wouldn’t need to kill me this way.”
“I fear no man, let alone a pale-skinned Englishman,” Matiassu lashed back. “In single combat I have killed four men. I do not need to prove my courage with one such as you.”
“Talk’s cheap.” Brandon’s heart was beating so hard he thought it would burst his chest. The sweat was running into his eyes, and the back of his left leg was cramped from holding it locked in place. “You’re afraid of me, and you know it,” he persisted softly. “You’re a coward, a man who needs to hide behind a gun.”
“Nee nin dauw,” Matiassu replied harshly. He tossed his musket aside and advanced on Brandon. The Indian’s right hand closed around the bone handle of a ten-inch hunting knife, and the gleaming blade slid from its fringed leather sheath with an ominous hiss.
Brandon relaxed his muscles and stepped backward, balancing on the balls of his feet. He’d been trained in the art of fencing, but now his hand was empty and his opponent carried a lethal weapon.
“Now who is the coward?” Matiassu asked. “The musket ball would have been quick.”
“Still full of talk.”
The Indian lunged at him with the knife, and Brandon sidestepped the blow. He snatched a length of broken branch from the ground and swung it at Matiassu’s head. The Shawnee dodged the stick and slashed again. The tip of the knife gashed Brandon’s right arm, and he spun away with bright red blood running from the wound.
“I’ll cut out your heart, Englishman,” Matiassu threatened.
Brandon backed away a few steps, holding the stick up to protect himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Matiassu’s musket lying on the ground. If he could get his hand on the flintlock . . . “What are you waiting for? If you’re going to kill me, come on and do it.”
The Indian circled to the left, and Brandon moved with him, keeping a safe distance from the naked steel. Brandon’s mouth tasted like ashes, and the sounds of the forest—the birds and the rustlings of small creatures—had faded. The sound of his own breathing was overly loud in his ears. If I don’t get my hands on that gun, I’m going to die, Brandon thought.
Matiassu feinted to the left, then leaped right and swung again. The knife bit into Brandon’s bare thigh as he twisted away and drew a long, shuddering breath. He moves like a dancer, Brandon thought, gritting his teeth against the pain. He’s fast and he’s smart. “You move like an old woman!” he mocked the Shawnee. “Come on!” He motioned obscenely. “Come and finish me, if you can.”
Brandon stepped back, and his shoulder hit a tree. As Matiassu sprang at him, Brandon slammed the branch down across the Indian’s forearm. Matiassu winced, and Brandon kicked him in the ankle. Brandon seized Matiassu’s knife hand, and they struggled face to face. Matiassu wrapped his leg around Brandon’s, and together they fell to the ground and rolled over and over, fighting for possession of the knife.
Brandon’s head struck a tree root, and he saw stars. Above him, Matiassu’s face blurred. Matiassu’s hand, still clenching the deadly knife, moved closer until Brandon could feel the cold steel against his throat. Brandon’s muscles screamed in silent agony as he forced the Indian’s hand up a fraction of an inch. Matiassu’s teeth were bared; Brandon could smell the acrid sweat from the Indian’s body. He knew Matiassu was near the limit of his strength as well.
“Enough!” Leah’s voice came loud and crisp in Brandon’s ears. “Drop the knife,” she commanded in Algonquian. “Drop it, or I’ll kill you myself, Matiassu.”
The war chief relaxed his hold and rolled off Brandon. He dropped to his knees, then rose to a crouch. Brandon scrambled up and turned to stare at Leah. She was at arm’s length away, her bow drawn taut. Notched in the bowstring was a steel-tipped arrow, and it was pointed at Matiassu’s chest.
“Throw down the knife,
“I fear no man, let alone a pale-skinned Englishman,” Matiassu lashed back. “In single combat I have killed four men. I do not need to prove my courage with one such as you.”
“Talk’s cheap.” Brandon’s heart was beating so hard he thought it would burst his chest. The sweat was running into his eyes, and the back of his left leg was cramped from holding it locked in place. “You’re afraid of me, and you know it,” he persisted softly. “You’re a coward, a man who needs to hide behind a gun.”
“Nee nin dauw,” Matiassu replied harshly. He tossed his musket aside and advanced on Brandon. The Indian’s right hand closed around the bone handle of a ten-inch hunting knife, and the gleaming blade slid from its fringed leather sheath with an ominous hiss.
Brandon relaxed his muscles and stepped backward, balancing on the balls of his feet. He’d been trained in the art of fencing, but now his hand was empty and his opponent carried a lethal weapon.
“Now who is the coward?” Matiassu asked. “The musket ball would have been quick.”
“Still full of talk.”
The Indian lunged at him with the knife, and Brandon sidestepped the blow. He snatched a length of broken branch from the ground and swung it at Matiassu’s head. The Shawnee dodged the stick and slashed again. The tip of the knife gashed Brandon’s right arm, and he spun away with bright red blood running from the wound.
“I’ll cut out your heart, Englishman,” Matiassu threatened.
Brandon backed away a few steps, holding the stick up to protect himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Matiassu’s musket lying on the ground. If he could get his hand on the flintlock . . . “What are you waiting for? If you’re going to kill me, come on and do it.”
The Indian circled to the left, and Brandon moved with him, keeping a safe distance from the naked steel. Brandon’s mouth tasted like ashes, and the sounds of the forest—the birds and the rustlings of small creatures—had faded. The sound of his own breathing was overly loud in his ears. If I don’t get my hands on that gun, I’m going to die, Brandon thought.
Matiassu feinted to the left, then leaped right and swung again. The knife bit into Brandon’s bare thigh as he twisted away and drew a long, shuddering breath. He moves like a dancer, Brandon thought, gritting his teeth against the pain. He’s fast and he’s smart. “You move like an old woman!” he mocked the Shawnee. “Come on!” He motioned obscenely. “Come and finish me, if you can.”
Brandon stepped back, and his shoulder hit a tree. As Matiassu sprang at him, Brandon slammed the branch down across the Indian’s forearm. Matiassu winced, and Brandon kicked him in the ankle. Brandon seized Matiassu’s knife hand, and they struggled face to face. Matiassu wrapped his leg around Brandon’s, and together they fell to the ground and rolled over and over, fighting for possession of the knife.
Brandon’s head struck a tree root, and he saw stars. Above him, Matiassu’s face blurred. Matiassu’s hand, still clenching the deadly knife, moved closer until Brandon could feel the cold steel against his throat. Brandon’s muscles screamed in silent agony as he forced the Indian’s hand up a fraction of an inch. Matiassu’s teeth were bared; Brandon could smell the acrid sweat from the Indian’s body. He knew Matiassu was near the limit of his strength as well.
“Enough!” Leah’s voice came loud and crisp in Brandon’s ears. “Drop the knife,” she commanded in Algonquian. “Drop it, or I’ll kill you myself, Matiassu.”
The war chief relaxed his hold and rolled off Brandon. He dropped to his knees, then rose to a crouch. Brandon scrambled up and turned to stare at Leah. She was at arm’s length away, her bow drawn taut. Notched in the bowstring was a steel-tipped arrow, and it was pointed at Matiassu’s chest.
“Throw down the knife,
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