The Savage

His taunting amusement seemed to infuriate the other warrior. Without warning, Tuhsinah struck overhanded, yet at the last second Lance grabbed his wrist, his own teeth gritted now as he struggled to avoid the weapon wielded by his foe. The knife point was so near his eyes that the slip of a single inch would have blinded him.

Abruptly they disengaged and began anew, circle and feint, lunge and slash, each trying to gain an advantage.

Tuhsinah drew first blood. Lance didn’t sidestep quickly enough and the blade grazed his bare abdomen, the long, thin cut instantly welling blood. He parried the next vicious thrust, and returned one of his own, managing to nick his opponent’s upper arm close to the shoulder.

Both men were already breathing hard with exertion. It had become a battle of Tuhsinah’s brute strength and sheer rage against Lance’s superior cunning and dexterity. To Summer’s mind, there didn’t seem to be any honorable rules of engagement. Any tactic was counted legitimate, any target fair game. Lance leveled a well-aimed kick at the Comanche’s groin, which for an instant doubled him over, but Tuhsinah promptly recovered and delivered a return blow to Lance’s thigh that nearly felled him.

Incredibly, Lance laughed—and said something harsh that must have been an insult, for Tuhsinah gave a bellow and charged like an enraged bull, grasping Lance about the thighs in an assault that sent them both hurtling head over heels.

They wrestled there for a moment, struggling for dominance, but in another heartbeat, they broke apart and sprang to their feet.

The deadly dance went on for an interminable interval. Lance seemed hesitant at times, appearing to calculate the risk of his every move, while Tuhsinah seemed to grow in confidence, the cold steel blade an extension of his arm. His next offensive targeted Lance’s heart, slicing diagonally across the chest from breast to waist—and barely missed.

Summer wanted to scream in fear, yet she didn’t dare breathe. Instead she shoved her knuckle between her teeth and bit hard, terrified more of disturbing her husband’s concentration.

His foe stabbed again, and this time the razor point pierced Lance’s left side, tearing smooth flesh and muscle, even though a rib deflected the knife blade, which would have slid deep into his chest. Lance drew back, clutching his side, his wound dripping blood.

A cruel gleam of triumph shone in the Comanche’s black eyes. Again he attacked, moving in for the kill.

Summer stood paralyzed with fear, unaware that she had grasped his grandmother’s arm until Wasp Lady shook off her grip with a sound of contempt. She almost missed seeing when the two combatants tripped and fell. They sprawled in the grass, rolling together over and over.

A deafening hush settled over the watching crowd. The two opponents grappled on the ground, muscles straining, dark skin glistening with sweat. Lance gave a grunt of pain when, lying on his back, he caught an elbow across the throat, but incredibly, he managed to twist out from under his foe and somehow gain the upper position. Straddling Tuhsinah’s broad chest with his knees, he pressed his blade against the Comanche’s throat.

Summer’s breath caught on a sob. Had Lance won?

She couldn’t understand the hissed command that Tuhsinah uttered, but his expression clearly said, Kill me, if you are not a coward!

His eyes burned wildly into those of the man above him, daring him to act. Unwillingly Summer remembered the explanation Lance had given her only a short while ago, about how easy it was to slit a throat. All it would take was a single deep slice of the knife, and death would come swiftly.

Incredibly, though, Lance slowly drew his blade away from Tuhsinah’s throat and climbed to his feet.

One hand to her trembling mouth, Summer gaped in disbelief. The fight was supposed to have been to the death, but Lance had chosen to spare Tuhsinah’s life, an act of mercy for which the Comanche didn’t seem at all grateful, not if his smoldering glare of hate was any indication.

Summer shook her head in stupefaction. She had no idea if Comanche custom allowed a man to walk away from mortal combat without establishing complete victory, but she had to believe it was foolish in the extreme for Lance to turn his back on his sworn enemy, leaving himself totally unprotected and open to attack.

Her fear came true. With speed that was blinding, Tuhsinah leapt to his feet and charged, his head bent low, his knife thrust at Lance’s bare back.

Whether Lance heard her cry of warning or Tuhsinah’s howl of rage first, Summer never knew, but Lance suddenly stepped sideways and spun on his heel at the same instant, holding his own knife out. The forward momentum carried Tuhsinah directly into the path of the blade, and his body came to a jerking halt. His fierce expression went stiff with shock, then slowly drained of all emotion.

Lance’s own features still and cold, he let the Comanche’s lifeless form slump to the ground. Bending, he drew his knife from Tuhsinah’s chest and wiped the blade clean on the grass.

Summer shuddered, even as she released a sob of sheer relief. Lance had survived! Dear God, it was over. Except that he was wounded, perhaps terribly.

She would have run to him except for Wasp Lady’s restraining grasp—a grip so tight, it was painful. She waited impatiently as the Antelope Eaters collected the body of their fallen leader and mounted their horses. To her bewilderment, they rode away without a backward glance. And yet she couldn’t concern herself with them when Lance might be bleeding to death.

She shook off his grandmother’s grasp and hastened to where Lance was standing, holding his wounded side. Yet she couldn’t get near him. He was surrounded by warriors, obviously offering him congratulations. Summer was ready to scream with frustration by the time the crowd thinned out, but as a woman—a white woman, at that—she didn’t dare interrupt them.

Fights Bear was the last to speak to him. He clasped his brothers shoulders, pride shining in his eyes, and said something in Comanche that she knew was praise. Lance replied at length, perhaps thanking Fights Bear for his part in the successful conclusion. Only when the war chief finally left him alone did Summer step forward.

“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed in dismay, trying to see the wound beneath Lance’s bloody fingers.

“It’s nothing.” His gaze found hers, searching her face, trying to determine if her concern was genuine.

Before he could decide, his grandmother came up behind Summer and launched into an angry tirade in Comanche, scolding the white woman’s behavior, saying she would never make him an adequate wife.

Lance listened patiently for a moment, out of respect for Wasp Lady’s age and venerable position, but cut her off sharply when she accused Summer of violating the ways of the People.

“If she errs, grandmother, it is out of ignorance, not willful disregard of our customs. She has told me that she yearns for your good opinion.”