The Swede pulled back to throw another punch. With lightning-quick reflexes, Frazier balled his fist and, cupping it with the other palm for leverage, jabbed his elbow into Larzdon’s midsection. The elbow sank into the Swede’s ribs, making Larzdon’s aim go high. His fist barely grazed Frazier’s temple. A roar of approval spread through the crowd as they made their favorite known.
With a quick thrust, Frazier toppled the man over and rolled to his feet. Larzdon landed on his side, his weight supported by his elbow while his free hand wrapped around his fractured rib.
Drake balanced himself on one foot, spinning on his sole as he lashed out with the other. The heel of his boot crashed into the Swede’s neck. With a strangled cry, Larzdon’s back collided with the ground.
This time there was no chance for recovery. Drake was on him in an instant. His fist cracked into Larzdon’s jaw, then delivered a second blow to the Swede’s midsection.
Larzdon was at a disadvantage in his position and his eyes showed that he knew it. Unless he could wrestle himself free, the fight was over. Apparently not ready to surrender to defeat, his large fists flew, occasionally landing one lucky punch for every three of Drake’s well-aimed blows.
By the time the Swede had regained his footing, both men were soaked with blood and sweat. Breathing hard, Larzdon resorted to his initial approach. Again Drake ducked. Oren was prepared for the move. His knee came up just in time to crack into Drake’s chin.
Hope matched Drake groan for groan as she collapsed against her brother’s arm and buried her face in his sleeve. The sound of fists hitting flesh rang clear on the late morning air and a small whimper of trepidation escaped her lips.
“Holy shit, he’s got a knife!”
Old Joe’s words caused icy fingers of fear to wrap around Hope’s heart. Her head snapped up and her eyes once again focused on the fight.
Larzdon’s lips drew back in a sinister smile, made even more evil by the gaping hole that had once been a front tooth. A steady stream of blood and saliva trickled down his chin. The blade of his knife was long, slightly arched as it shimmered in the sunlight. The redwood handle was nestled firmly in the Swede’s sweaty palm.
Draw your knife! Hope screamed her thoughts to Drake. Can't you see? He’ll skin you alive if he can. Draw-your-knife!
Drake lithely sidestepped Larzdon’s sweeping hand. The movement was repeated. Oren thrusted. Frazier retreated far enough to avoid damage as his gaze flickered between the knife and his adversary. They reached the edge of the crowd, close enough for Hope to smell their sweat and to hear their ragged breaths. Her own was clogged somewhere in her throat, released in a gasp when Larzdon thrust again.
Luke’s arm tightened around her waist as he stepped back with those around him, dragging her at his side.
The Swede’s thrusts grew stronger, more confident with each swipe and retreat. He was playing with Drake, luring him toward a rock that would cause the gunslinger’s footing to stumble. Then he’d be on him in a second.
Hope had a vision of the last fight she’d witnessed. She strained against the hindrance of Luke’s arm as she lurched for the knife concealed in Drake’s boot. If he wouldn’t use it, she would!
As if sensing her intent, Drake stepped out of reach. Larzdon swung again, slicing a hole in the front of his opponent’s shirt. His sinister chuckle hissed through the air.
Hope balled her hands into fists. Her stupid, useless fists! If Drake Frazier died, his blood would be on her hands. The thou
ght was like a bucket of ice water splashing her face. With an insistent shove, she broke free of her brother’s arms—only to be caught by Old Joe as she tried to bolt.
“Let me go,” she demanded, lifting a foot and bringing it down hard on the old man’s toe. He grunted in pain, but his grip held firm. For a man of his size and stature, he was strong. “I have to help. Let me go!”
“Why?” Old Joe barked in her ear, shifting her weight to prevent her from treading on him again. “So’s you can get yerself killed too? Ha! Not a chance!”
A scream, hitch-pitched and eerily feminine, rippled over the hushed voices, stilling Hope in an instant. Her attention snapped to the combatants just as the sandy-haired woman collapsed into her husband’s arms.
A smile spread over Frazier’s face as he watched Larzdon’s cheeks drain of color. The Swede’s eyes were fixed on the long, curved steel of the bowie knife, and the hand that expertly wielded it. In comparison to the gunslinger’s skill, his own attempts to end the fight looked clumsy and awkward.
The advantage had shifted so silently and swiftly that Larzdon seemed at a loss as to how it had happened. One second he was toying with the gunman, confided of victory; the next he was forced into a position that would take every ounce of his ability to survive.
Drake advanced, his stance low to balance any sudden attack. The Swede retreated. Again. The third time, obviously sensing defeat, Larzdon made a last-ditch attempt at victory. He lashed out with his knife, forcing all his weight behind the thrust. His aim was directed at Drake’s heart. Hope gasped, straining against Old Joe’s grasp. She opened her mouth to scream as she saw the point of the knife whip treacherously close to Drake’s chest.
Drake’s reaction was quick. He moved out of range before the deadly weapon could do more than graze his left shoulder.
Drake’s aim was more accurate. As the Swede recovered from the failed attack, Drake made use of his own skills. Instead of lashing out with the blade, as Hope expected, he turned into a sidekick that smashed into Larzdons’s arm. The knife was knocked out of the Swede’s hand. It flew to the ground. Drake was sitting astride the other’s waist, with the razor-sharp blade of his bowie knife pressed threateningly against Larzdon’s throat before the Swede knew what hit him. Larzdon eyed his opponent carefully, then he raised his hands in defeat.
The fight was over. Hope’s heart pounded with relief as a roar of approval filtered through the crowd.
A few of the men drifted forward, pulling Drake off Larzdon’s stomach and patting him on the back. Another fetched the deserted knife from the dirt. Oren Larzsdon, red-faced with defeat, slowly moved away from the buoyant crowd, rejoining his none-too-happy friends. Hope quickly lost sight of him.
“He did it, Hope,” Luke cried gleefully, his eyes filled with childish merriment as he lifted his sister and swing her in the air. “Just like you said he would.”
“Put me down, Luke,” Hope giggled. Her spirits soared as she scanned the crowd. The peach-colored skirt billowed in rustling folds around her ankles as Luke set her back on her feet. “I can see who won. I do have eyes, you know.” At Luke’s pout, Hope grinned and softened her voice to a tone just above exasperation. Her palm cupped her brother’s cheek. “You’re just excited. I know.” Standing on tiptoe, she planted a kiss on his craggy forehead. “But could you please stop tossing me around like a sack of potatoes?”