War on the Cimarron by Luke; Short

Cimarron.
    Grey Horse came to his feet then, and he had a knife, and now he faced Frank in a half-crouching attitude, a cunning light in his eyes.
    Red sent one warning shot over Grey Horse’s head, and the Indian maneuvered to put Frank between him and Red.
    Frank called out over his shoulder, “Don’t hit him, Red. Let me handle him.”
    â€œHe’ll stick you, dammit!” Red cried.
    â€œLet him alone,” Frank said.
    He walked spraddle-legged toward Grey Horse. When he was close he made a feint with his right hand, and the Indian slashed out with the knife toward his arm.
    Quick as thought Frank’s left palm slapped down on the Indian’s wrist and his fingers closed on it. He tried to bring the Indian’s arm up to bend it behind him and got it only shoulder high, and then Grey Horse grappled with him. For a long moment they were locked in struggle, Grey Horse trying to drive the knife down. It was a contest of brute strength, and Grey Horse put his heart into it.
    When Grey Horse was straining until his breath came in great grunting gasps Frank half turned and pulled down on his arm and threw his hip into the Indian’s belly. All Grey Horse’s weight and strength were bearing forward, and he pivoted over Frank’s hip, doing a full somersault in the air. Frank held tightly to his wrist, and he heard Grey Horse grunt and then land flat on his back. The knife dropped to the ground from nerveless fingers, and Frank kicked it over the lip of the cutbank.
    Grey Horse tried to spring to his feet. He was half up when Frank clipped him solidly across the jaw with a full swing. Grey Horse went down again, almost balancing on the edge of the cutbank. He scrambled to his feet again, trying to dive to one side. Frank’s arcing fist caught him behind the ear and drove him over the cutbank.
    Looking over the edge, Frank saw him land on his face in the shallow channel of the Cimarron, ten feet below. Frank leaped. He landed astride the Cheyenne’s back and drove him down into the water. Grey Horse fought with a wild fury and managed to turn over, and that was what Frank wanted. Frank stood upright, Grey Horse lying face up between his legs, and put both hands around Grey Horse’s throat. Then he forced his head under the moiled water, counted five and yanked him up.
    Grey Horse was thrashing helplessly, and when he came above the surface he choked and fought futilely at Frank’s hands. Frank let him cough for a moment, then said in Comanche, “Who paid you to lie?”
    Grey Horse didn’t answer, and Frank rammed his head down again. This time he held if ten seconds, and Grey Horse came up gagging, his face turning a dark color.
    â€œTalk!” Frank said.
    Still Grey Horse wouldn’t speak, and Frank, raging mad, shoved him under again. He held him there until the peak of his struggle was over and then brought him up. This time the Indian’s eyes were glassing over. Frank took both his braids in one hand and held his head and slapped him with the other hand. When Grey Horse’s eyes focused Frank grabbed him by the throat again and shook him.
    â€œTalk, damn you,” he raged, “or you’ll drown this time!”
    Grey Horse made a feeble gesture of assent and murmured, “Milabel.”
    â€œWhere’d he get the whisky?” Frank demanded.
    â€œSteal ’um Corb cache,” Grey Horse said in English.
    Frank flung him into the water and waded out to the bank and climbed it. Red, his face tense, relaxed when he saw Frank come up. And then Red began to curse in relief. He prodded the Indians over to the cutbank and then kicked them off into the Cimarron. Grey Horse was sitting on the bottom, retching into the stream.
    Frank got the horses, coiled the ropes and brought the horses over. He and Red mounted and looked down into the channel where the five wet Cheyennes, their faces livid with hatred, were shivering in the cold