One of them said something in the Apache tongue. Doc dredged at his memory for his scant vocabulary. The nearest translation that he could come up with was, “Greetings, walking man who is already with the spirits.”
“Bother,” Doc said.
Chapter Thirty-One
Bear Cub Running and Fast Silver Hand were two of the boldest young warriors of the Mescalero band. Their hostility against the numerically stronger Children of the Rock was deep-rooted, going back a number of years. They knew nothing of the rad hot spot, but it was common knowledge that the white Bible carriers had few if any children among their numbers, and those that were born were sickly and rarely lived long.
Which was why the renegade Anglos had so often tried to steal the little ones from the Apaches.
Which was why any white person walking along through the tall pines was fair game.
The old man with snowy hair and pale eyes didn’t seem to be carrying any kind of blaster. The two braves had been watching him carefully for over half an hour, at first suspecting a trap. But they had just decided that the old man was truly alone.
Fast Silver Hand had whispered that it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
“Truly. Should we take him back to camp for the women to show us their skills with knife and fire?”
Then Doc woke up.
Seeing his imminent danger, he fumbled in his faltering memory for the few ragged Mescalero phrases that remained in the dusty back rooms.
“Greetings, brothers. It is a good day.”
“A good day to die, old man,” Bear Cub Running replied, sneering. “For you.”
Slowly he reached around for an arrow to notch on the string of his bow. His young companion matched him, move for move, very cautiously.
“I have no wish to harm you,” Doc said, his arms spread, gripping the silver hilt of his sword-stick. “Let me pass through the hunting lands of the Mescalero.”
Fast Silver Hand laughed at the clumsy attempt to speak their language. “He is like a coyote who has drunk too much of the winter wine,” he muttered so as Doc couldn’t hear him. “He will give good sport.”
“Perhaps he is mad,” the other warrior said doubtfully. “Mad, bad and dangerous to know.”
“No. Just triple stupe. As are all whites. See how he stands feeble like a blind baby.”
Doc couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he was awake enough to know that their body language was a long way short of friendly.
He struggled to remember things that Ryan had tried to teach him over the years. Watch their eyes. Watch their hands. Watch their feet. If you have to strike, then do it hard and fast. Don’t wait to admire your handiwork. Watch their mouths. Try to take out the leader first.
“Which one is the leader?” he asked.
But the two young men just nudged each other and laughed. They both had arrows notched, bowstrings taut, but the bows were still held loosely down at their sides, not yet threatening Doc.
“Get close,” Doc mumbled. That was one of the most important things to remember in combat.
He took three hesitant steps toward the Apaches, halving the distance between them.
Another step. He felt sweat on his palms, cold against the metal of the lion’s-head hilt. He lifted the shaft of the stick, so casually, now holding it in both hands.
Doc was still a little too far away, but he could see the glimmering of doubt in their eyes, suspicion that perhaps the old cougar still had claws.
“Yes,” he said, nodding wisely and reassuringly. “It is truly a good day to die.” He took the last step that brought him close enough to risk his move.
His gnarled right hand twisted the grip and pulled, his left sliding the ebony sheath off the polished Toledo steel of the rapier’s blade.
A half turn to the left gave Doc the necessary room for the first, devastating sideways cut, followed by the lunge and withdrawal.
The early-morning sunshine glinted like watered silk off the honed metal, giving the two young men a frozen splinter of time to realize the terrible threat they faced from the helpless old-timer. Too little.