Wild Horse urged his pony into a gallop, shrieked his own
blood curdling challenge and descended the hill, straight at
Cunning Wolf, who looked startled by his sudden appearance. Wild
Horse braced himself for combat, lifting his weapon as Cunning Wolf
turned his horse in a tight circle, then came at him.
Screams filled the air around him, the sounds of battle
splitting the morning quiet. Wild Horse saw only his enemy, heard
only the labored beating of his heart. Lunging, he dodged beneath
Cunning Wolf’s slicing knife, driving the other man from his
mount. Falling from his pony, he followed his opponent into the
icy stream, arms locked around the other man’s torso in a brutal
grip.
Rolling away, his hold broken, the Chickasaw rushed again,
locking in a tug-of-war as both he and Cunning Wolf fought to free
the arm that wielded his weapon, while maintaining a grip on his
adversary.
Wild Horse knew the strength of his enemy, and shifted his
weight, sliding on the mossy rocks of the stream bed as he tried to
get a leg between his opponents, to trip him. His muscles burned
as he struggled to hold Cunning Wolf’s tomahawk at bay. He looked
into his enemies eyes, letting the madness show, hoping to
intimidate.
Wild Horse saw madness staring back at him, and realized the
equality of their thoughts, the same determination to conquer.
Cunning Wolf—his strength seeming to wane—pushed back,
letting go; widening the distance between them. Swinging hard, he
stepped in for the kill, his tomahawk drawing a thin rivulet of
blood from Wild Horse’s chest.
Blood trickling from his burning wound, Wild Horse raged at
letting his enemy draw first blood, felt the power of his superior
inner self driving him as he kicked out, successfully catching the
other man in the knee.
As Cunning Wolf dropped into the icy water, his tomahawk skittering
away as the pain stunned him, Wild Horse leapt on him, raising his
arm and chopping downward, only to strike the water as the other
man managed to roll away, bounding to his feet.
As they circled with drawn knives, Wild Horse locked gazes
with Cunning Wolf, his murderous intent reflected in his enemies
eyes. Wild Horse stepped sideways, his foot slipping on the rocky
bed of the stream, causing him to falter for an instant.
Cunning Wolf moved with lightening speed as he swept his knife in a
backhand motion, slicing through flesh. Smelling the blood, he
went under Wild Horse’s lifted arm and pierced his shoulder, the
blade glancing off bone.
Wild Horse fell into a black chasm of pain, weakened by his
blood loss. Face first, he tumbled at his enemies feet, preparing
to die, hating himself for his helplessness. He heard the scream
of death as the knife plunged into his back, and saw darkness
enveloping him as he fainted.
