Warn Angel! (A Frank Angel Western--Book 9) by Frederick H. Christian Page A

himself, the way that the Korean,
Kee Lai, had taught him during the training sessions in the echoing
gymnasium that the Justice Department shared: ‘The mind and the
body are one. Both produce life-energies. Both can be controlled as
one. Control the mind first. Then control the body. And at last you
will control both as one. Only then can you summon all of yourself,
all of your strength and mind and energy, into one place, one
instant, and use it as one. You can be, you will be, more than
other men if you can learn this. Learn, learn, learn … ’
    In his mind’s eye, he could see his own
sprawled body and the geography of the place in which he had fallen
as clearly as if he were the eagle whose avoiding action had saved
his life. He lay on sloping grass-covered ground that fell away
from the side of the trail toward the swirling river. There were
trees perhaps twenty feet away from his head, more eighty or ninety
feet downstream. He lay with his leg slightly bent, right knee
higher. Left hand palm down near his head, arm bent; right arm
almost straight, palm up, not far from the right knee. He
disciplined his breathing so that it became shallow, shallower,
almost imperceptible. And then he waited. He attempted no
assessment of time, concentrating upon absolutely nothing, every
sense acutely tuned. He heard the birds moving overhead, or singing
in the darkness of the woods. He heard the softness of the river
moving over sliding pebbles, the soughing of the faint breeze that
shifted the branches of the trees, the slow inevitable turning of
the earth.
    A twig snapped.
    It wasn’t the horse; the horse
was downstream of him, contentedly cropping at the grass. So it had
to be the hunter who was his prey. He concentrated upon keeping
death-still. If the ambusher saw even the movement of Angel’s
breathing, he might come no closer, but render the coup de
grace from
six feet away. He tracked the man’s movements, following his
approach from the slight sounds. He could see the dark figure
clearly through the windows of his mind, moving down the long slope
away from which the eagle had veered, down through the fringing
timber and across the trail—soft slither of leather on stone—then
to the edge of the clearing in which Angel lay—soft underfoot
crackling of pine needles, tiny squelch of wet leaves. There the
man stopped. Angel could hear his heavy, ragged breathing. The man
was in poor condition or in pain, he couldn’t tell which. He heard
the tentative soft swish of movement through the dew-wet grass. It
stopped again. Was the man dragging one foot? Almost as if the
ambusher was giving off tangible warmth, a field of energy, Angel
could sense his very closeness. He knew the man was near enough to
touch him now, and steeled himself. The metallic sound of a hammer
going back on rifle or pistol would mean that Angel had no time, no
chance at all. He heard the man exhale as he bent over the prone
body. Kuden put a hand under Angel’s shoulder in order to turn him
over and in that moment Angel summoned all of himself into one
movement. His right hand took the hand grasping his left shoulder
and he came up off the ground with the left hand pushing, turning
his left shoulder down as his body came up fast and strong, acting
as a fulcrum. Kuden went up across Angel’s shoulders and then down
with a heavy wet thud on the grass. The Winchester cartwheeled out
of his hand and he yelled with pain, yet still he rolled like a
thrown cat. He was already on his feet and lunging at Angel by the
time Angel wheeled upright to face him, giving Angel no chance to
get set. Kuden smashed into Angel head down, bowling Angel over
backward, pounding his fists into Angel’s face. Locked together
they thrashed across the grassy clearing, each seeking purchase,
breath coming harsh and hard as they fought with strengths almost
evenly matched. Finally, Angel got one hand momentarily free and
using the edge of his hand like the blade of an ax,