somehow, that the Indian had been there watching for some time. Watching him kill. Watching him arrange the body. Watching him pray. Still holding his wound closed as best he could with one hand, Cormac collected Kahatama's weapons and took them to the mounted Indian. Motioning that he should also take Kahatama's ponies, Cormac backed a few steps away.

Stone-faced, the Indian accepted the weapons. With no out-ward signs of a signal, as if on its own, the Indian pony took him to collect the dead warrior's horses.

The Indian wrestled the dead body onto the closest horse and remounted with an easy grace. After allowing another long moment during which the Indian and Cormac once more stared intently into each other's eyes, the Indian rode back to Cormac and handed him the dead Indian's feather, and spoke.

“Kahatama.”

Cormac didn't understand. The Indian repeated it. “Kahatama.”

Cormac could only shrug his shoulders and shake his head. “Kahatama!” the Indian repeated more firmly, pointing to the lifeless body.

“Oh, his name. Okay, Kahatama,” Cormac responded, nodding. “Thank you.”

With Cormac watching regretfully, the Indian rode away leading Kahatama's horses.
A strange people,
he thought,
with their own customs and beliefs
.
And honor,
he added, nodding to no one,
definitely some kind of honor system that probably went back many generations, if not centuries.
Cormac felt it would be interesting to understand, and surprisingly, the not understanding of it he felt to be his own loss. The Indian never looked back.

Cormac walked slowly back to the horses. He had a wound to repair. Like most westerners not living in town with ready medical treatment available, he would have to fix himself and hope for the best. Be stoic, just like in the Buntline book.

Yup, that's me,
he thought as he gritted his teeth.
Stoic.

First he had to get his guns. Without them, he felt naked.

Cormac built a small fire for coffee and hot water to clean his knife wound and sewed it together with a needle and thread from his saddlebag. He finished his repair by dousing the wound with whiskey. Not a fun time, but it could have been worse. He could have lost the fight. The wound didn't yet appear inflamed, so maybe he was going to be lucky and not get infected. After reclaiming his weapons, he made his way to the trees he could see sticking up in the distance and found a secluded water pond in the center of the boulder patch.

Plenty of deadfall firewood was strewn about, but to avoid the bending, carrying, and gathering process, Cormac opted to draw from a supply of wood left by previous campers tucked into a small cave that appeared created for the purpose. After some strong coffee and a cup of boiled beef-jerky soup, he felt better. He could rest up here for a day, maybe two. He rolled out his bedroll and made camp back away from the water to leave open access for the animals that relied on it as their water supply. When rain came during the night, he found the cave was large enough for the wood, his gear, and one sleeping body, if that body were curled up.

Cormac awoke to a cloudy day, but the rain had passed. After a coffee and bacon breakfast, he packed up and headed out . . . to go where? They were pointed in the general direction of Denver, and that was as good as any. There was no urgency; he had supplies, eighty-five dollars in his poke, and more money in the bank in Denver. Mr. Haplander had been depositing part of his wages for the last several months and had said he would put a bonus in Cormac's account for his help in saving the mine. Maybe he should wander down there and see how much he had accumulated. He had to go someplace.

The trip was uneventful, and he walked into the Denver Bank three weeks later just before closing on a Friday afternoon. “Yes, sir, Mr. Lynch. I took that deposit myself. It was five thousand dollars, giving you a total of five thousand, seven hundred and twelve dollars and thirty-seven cents. He had started to deposit twenty-five hundred, but his daughter told him it wasn't enough and suggested he double it. Mr. Haplander resisted until the daughter threatened to go get his wife. I guess he knew he was outnumbered. He just laughed and went along with it. I think he was okay with the five thousand all along though and was just having fun with the daughter. Mr. Haplander said you had earned it. May I ask you please, sir, if I'm not being to bold, what you did that was worth five thousand dollars?”

“Yes, you may, and thank you for the information,” Cormac answered, and started for the door.

“But you didn't answer my question, sir.”

“I didn't say I would answer it. I just said you could ask it.”

Cormac could feel the clerk's eyes on the back of his head as he walked out the door. Let him figure it out.

A five-thousand-dollar bonus. Wow! And a total of five thousand, seven hundred, and twelve dollars and thirty-seven cents. More wow! That was enough money to buy a small ranch. Now, that was worth thinkin' about. Patch seemed to have good connections, maybe he would know of one for sale. Cormac changed his mind about going into the Trailhead Saloon before he got there. He had ridden all day and just wanted to relax. That saloon seemed to be a bit livelier than he really needed at the time, and after thinking it through, he had no business buying a ranch anyway. He had been getting restless at the Flying H and had only been there a few months. There was a lot of country he had yet to see. He might as well stick around for a couple days, maybe say hello to Cactus and Patch and have a look at how city folks lived before heading out.

After that, Cormac wandered, not staying nailed down anywhere and took to wearing both guns all the time instead of just the one. His life was turning out to be more dangerous than he had intended. He wasn't looking for trouble. He just wanted to be left alone, but God seemed to be telling him to “Go ahead. Live a peaceful life, but keep the thong unhooked.”