run of the arrow, chapter 1 blood arrow

Quinn glanced over his shoulder. The main body of riders was still a mile or so back, their silhouettes shimmering like dark phantoms in the heat haze. But one man, a figure on a magnificent horse, had outstripped the rest. This rider was clearly not a Comanchero by birth—his lean, powerful build and the distinct, coiled intensity in his posture spoke of the Comanche people, an Indian allied with the outlaws for reasons Quinn neither knew nor cared to discover.

The Indian was gaining fast.

Quinn knew he couldn't outrun him. He saw a shallow gully ahead, banked by scrub cedar. It offered a moment's cover. Digging his heels in, he ran hard toward the depression, and dropped low behind the bank.

A moment later, the horse thundered to a halt directly above him.

The Indian dismounted with practiced economy, a wickedly sharp hunting knife already in his hand. He was tall, his eyes dark and piercing, alight with a hunter's focus. He wore a simple buckskin shirt and a band across his brow, and he moved with the liquid grace of a mountain cat.

"The white man runs," the Indian said, his voice a low, resonant rumble. "But the knife always finds its quarry."

Quinn rose slowly, hands open, palms facing out to show his empty status. "I don't seek a fight with you, friend," he said, his voice level despite the adrenaline pounding in his ears. "My quarrel is with the dogs behind you."

"Your quarrel is my profit," the Indian corrected, taking a slow step forward. "You carry no steel. Foolish. You offer no challenge."

"Then you'll have to take your profit with bare hands," Quinn retorted.

The Indian snorted, a flicker of something like amusement crossing his face. He gripped the knife, poised to strike. But Quinn didn't wait for the steel. He didn't have time. The distant shouts of the six Comancheros were closer now.

With a sudden, explosive surge, Quinn drove forward. He didn't try to grapple; he focused on closing the distance and negating the knife's reach. As the Indian whipped the blade up in a swift arc aimed at his gut, Quinn blocked the wrist hard with his forearm, the impact jarring up to his shoulder.

The Indian was lightning fast, spinning out of the block, trying to plunge the knife low. Quinn sidestepped the thrust and, with a lifetime of brawling experience in mining camps and saloons, delivered a short, brutal right hook. It landed squarely on the Indian's jaw.

The blow didn't drop him—no ordinary punch would. But it stunned him, causing him to reel back a step and drop the deadly knife into the dust.

In that split second, Quinn knew he had to finish it. He couldn't risk the Indian recovering the weapon. He charged, not fighting like a civilised man, but like a cornered beast. He drove his shoulder into the Indian's chest, lifting him and slamming him against the hard earth of the gully bank.

Wind knocked out, the Indian gasped, but his dark eyes remained resolute. He bucked, trying to throw Quinn off, his powerful arms locking around Quinn's waist like vises. This was a fight of pure strength now.

Quinn gritted his teeth and used his weight, driving his knee into the ground beside the Indian's ribs. He seized the Indian's shirt near the neck and drove the back of his head, once, twice, into the unforgiving dirt.

Finally, the fight left the Indian. His grip slackened, and his eyes fluttered closed.

Quinn stood, breathing raggedly, his knuckles throbbing. He took a second to snatch up the fallen hunting knife, tucking it into his belt.

The Comancheros were rounding the bend. They saw their ally lying motionless in the dirt and they saw Quinn, astride the Indian's horse alone, empty-handed, but for the one weapon he had just claimed. He leaned low, urging the mare toward the dry, rocky creek bed he knew was a few hundred yards ahead. If he could reach the cover... Then, a sound like a wet leather slap, and a white-hot spike plunged into his left shoulder.

Quinn gasped, the sound stolen by the wind, his body arching in the saddle. He didn't have to look; the shocking, heavy weight was all the confirmation he needed.

He drove the sorrel harder, reaching the shallow bank and tumbling off into the sparse brush, dragging the panicked animal's reins with him.

The pain was a living thing, a searing, throbbing pulse that threatened to overwhelm him. He stumbled to his knees, his right hand immediately going to the wound. The fletching of the arrow, tipped with scavenged hawk feathers, stood out like a macabre flag, soaked instantly in red. The shaft had sunk deep, striking bone, and the slightest movement sent agony radiating down his arm.

He knew that the Comancheros would reach him in minutes. If he tried to pull the arrow back out, the barbed obsidian head would tear through muscle and artery, guaranteeing he bled out before sundown.

There was only one way. He bit down on his own sleeve, tasting the metallic tang of sweat and dirt. With a guttural grunt, he gripped the shaft an inch from his shoulder and—CRACK!—snapped the cedar wood.

The fracture sent a jolt of agony that nearly made him pass out, but he held on. He was left with about six inches of splintered wood sticking out of his collarbone, the rest of the shaft gone. He dropped the broken piece and scrabbled on the ground with his good hand until his fingers closed around a smooth, fist-sized river rock, worn flat from years in the current.

The voices were closer now! Quinn pressed his face into the dirt for a moment, gathering his will. He placed the flat side of the river rock against the protruding arrow shaft. Taking a huge, ragged breath that vibrated in his chest, he used the rock as a kind of heavy, blunt piston, forcing it down onto the stub.

He used all the power in his right arm, every ounce of his adrenaline-fuelled terror, to drive the arrow. The wood hissed as it grated past the point of the bone, the sickening pressure building and then releasing as the point punched through the sinew and muscle of his back. The pain was so sharp it was a brief, blinding silence.

He lifted the rock away. A splintered end of the arrow was now poking out of his back, low down near the shoulder blade.

With a shaking hand, Quinn reached behind him, found the rough, bloody tip of the wood, gripped it, and yanked.

It slid free, a greasy length of broken shaft and barbed obsidian, leaving a clean, bleeding hole where the entrance was, and a messy puncture where the exit lay. He collapsed, clutching the raw, burning wounds, his breathing shallow.

He had bought himself minutes. The scent of blood was strong, and the Comancheros would follow it, but now, Quinn could move. He tossed the rock and the bloody arrow aside, grabbed the Winchester with his right hand, and began crawling toward the safety of the deeper ravine, leaving behind a trail that no longer contained a crippling, protruding piece of wood, only the promise of a fight..