TRIST: A Desert Warrior

They rose up out of the sand, four brown figures, as silent as the desert they arose from and moved ghost-like toward the lone man a short distance away. The man was standing at his horse tightening the girth on his saddle, his back to the four stalking figures. A dying campfire flickered, throwing dancing shadows on the man's back.

The man hesitated for the barest of moments as he jerked the cinch tight, then continued his movements. One hand moved carelessly to the butt of the rifle jutting from the scabbard on the saddle. He stepped nearer to the rump of the horse. He patted the horse on the rump and said softly, "Steady girl."

They moved in swiftly, racing towards their prey, this white eye foolish enough to venture into their land, this white man who now stood ignorant of the death at his back. One leaped ahead of the others, his knife held low. He wanted to be first to reach the prey and bring him down. They hoped to take him alive and to use him for entertainment for a few days. A quick slice across the armpit would make him helpless.

Jeremiah Trist waited until the last possible second before moving. When he moved, it was a dive towards the rear of his horse. As his body stretched into the shadows, he twisted in mid air, jacked a shell into the chamber and fired.

Everything had been done quickly, efficiently and with the speed of one who knew his weapon very well. The shot hit the attacker and the man staggered in his run, then went to his knees with a whimper. Trist rolled, then fired again twice, one shot striking an attacker in the shoulder while his next shot burned across the cheek of a third attacker. He tossed the rifle aside even as one dark form leaped onto him, and whipped his hand down for his knife. They rolled several feet, driven by the force of the attacker's leaping movement. Trist's nose was rammed hard against the man's shoulder and he jerked his head back. The man's body smelled strongly of the desert sand. One hand stabbed out for the attacker's knife arm, while Trist's other hand lunged upward with the heavy Bowie. He felt the other man stiffen, then suddenly relax.

Trist shoved the man off and rolled several feet towards the darkness. As he rolled, he saw the Indian who'd felt the rifle slug burn across his cheek leap back into the darkness. The sound of a man running followed. Trist retrieved his rifle and moved swiftly away from the camp, not knowing how many others there were. He had seen four, but there could be another two or three out there. Probably a hunting party had stumbled onto his trail but Trist doubted that there were many more than seven, if that many.

He crept into the shadow of a large clump of sage and knelt beside it, listening and watching closely. Suddenly, the sound of a horse snorting came from somewhere in the darkness ahead. He moved quietly ahead until he came to a small rise overlooking a gully. A lone horseman was making his way up the side of the gully away from Trist, leading three other horses. Trist smiled. There had only been four, then. If he could kill the fourth, he had a chance of living. If not, his chances of survival were slim, for that one Apache would bring many others, and they would track him right to the edge of Tucson, if need be.

Trist leaped to the top of the rise, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. He saw the impact throw the warrior forward, but the man retained his seat. In a few seconds, he'd disappeared. Trist turned and raced for his horse. He kicked sand over the fire, slammed the rifle into its boot and swung into the saddle. Trist did not run the horse, for even in the moonlight it was too easy for a horse to stumble, and with a dead horse in the Arizona desert, Jeremiah Trist was dead. If the blistering heat did not kill him, the Apache would.

He found the place where the Indian had been hit. A splash of blood was in the sand, and a small trail of blood led him on. After a few hundred feet the trail of blood stopped, although the trail continued. He'd stopped the bleeding. After an hour, Trist knew he would not catch the Apache. Also, he was going farther and farther from Tucson, and deeper into Apache land.

He pulled gently back on the reins. "Whoa, girl. No use trailing that Injun. We'v'e got to make tracks in the other direction."

He turned the horse around and moved toward the faint glow of red on the horizon. The sun's rise would bring almost instant heat, shriveling up the cold rapidly, and by nine o'clock in the morning the heat would be uncomfortable. Noon would be fatiguing, and by three o'clock, the desert would have soaked up enough heat to begin an oven-like effect, radiating heat from the ground even as the blistering sun beat down from above upon the desert and those who dared walk upon it.

Trist moved steadily for an hour, then stopped. He took off his boots and stuck them into the saddle bags, then withdrew a pair of moccasins, slipping them onto his feet. He took the reins and began walking. It was important to husband the strength of the mare. After two hours, he mounted and rode until the sun was directly overhead. Trist made his way to the shade of a huge collection of boulders lying half buried in the sands, tumbled about on top of one another as though God had tossed them from His hand like a child dropping marbles into the dirt. He led the mare into the shade next to one large boulder, and he sat nearby in the sand, shaded by another boulder he leaned against. He tugged the dusty brown hat down over his eyes and dozed.

After a half hour, he rose and took one of the canteens off the saddle, sipping at it slowly several times. Trist went to the horse, cupped one big, hand, then poured water into it carefully. He moved it under the mare's nose and the horse nibbled at the water with her lips. After five such handfuls, he capped the canteen and slung it back onto the saddle. Then, reluctantly, he stripped the saddle from the horse and tossed it onto the sands.

Miles to the west, Sha-ta-nay, the Apache leader sat staring off into the horizon, his dark eyes probing. Finally, he said with certainty in his voice: "Ride with care and do not think he will always run from us. He will turn and fight and the time and place will be his own." The small band of indians with him were silent. They did not fear this white-eye. He would make his stand and they would enjoy the battle. Anticipation was in each warrior's blood.

Ahead, standing in the shade of a large boulder, Trist stood staring down at his saddle. "Sure hate to give that saddle up. Best one I ever had." As though she understood, the mare turned her head towards Trist and the saddle lying there in the sand.

He patted the mare on the neck and said, "Sal, get some rest." Then he flopped down in the sand and tugged his hat down over his eyes.

Late afternoon found the two making their way slowly across the sun-baked earth, moving across shadeless, parching desert, two specks in a vast waste of waterless ground. Trist walked often, sparing the horse, jealously guarding the strength of the mare. He had a good day's start on those he knew would track him, and when they caught up, he wanted a horse able to carry him without staggering.

The desert had cooled rapidly once the sun descended, and they walked several hours after dark, navigating by the dim light of the moon, the reins looped about his wrist as he walked beside the mare. Finally he stopped, exhausted, his knees trembling. He gave the horse two small handfuls of water, then took a small swallow himself. Trist made a quick hobble for the horse, then fell to the sand and in seconds was in a deep sleep.

The morning sun washed across his face, reddening the backs of his evelids, and brought him awake instantly. He leaped to his feet with a sudden surge, startling the horse. Trist calmed the horse, stroking her neck as he spoke softly. "Easy girl. Didn't mean to spook you. We should have been out of here long ago. Mistakes like this will get me dead and you wearin' feathers." He slung the canteens across his neck and laid the rifle on his shoulder. "Let's get moving, girl. I just threw away two good hours, and we've got to make it up."

He moved ahead, the reins looped around one wrist, sloughing through a hill of sand, then picking up the pace when they reached packed earth. The sun was already warming him, and he tugged his hat down over his eyes as it cracked over the top of the mountain.

Trist muttered angrily, "I've played the fool and lost some precious time, Sal." The mare pricked up her ears at mention of her name. He wiped at a drop of sweat on his nose and said wearily, "I figure we've got six hours, maybe less, on them. They'll have fresh mounts, with maybe one change along. We've got to make Fraser's Spring by this afternoon." Trist patted the horse affectionately and said, "We'll make a stand there, eh!"

The day wore on. By noon Trist was exhausted, and had fallen several times in the last hour. Still, he would not use the horse, giving water to the animal generously, taking small sips for himself. He lay in the shade of a giant saguaro while the mare stood nearby. After an hour's rest, he rose and moved on, his goal a dark speck several miles distant. There he would find water, shade, and perhaps even some game.

He patted the neck of the horse and said, "Just a few more miles, Sal, and you'll have all the water you can drink, and shade." He glanced back, then froze, halting the horse. In the far distance, he could see something dark moving slowly over the horizon, less than three hours behind. Trist removed his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm. He rocked the hat onto his head, flipped the-reins over the horse's head and rolled onto her back. "They're moving faster than 1 figured, Sal." He tapped the mare gently in the ribs and made kissing noises.

Finally, Sha-ta-nay said softly, "He has moved. He will go for the Spring of Dogs." He tapped his heels gently into the sides of the horse and moved ahead. The others followed. Sha-ta-nay was not worried about getting their prey but a feeling of foreboding stayed with him. The signs he'd read at the white man's camp and the story of the survivor of the attack told him that this was no ordinary white man, no foolish prospector searching for the yellow metal. Sha-ta-nay had cursed the survivor and kicked the dead bodies he found at the camp and shouted insults and accusations against the wounded man he'd found leaning against a rock near the camp. They had acted foolishly, had attacked from a single direction, and had not kept a man back with a rifle in case they failed to take the man prisoner. The four had acted as children, not warriors. They'd thought of their prey as a camp dog and instead, had rushed upon a wolf. It had been a costly mistake, one Sha-ta-nay would not make.

Hours later, he slipped off his horse and knelt in the sand. He stood and smiled. "He has taken to his horse. That means he has seen us and will race us to the Springs." The Apache stared ahead at the distant speck of boulders. "He will wait there until we are near and then leave. He will take all the rest there he can."

He grinned at the mare as she pricked her ears forward. He'd let her drink her fill of water, and had cooled her down with a damp neckerchief. The sun was moving down and would soon nestle itself among the distant hills. Trist got to his feet, wiped his feet dry and slipped on the soft moccasins. He made his way to a large boulder and climbed carefully across the broad face, moving to another boulder, than another, until he was high above the camp, looking west. There was nothing visible, but then he hadn't expected anything yet. It was too soon for them.

He had hoped to stay the night here, and had even considered just making a stand, but something in him would not give up, would not admit defeat, To remain here would be to die. No, he would stay at the water until the last minute, and then leave. Trist knew they would camp here by the water and take his trail early the next morning, fresh, with watered horses, and well rested. He would travel all night, and would gain on them, but they would make the time up during the day for he would tire rapidly when the sun rose, and would have to stop frequently for rest.

Trist made himself comfortable in the rocks, dozing, rising frequently to check the horizon. He'd decided that if he did not spot them before sunset, he'd leave. They were out there, and there was little doubt in his mind that they were coming. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of something dark moving out of an arroyo. They were only a mile away. Trist scrambled down the boulder and ran for the horse.

Quickly, he tossed the blanket on the mare's back, picked up his rifle and slung both canteens across his shoulders. He rolled onto the back of the horse. "Let's move, Sal. You're liable to be wearin' feathers if we stay around here." In seconds, the horse and rider melted into the deepening shadows of the desert.

Sha-ta-nay spread his warriors apart, moving into the Spring of Dogs from three directions. He doubted the man was there, but if he were weary of the chase, he could have hidden there and waited for them. Sha-ta-nay did not think this man was weary of the chase, though. The man knew the desert, had shown care for the use of his horse, and would not throw himself away. The Indians filtered through the rocks, moving quietly into the depths of the boulders, searching for an ambush.

A shout captured everyone's attention, and they scurried down from the rocks to the trickle of water. One of the Indians was pointing at the ground. "His trail leads here and goes into the desert." The Indians had to kneel in the sand to look at the trail now; the sun had set, and the shadows of dusk hid the trail. Sha-ta-nay walked along the trail and out into the desert. He returned a short time later, satisfied that the man had left, even as he had predicted.

He called the warriors together. "We will stay here this night." He pointed to two warriors and said, "You will stay above, in the rocks there," Sha-ta-nay pointed above them, then added sharply, "and watch through the night." A hair rope was tied to a rock and stretched to another large rock. The horses were bridle-tied to this.

One of the men watching called down, "I cannot see the horses well from here." Sha-ta-nay stared for a long moment at the warrior, shook his head in disgust, then said gruffly, "It is not for horses that you will look, foolish one." Silence greeted this rebuff. Already a small fire was made and men began laying strips of a rabbit onto a flat stone laid in the fire, while others poked pieces of the meat affixed to a stick into the fire. A second rabbit was cut up, then a third.

One man carefully scraped each fur free of flesh and laid it flat on a rock. It would dry, and later a squaw would chew it into softness for use as a piece of material, perhaps on a dress or for barter with white traders near Phoenix. Sha-ta-nay squatted near the fire chewing on a piece of rabbit that was more raw than cooked. He spat out a piece of gristle, then stuck the piece of rabbit back onto the stone, and watched it sizzle.

"Why do you think this white-eye is here? Is he a scout for the blue coats?" The speaker was a lean warrior of average height, with a hawkish cast to his features. He nibbled at a piece of rabbit stuck on the tip of his knife as he waited for an answer.

"Perhaps a scout. He is a warrior, but I do not know if he is with those who wear the blue shirts." Sha-ta-nay shifted his position to one of more comfort and added, "I do know this about him." He peered closely at each of his men and said, "Some of us will die before we kill him." Cries of protest greeted this and Sha-ta-nay held up his hand for silence. "If you were running along Sha-ta-nay's trail to kill him, would there be death among you when you found him?"

Nods and murmurs of assent sounded around the fire and Sha-ta-nay continued, "Even so, this one will kill some of you. He is wise in our own ways and has the courage of a devil bear. When we leave here in the morning, ride with care and do not think he will always run from us. He will turn and fight soon, and the time and place will be his own. We must be ready."

The Indians murmured over Sha-ta- nay's evaluation of their prey, some willing to believe it, others preferring not to think of any white-skinned devil as capable of bravery, but only treachery. A people of liars were not strong, did not have courage, and were only victorious in battle when a warrior's medicine was made weak, or when that warrior was foolish, as was the case of the four who had first came upon this white-eye. Even Sha-ta-nay admitted their foolishness.

"Whoa, girl. Let's think a spell." Trist pulled back on the reins, slid off the back of the mare and walked to her front, rubbing her nose affectionately. "Now, Sal, if we keep running here, they're going to catch us for sure. They've no doubt got a few spare mounts, and all I've got is you, and you'll be pretty used up by tomorrow afternoon."

Trist looked into the night thoughtfully. "Sal, I propose going back to that spring and making the chase a little harder for them." He chuckled ruefully. "All I can do is die a little sooner, and give you feathers a day or two earlier."

Trist leaped back onto the back of the mare and turned her. "Let's show these boys the real thing Sal."

In a short time, Trist was near the cluster of boulders. He pulled up short and slid to the ground. "You're going to stay here, girl. I'll pick you up on the way out."

Trist slid a leather hobble onto the horse then slipped quietly into the night. As he came to the boulders, he slowed his pace, moving cautiously now. There would be guards out and, unlike the white man, Indian guards became a part of the landscape, blending with their surroundings. Trist climbed the first large rock, moving carefully. A dislodged rock would be disastrous. He pulled himself up and onto the long, flat ledge of another boulder, then, in a crouch, made his way across the table and down to a small niche. He slowly squeezed through that and made his way out onto the top of another boulder.

Trist was about to pull himself up onto this boulder when a dark shape moved slowly on his right. Trist froze. The shape adjusted itself to a new position, and settled again into rock-like stillness. Trist moved slowly backwards and out of the line of sight of this guard. He circled, climbing a small boulder, moving in from behind the guard. He inched his way along the top of the boulder, his blood like ice, not thinking of what would happen should the guard turn. That guard would die but so would Trist. The Apache's alarm would bring the others instantly.

The guard shifted. Trist's heart leaped within him and the hollowness in his stomach grew. The Apache sniffled once, then stretched out his legs before him. He leaned forward and looked down at the camp below, then leaned back and settled himself for more long hours of guarding. The Apache wiped at his nose and thought of Sha-ta-nay, anger stirring in him. He knew Sha-ta-nay had placed him on guard so that when they chased the white man in the day, Sha-ta-nay would be strong and he would be weak. Sha-ta-nay had placed the two best warriors on duty that night, and the guard knew why. His lip curled as he thought of Sha-ta-nay.

He was about to lean forward and look around at the entire camp below when the faint breeze at his back stopped. This small difference in his environment was enough to give him alarm. He whirled about, and the warning scream that began with a swift intake of air was trapped within as a powerful hand grabbed his throat and squeezed. The guard' struggle was brief and as he slumped forward, Trist laid him gently onto the rock, then removed the man's rifle gingerly, laying it to one side.

He studied the camp below, counting dark shapes on the ground. His eyes went to the shadows nearby where the horses stood. He could not see them all and it seemed likely that there was another guard about. Trist began looking at all the likely places a man would hide himself and keep the camp and the horses in sight. Finally, he noticed a deeply shadowed ledge to his left. The lip of another boulder hung out over the ledge and offered a very good vantage point. The camp would be covered, as well as the horses.

Trist backed away from the dead Indian and began the climb to the other guard. It took him almost an hour to creep to a nearby position. He still could not tell whether or not there was a guard placed there, but he acted as though there was one. He waited. Few guards, Indian or white, will remain in one position. While the Indian would usually stay in one location, he still would adjust his position there from time to time. A white man on similar duty would be walking about now and then, smoking, and perhaps even dozing. Trist knew he would have located a white guard long ago.

He remained still, patient with the knowledge that if a guard was in those shadows, he would eventually move. When he did, Trist would see it. Finally, a dark shape removed itself from the darkness and crept to the lip of the ledge. He peered intently into the darkness at the hiding place of the other, now dead, guard. Satisfied, he melted back into the shadows and blended with the darkness again, pulling a blanket about him as he sat down.

Trist began inching forward. He could approach the guard from one of two directions. If he came from the back, he had to expose himself momentarily in order to cross over. If he came from the side, he would remain hidden, but would have a greater danger in approaching the guard. He decided upon coming from the rear. Trist searched until he found a tiny rock, one which would make the smallest of sounds. He leaned forward and pitched the tiny rock to the far side. Immediately, without hesitation, he moved quickly across the short space and to the boulder that would take him behind the guard. If the guard had not heard the tiny sound and had not looked in that direction, then Trist knew that it was all over, that a shot would follow instantly.

He crouched, his heart beating rapidly. Quietness enveloped him. The guard had not seen him. He grinned to himself and moved on, taking the utmost care not to make a noise. Once he stopped when he felt small granules of rock beneath his foot, then moved his hand carefully under the foot, removing the rocks that had stuck to the skin of the moccasin. He moved on until he was directly behind the man. The struggle was brief and almost soundless. Trist laid the still, now lifeless body silently back onto the rock. The Indian's rifle was clutched in a firm death grasp and Trist left it there with the sure knowledge that the grip would not relax.

He moved now to the far side of the tumble of boulders and climbed to the ground. In a short time, he had circled around to where the horses were tied. Trist paused there in the darkness, waiting another half hour, searching for signs of another guard. It was not likely but Trist took little in life for granted. Finally satisfied, he moved ahead. The first horse sniffed at the blanket Trist had taken from the dead Indian and wrapped about his shoulders, then went back to its silent contemplation of the night. A second horse gave a similar thrust of its nose at the blanket, then returned to its soundless stance.

Trist cut the rope loose from one boulder, then moved through the horses, his hand gliding along the backs of the horses in calm reassurance. He left the halters tied to the rope, cutting the other side loose from the boulder. Carefully, he turned the horses until they pointed out to the desert. After he cut the halters loose, he rolled onto the back of a sturdy little paint. He patted the horse on the neck, pulled his Colt from the holster and aimed at one dark shape lying in the ground. The shot split the night open, and a second shot came on the heels of a scream. A dark, blanketed form leaped up from the ground and fell woodenly as other shapes rushed past. Trist booted the paint in the ribs and the horse charged after the other horses. As he rode out into the night, Trist emptied his gun into the darkness of the camp, knowing he would not hit anyone, but wanting to keep them careful until he was well out of sight.

Trist laughed as he rode up to the other horses. They had slowed some, and Trist yelled, startling them into a fresh burst of energy. Trist pulled the reins to one side and guided the paint east. He skirted the Indian camp and headed for the point where he'd left Sal. Sal stood still in the moonlight, and as Trist approached, she turned her head and whinnied.

"Quiet, girl. I brought some company along, so mind your manners." Trist leaped to the ground and removed the hobbles, picked up his rifle and the canteens, and grabbed the reins of the mare. He rolled onto the back of the paint, moved forward, leaned down and took the reins of the mare.

As he turned, movement caught his eye. A shadowy figure leaped out of the night and straight at him. It was a powerful leap, and even as the man crashed in on him, Trist found himself wondering at such an incredible leap. The two men fell as one from the horse and crashed to the dirt. Neither spoke, nor made any sounds save those of grunts of effort, as each tried to strangle the other.

The Apache tried to drive his knife into the breast of the white man and Trist struggled against the remarkable strength in the arm of the Indian. The two arms quivered, the brown arm with the knife held above the chest of the other. With a mighty surge of strength and desperation,

Trist rolled the Indian aside, and drove his knee savagely into the other's groin. The man screamed with pain and rolled away. Trist saw other shapes running their way, and ran for the paint. The animal shied away and he looked about for Sal. The mare stood just a few feet away.

"Steady girl. Steady now." Trist trotted up to her and vaulted onto her back. A shot crashed from the darkness and he heard the hum of the bullet as it tumbled its way by his head. He booted Sal in the ribs and the horse leaped into a full gallop.

Trist let Sal run for several miles, then forced her into a walk. In another mile, he got down and began walking alongside.

He put his hand on her neck and said, "Well, they have a horse now, and that means they might round up the rest of the horses. Still, it gives us time. Maybe the time we need, eh girl!" A thought stuck him and he groaned. "I lost the extra rifle, Sal." He chuckled, then added, "How something that was going so good could go so wrong so fast is beyond my understanding. That Injun must have run straight for where I had you staked out, Sal. He's a thinker, that Injun is. A real thinker."

The sun peeked its way over the mountain top, throwing lances of light on the man and horse as they walked slowly along the floor of the desert. Less than a mile behind, the beam of light washed over another man; a man trotting alongside a paint horse. Sha-ta-nay was tired, but more, he was angry; angry at himself and at the two dead guards they had found in the rocks. There was no excuse and he blamed himself as well as the guards. He'd considered that the white-eye might circle back, but discounted it. Even so, he'd placed his two best warriors to guard against such a move. His anger surged at himself for he now realized that he should have placed more guards out and spread them further from the camp. That he'd underestimated an enemy he already knew was dangerous bothered him, angered him. He was also angry that he'd lost precious time running after the horses. Those few moments that he'd chased after the horses would have been all he have needed to trap the white-eye.

He could have lain in wait there beside the horse and taken him unaware. Instead, he was forced to run after him. He grunted with displeasure as a dull ache forced its way from his loins and into his consciousness. He would remember that trick. Never again would an enemy make him so helpless. Only his warriors racing behind had saved his life.

Sha-ta-nay knelt in the sand and studied the ground, staring intently at its shapes, absorbing the story they told him.

The Apache warrior stood and without apparent effort, rolled onto the back of the paint. There had been protests by the others against his taking the horse, some wanting to use it to chase the other horses, but Sha-ta-nay was so disgusted with the chase, and angry now at the humbling he'd received at the hands of this enemy, that he announced that he would return with the scalp, and that the others were to return home when they'd found the horses. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that he would catch the man.

Trist rode for another hour, then walked alongside again. He staggered, caught himself, and said hoarsely, "Sal, don't give up on me,'cause I don't have much left in my legs, and these moccasins are letting sand in at the bottom." He uncorked a canteen and drank deeply and freely of the water. He'd given the horse most of the water already, and now he knew he had to get some water into himself or die. There was half a canteen remaining, enough for a normal march for the distance he had left, but barely enough for a race, especially in his weakened condition.

He topped a rise and looked back, shading his eyes. He saw the paint and guessed that the Indian riding him would be the same one who'd taken him by surprise there in the night beside Sal. Trist made his way to a small cluster of boulders and put Sal behind them. He wished he had the rifle, for with it he had a much better chance of ambushing the Indian. He checked his loads, spun the cylinder out of habit and waited. The sweat trickled down his forehead, and he wiped it away with his forearm.

Time ticked on slowly, each long minute a radiant, oven-like eternity of hell on earth. Even breathing was uncomfortable. Trist waited patiently. He knew his enemy was close and he knew that to move was to die now. His only hope was to spot his enemy first.

Circling! The thought jabbed its way into Trist's sun-baked consciousness like a sharp arrow. Sal was untended back there. He leaped over a rock and scrambled down another. Sal stood nearby, and jerked her head around at the sight of her master.

Trist leaped down from the rock and ran for another rock nearby. There, he could watch Sal and prevent the Apache from stealing her. He'd barely settled in place when something slammed against his head, and if it hadn't been for the bandanna he'd wrapped around his head and jammed his hat over, he would have lost consciousness. He rolled instinctively, throwing up his arms protectively. A sharp pain wiped away the fog that dimmed his sight, and he swung a vicious blow at a brown, handsome face. He felt the nose crunch under the fist and the Indian fell back, blood spurting from his nose.

Trist leaped for the Indian, but the man rolled aside and came up \vith his knife extended. Trist's hand moved instantly down to his holster and continued past the empty holster to the knife sheath on his leg. He jerked the knife out and moved cautiously towards the Indian.

"You would make an Apache mother proud, white-eyes. What is it you are called?"

Trist licked his lips and said in a dry, cracked voice, "Jeremiah Trist. And who are you?"

The Indian circled warily and said, "I am Sha-ta-nay. l live with the wolves, I run with the deer."

The circular path of the men closed and the knives began their slow weave of death. Black eyes locked into somber grey ones, and the time for talking passed. The time of dying had come. The Apache moved first, stabbing out, and leaping back with the speed of a striking rattlesnake. Trist felt a sharp prick of pain in his chest, but did not look down. His head throbbed with pain, and blood trickled down one side of his face. He had another pain across his back where the man's knife had raked him as he'd had rolled away.

Trist moved toward the Indian, all fear washed away, all thoughts of dying gone. His entire being was consumed with one goal: to kill his enemy. The two circled warily, like two wolves eyeing the same dead calf. They made deadly swipes at each other, backed away and came together again. This continued for what seemed hours to Trist but in fact only minutes had passed. Trist lunged suddenly, then fell forward, crying out.

As he'd hoped, the Apache leaped at him and as he did, Trist batted away the man's knife hand and with all his strength, smashed his fist into the face of the Indian. Sha-ta-nay crumpled, consciousness fading, the bright sun darkening suddenly. Trist hit the Apache again, this time striking him viciously in the stomach, and then again on the point of the jaw.

The man slumped unconscious. Trist slumped to his knees in the sand a few feet away from the unconscious indian. He was too careful a man to stay near the Apache. He leaned forward onto his hands and for several minutes he gasped for air, eyes tearing at the blistering heat and his lungs screaming with pain at the oven-like air that rushed into them.

Sha-ta-nay awoke with pain flooding his brain. He made no sound, but opened his eyes. The white-eye sat on a rock nearby.

"Ah, you've come to. Good." Trist nodded his head at Sha-ta-nay and tried to smile but the pain from his cracked lips hurt too much. He raised a weary arm and pointed at the warrior's horse. "I killed those who came sneaking upon me in the night but I could not kill the only Apache warrior I met. Take your horse and go in peace. I give you life in exchange for your bravery."

The Apache looked at Trist, then walked to the horse. Trist turned to walk away and as he turned, he heard a guttural voice call sharply: "Jer-mee-treest!"

Trist turned to see the Indian moving the horse towards him. A familiar looking rifle was in the man's hands, and it was leveled at Trist. The Indian stopped near Trist and said, "I too have killed the white-eyes who have hunted me. I would not kill their only warrior. I give you your life."

Sha-ta-nay raised the rifle to the sky, nodded once at Trist and turned the paint aside. The emptiness which had suddenly leapt into Trist's stomach left, and he turned and made his way to the mare.

As he rolled onto the back of the horse he said, "Sal, that man just stole the best rifle I ever had, and I didn't even complain. I think the sun has finally got me." He booted her in the sides.

What happens when a former lawman, a man dedicated to maintaining law and order, finds himself stripped of everything he loved, and inside, shrivels emotionally? What happens when a man becomes driven by vengance? What about justice? Where is that bright line? These are issues that confronted Weston Teague in the novel, Bloody Wes Teague. Teague had been a lawman in Texas in his early years, and he'd earned a "rep" as a tough man—a man who'd not back down from a fight. But, when he became a rancher in Wyoming, he left behind those years and that life. He married a beautiful New Yorker and brought her into the West. But, someone followed them. That man would earn the wrath of Wes Teague. His actions would also call into question everything Teague had once stood for as a lawman. Click here for a preview.