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noncom breathed, deep and slow, several times, the sound rattling harshly in
his chest. His mouth opened and closed, struggling for a faint, croaking word.
"What's he say?" Lori whispered.
"Water," Doc replied. "Poor wretch's asking for water."
Ryan uncorked his own canteen, holding it care-fully to the man's bruised
lips, watching him slurp a couple of mouthfuls.
"No more, Ryan," McLaglen wheezed. "Sure an' it'd be a terrible waste, seeing
as how I'm done for."
"Can't take you."
"Wouldn't& Oh, that nail in me balls is& Wouldn't want you to, Ryan, my bucko.
But you could do me the one favor, if you've a mind, that is."
"Have to be a knife," Ryan said quietly.
"Think that worries me?" McLaglen asked, man-aging a crooked, wry grin. "Just
do it now. And me thanks to you. Do it, Ryan."
The hilt of the long panga was cool to Ryan's fin-gers as he drew it from the
sheath. The light in the bottom of the canyon was growing stronger, and he
knew that time wasn't on their side if they were to get away safely.
He didn't waste words on the stricken man, know-ing that he had probably
earned his chilling. But no man deserved the kind of chilling handed out by
the women of the Mescalero.
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Dland6a
The steel thunked into the side of McLaglen's throat, opening the big artery
beneath the ear, releas-ing a gushing flood of bright blood that patterned and
vanished into the dust. Ryan had deliberately tried to pull the blow, not
wanting to sever McLaglen's head from his body, but the edge was keen and it
jarred into the thoracic vertebrae. The man's mouth opened once more, and it
looked as if he were trying to say some-thing. But there was no sound, and in
less than thirty seconds he was dead.
Ryan stooped and cleaned the blade in the warm ashes of one of the fires,
wiping it on the earth. He resheathed it and turned to face his friends.
"That's the ending. Let's get the horses and quit this place."
But it wasn't quite the ending.
Nobody was stirring in the rancheria as they untied five animals from the
picket line, not bothering to saddle them. They contented themselves with a
rope bridle and a blanket thrown over each pony's back.
Ryan began to lead them between the wickiups, but stopped at a quiet word from
Jak.
"What is it?"
"Something got to do. Something got I don't want keep."
"What?" Ryan asked, seeing the albino reach and draw something from the back
of his belt, something that gleamed richly in the roseate light of the full
dawn.
"Ah, the gold knife."
"Don't want it," the boy insisted, seeing that Ryan was thinking of arguing
with him. "Not now. Not ever."
Jak handed his bridle to J.B., taking the few steps that brought him to the
edge of the deep pool beneath the sky-scraping cliffs. He held the cinqueda by
the rough,
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Dland6a gem-studded hilt, weighing it in his hand for a moment.
"Hell of a waste," the Armorer breathed.
"Man's got to do what a man's got to do," Doc said. "There are some things
that a man can't ride around."
"Pearls of wisdom, Doc." Krysty smiled.
But all of them were watching Jak. He threw the knife, underhand, pitching it
high into the air. For several beats of the heart the golden dagger seemed to
hang suspended in the air, catching the sharp rays of the morning sun before
it toppled down, plummeting into the lake with only the barest sound. The
ripples had vanished before they reached the shore..
"Now we can go," Jak said.
As they passed the last of the wickiups, a tiny na-ked boy came toddling out,
blinking and rubbing his eyes, staring up at the Anglos as they walked past
him.
Krysty stopped and blew him a kiss. He gave them a bubbling, shy smile and
pattered back into the hut.
The companions had no more alarms, passing through the narrow jaws of the
canyon. They skirted the pile of draggled corpses of the slaughtered sec men,
disturbing some coyotes that were tearing at the bodies.
Now it was safe to mount their horses and begin the journey to the hidden
redoubt and the gateway that would transport them from the baking deserts of
New
Mexico.
THERE WAS NO PURSUIT. When they eventually began the long climb toward the
ruined blacktop and the concealed fortress, there was no giveaway column of
dust to reveal vengeful Apaches on their trail.
The sun was high in a clear, cloudless sky, and the air was filled again with
the
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Dland6a mixed scents of sage-brush and mesquite. Across the far side of the
valley, a half mile or more away, a bird of prey rose suddenly into the air,
winging upward, as if something had dis-turbed it.
The contours of the winding road kept them out of sight of the plateau for
most of the time, but they eventually emerged in front of the main gates into
the redoubt.
Ryan paused, slipping from the back of his horse, slapping it on the flanks
and letting it go free. The others followed suit, stretching after the ride.
Ryan made his way to the edge of the drop and looked out across the limitless
expanse of the desert. At his lapel the tiny rad counter was beginning to
cheep its warning to him, the counter well past the orange, shading into the
red.
The eagle on the far side of the valley came floating toward where Ryan
guessed it had a nest. But once again it veered sharply away, as if frightened
by something. Or someone.
Ryan's one good eye was as sharp as that of any normal man, and it caught the
glint of light on the cliffs opposite.
"Down! Now!" he yelled, grabbing Krysty by the wrist and tugging her to the
rocky earth outside the redoubt.
The snap of the bullet smashed against the stone wall, kicking splinters over
the group as they flat-tened themselves behind the cover. The boom of the
blaster came a second or so later, the sound echoing from cliff to cliff, back
and forth across the valley.
J.B. articulated what Ryan had already guessed. "Russian rifle. Recognize that
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