Chance Vengeance

The moon was now obscured by the clouds and there was a steadier, thickening rain falling quickly. An oppressive wetness clung to the land. Running Coyote strained his eyes to see through the curtain of rain as he hung at the side of the walking pony. Pressed against the stud’s side, his toe over the backbone of the horse and his arm stump thrust through the rope in its mane, he guided the horse toward the call. Suddenly a clouted shape erupted from the ground in front of the pony. The startled horse threw up its head and reared, pivoting away from the frightening figure as it did so. As it reared, the one-armed Sioux lost his toe-hold. His feet hit the ground then went spinning in the air as the stud, whirling, struck him with its shoulder, pitching him to the ground. The Comanche was taken by surprise at the sight of the flailing war horse and painted Sioux where his companion should have been, but he recovered quickly. Swinging the rifle in line with the rolling figure of Running Coyote, he got off a shot. The sound of the shot was lost in another clap of thunder, but the bullet met the handle of the Sioux’s knife, tearing it from its sheath near his waist and sending it careening off into the wet darkness. Rolling cat-like, the one-armed Sioux got his feet under him and came off the ground. Like a hurled buffalo lance, he drove in under the barrel of the rifle, slamming his shoulder into the Comanche’s chest. The rifle was thrown spinning through the air to discharge again as it struck the ground. Then they were animals, two predators writhing on the rain-wet prairie floor. Gray, acrid smoke swirled lazily from the fallen rifle as the two Indians thrashed around, rolling against each other, locked in a blind, primitive conflict. Growling curses, the Comanche drove his knee toward the pelvis of the Sioux, hoping to drop him long enough for his knife to find its mark. But no novice to close combat, Running Coyote twisted his waist and his hip met the Comanche midsection square on. Thrown out of the Sioux’s one-armed grasp, the Comanche went for his knife as he rolled to his feet. His knife flashing, he had wrenched it out of its sheath just as he became fully aware that the Sioux had but one arm. Sensing his intention, Running Coyote rolled to his right side and caught the wrist of the Comanche’s knife hand. Each fighting for his life, no holds barred, no quarters given, like a king snake and a rattler fighting, the two warrior coiled and uncoiled. Legs, feet, arms, bodies, teeth, they wrestled savagely. Muscles bulging, veins swelling, they matched strength for strength, each looking for that moment of superiority that would spell victory and life for one, death and dishonor for the other.