Free Bone Key by Les Standiford

and clutched his gut in pain. It was exactly what the deputy had in mind, Deal saw, as the beefy man steadied himself for a mighty swing at the kid’s unprotected head.
    It was a blow that might have killed him, but at the last instant the kid managed to duck away, and the tip of the heavy club slammed into sheet metal instead of bone. There was a splintering sound and the business end of the riot stick sheared from its handle. It rebounded across the asphalt, an ebony fragment spinning across Deal’s path like some angry creature from a dream.
    If the deputy was aware of their approach, he was far past caring, Deal saw. The big man, his neck glowing red now, tossed the useless stem of the riot stick aside and, with his hands braced at the Pinto’s roof, began to kick the kid, who was wedged up against the car at his feet, each blow measured, each brutal enough to be deadly. Whatever the kid had said, done, held, snorted, or sold, it didn’t matter, Deal thought. A few minutes ago, all the kid had wanted to do was sell him some phony gold. Now, there was a sheriff’s deputy who’d come along to kill him, here at the side of the road.
    Meantime, the kid had gone limp. Maybe he was unconscious, or maybe he’d simply given up, Deal thought as he ran. The deputy had zeroed in on the kid’s head again, his heavy boot drawn back for the
coup de grâce
.
    “Stop,” Deal cried, but the deputy seemed not to have heard. He was about to drive the toe of his boot into the kid’s temple when Russell Straight arrived, just ahead of Deal, driving his shoulder squarely into the deputy’s kidneys.
    The deputy’s breath left him in a gasp, and he went down face forward against the rear passenger glass of the Pinto. He bounced backward like he was made of rubber, a white star blossomed now on the shattered glass.
    Russell, too enraged to hold anything back during his charge, glanced off the deputy’s backside and hit the rear quarter panel of the Pinto headfirst, right behind the gas tank door. The sheet metal buckled inward with a pop, and Russell staggered backward, his eyes as glassy as a bull popped in the skull at a slaughterhouse. He tottered for a moment, then sank to the ground in a sitting position, a trickle of blood draining from one nostril. He was perched on the safety line at the verge of the asphalt road, his legs splayed, his hands dangling at his lap, his eyes sightless, and for a moment Deal wondered if he might have snapped his neck.
    The deputy was bleary-eyed himself, but still functioning. He was on his hands and knees, the top of his close-cut scalp glowing pink as he scrabbled for his holstered firearm.
    He’d managed to pull his weapon free and was swinging it toward Russell when Deal reached him, kicking with everything he had toward the deputy’s outstretched hand. Deal felt small bones give as the toe of his running shoe met the back of the deputy’s hand. There was a blast from the pistol as it flew free, and a cry that Deal realized came from the deputy’s throat.
    He felt arms encircle his legs, and in the next instant he was going down, his breath leaving him as he bounced heavily off the asphalt. He lay motionless for a second or two, his nose an inch from the bottoms of Russell’s running shoes. He heard sirens wailing from somewhere and realized that the deputy had probably called for backup before he’d confronted the Pinto’s driver.
    Deal wanted to believe it was the cavalry on the way to a rescue, but reminded himself that he was one of the Indians right now. He smelled a mixture of oil and tar and dust, and sensed an acrid taste in his mouth that was probably blood. For an instant he wondered if he’d been shot, but as breath began to pulse back into him, he discounted the thought. He’d bitten his tongue as he fell, that was all.
    He felt a hand slam against his back, snatching a wad of his T-shirt into a ball. A powerful punch landed at his kidneys, another at his ribs. The deputy