[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Silva stripped off his jacket, a lithe, powerful warrior in the prime of his
young manhood. Vittoro stepped to a quickly drawn circle and flipped a knife
into the ground on each side.
"White man, do you understand?"
"I lived with the Mimbrenos many winters."
He came swiftly to his feet, only to stagger from the clumsiness of his
recently released feet. Silva swooped for a knife, and Hondo caught his in his
burned palm, then threw it, as one would a gun doing the border shift, to his
left hand. He caught the knife deftly, and Silva sprang close, his eyes
glowing with eagerness.
Page 77
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Hondo circled, knowing the danger of the man. He was strong, uninjured, and
filled with hatred. Under any circumstances he would be dangerous. Silva
extended his left hand, but was bothered by the knife in the wrong hand. It
should have been in the right, so he could seize the wrist. Circling to study
this, he lunged suddenly. Hondo felt the sharp point of the knife rip his
shirt, then he stomped down hard with his boot on Silva's bare foot and
slashed with his knife edge. The Indian twisted away but the knife left a red
line that rapidly turned red with blood along a shoulder.
They circled, and around them the sweaty faces stared eagerly. Hondo could
hear the breathing of the warriors. He could see the glow of firelight, he
could see the eagerness in their eyes, for this to them was the great moment,
the greatest of sport. Fighting men all, they could know and respect a
fighting man, and not one there but knew the odds each man faced.
Silva came in low, his point flicking. Hondo sprang back, then lunged. The
knife of Silva stabbed and the blade sank into Hondo's shoulder. Before it
could be withdrawn, Hondo pressed forward against the haft, holding the knife
in the wound to prevent its withdrawal. They went to the ground and Hondo
caught Silva's hair and forced his head back, exposing the brown throat, then
he put the edge of his knife against the throat of the Indian and looked up at
Vittoro.
Vittoro stood above them and he said, unhurried, "The white man permits you
to choose, Silva."
Silva hesitated, his hatred a living, fighting thing. Yet there was only the
one choice, to yield or to die. And he was not ready to die. If he lived he
might yet kill the white man and take his hair.
"I choose," he muttered.
Vittoro gestured, and Hondo released Silva and stepped back. But he still
held the knife.
Silva stared at Hondo, then turned abruptly and stalked away to his wickiup.
"White man," Vittoro said, "is it in your thoughts you have purchased life?"
"It is my thought that the one called Vittoro is a great chief, and a chief
considers all that happens in this world."
"It is possible you may live. Or you may die. We shall see what is written."
Chapter Fifteen
ACROSS THE VAST sweep of the sky there were clouds, darkening clouds pressing
ominously down toward the far hills. Flat upon the earth, skyward they lowered
in huge, unbelievable masses.
A low wind caught the breath of their coolness and moved across the desert,
moving down the arroyos and canyons, creeping across the face of a land
scarred by canyons and ridged by the backbones of ancient ridges. And the cool
wind came swiftly and crossed the land and dipped into the basin and the
ranch.
The wind stirred the curtain and Angie looked up from her ironing and glanced
outside. A few leaves skittered across the hard-baked clay of the yard, the
horses' tails streamed past their hocks, and a whisp of hay blew to a corral
post, then hung there, still and quiet.
Page 78
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Angie walked to the stove and exchanged her iron for one freshly heated,
testing it with a dampened finger. At the window Johnny stared at the towering
battlements of cloud, looming now above the basin's edge.
"Mommy, big clouds are coming up."
"It feels like rain." She drew the apron over the end of the board and
sprinkled it lightly.
"Why is rain, Mommy?"
"God's way of making the earth green. This is what the Indians call the
planting rain."
The planting rain. ... She looked quickly past the trees at the sky.
Black, threatening clouds piled high. Quickly she put down the iron and went
to the door, apprehension written large upon her face.
There could be no doubt. There would be rain, the planting rain, and then
there was no time. When the storm began it would rain hard, then it might
settle down for a long hard rain. They must leave before it ended, while it
would still wipe out their tracks.
She folded her clothing and put it away, then went quickly to the cupboard.
She packed swiftly, according to plan. She was sure, definite in her
movements. There was no choice, no further decision to be made. Before the
Indians could come, she must be gone.
Going to the bed, she took blankets and the old ground sheet and wrapped them
in a tight roll. Johnny turned from the window. She caught his glance. "Would
you like to go on a picnic, Johnny? In the rain?"
He looked doubtful. "In the rain?"
"It would be fun in the rain. We've got to ride a long way, and you'll have
to take good care of Mommy."
"You mean I can ride a horse? All my own?"
"Yes, all your own. You can ride Old Gray."
Instantly he was all eagerness. She gave him several small tasks to do, then
went to the barn and after some trouble lured the horses to the corral bars
and got a rope on them. Leading them to the barn, she turned to the saddles.
Hearing Johnny call out, she turned.
It was too late. A small cavalcade of Indians was coming down the slope.
Her heart pounding heavily, she walked to the house. "Johnny, you stay
inside. They want to see Mommy."
There were a dozen Indians in the little group, and they had a prisoner. She
saw that at once, only seeing the hanging head of a man, the slim shape of a
haggard face beneath the hat. Vittoro dismounted and came to her. Behind him
the man was dragged from the saddle.
"Is this your man?"
Page 79
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Angie looked beyond him. The man had lifted his head and he stared into her
eyes. His own were glazed with suffering and weariness. She could see that
something was terribly wrong with his hand. But she noticed nothing, only that
it wasHondo Lane , and that he had come back.
"Speak!"
At a gesture from Vittoro, an Indian threw a pail of water into Lane's face.
He blinked, then shook his head, straightening a little. Their eyes met and
held.
"Is this your man?"
She understood suddenly, and she smiled quickly at Vittoro, coming down from
the steps. "Yes. This is my husband."
She went to him quickly, taking his arm. Vittoro stared at her, then atHondo
Lane .
"White man," he said sternly, "you have lived with the Apache. That is good. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]