Free Texas Drive by Bill Dugan Page B

latest intersection, one of many, each as meaningless as the others, or as meaningful. It all depended on how you wanted to look at it. And what paralyzed Ted Cotton was not knowing. What the hell was he supposed to do? What should he think?
    He lay there, stunned by the depth of his confusion. And the silence saved his life.
    The whisper of leather on stone, so soft he would have missed it if he had been breathing normally,made him turn. The Comanche stared at him for a second, then leapt. Ted rolled aside, and the Indian landed heavily, just to his right. The charge carried the Indian to the edge of the rim-rock, and the slippery sand prevented him from stopping.
    The Comanche shouted and Ted turned as he started to go over the edge. Instinctively, Ted grabbed for him, catching the Indian by one knee-length moccasin. The Indian pitched over the edge and Ted braced himself for the shock. He arrested the fall, but the Comanche was already out of sight. The soft leather felt smooth under Ted’s fingers, the brave’s weight ripped at his shoulder socket.
    Wrapping his legs around a rock, Ted squeezed with his thighs and crooked both knees to lock them in place. Rolling partway over, he was able to get his free hand on the same ankle. He ignored the searing pain in his shoulder and reached out over the edge, groping for something to grab onto, shifting his grip and latching onto the Comanche’s leather leggings.
    The Indian squirmed as Ted inched forward. Almost close enough to the edge to look over the rim, he gritted his teeth. Hauling on the leg like a fisherman, he scissored his legs, dragging himself back a few inches. It grew quiet. His elbows scraped the rock, sand whispering between stone and bone as he dragged the Comanche back.
    The brave’s left leg swung up and over the rim, and. Ted pulled harder. The pressure eased a bit, and he realized the Comanche was pushing away from the rock face with his arms in some bizarre push-up. The Indian’s hips were almost level with the ledge now. It made pulling easier. Under the soft leather, Ted could feel the hard muscle and the harder bone beneath it.
    “Hold on,” he shouted, not even sure the Indian spoke English. He felt silly, but didn’t know what else to do. “Stay still. I’m going to change my grip.”
    The Comanche seemed to understand. He lay quiet, and Ted squeezed harder with his right hand, digging his fingers into the legging and curling them. Reaching out as far as he could with the left hand, he latched onto another fistful of leather and pulled. The Comanche’s hips scraped toward him, and he could see the man’s head now, swiveled to the right.
    The black eyes staring at him over the red man’s shoulder seemed confused. Terror was there, but it was mixed with something else, some lack of understanding, as if wondering why this white man hadn’t let him go. Was it only to preserve him for some other form of death? The thought flashed through Ted’s mind like a meteor, that this man, whose life he held, literally, in his hands, might have been the one who drove the lance into Jack Wilkins. Maybe it was his knife that had skinned Jack’s skull.
    For a second, he thought he should let go, let gravity avenge Wilkins. It wouldn’t, after all, be his fault if the Comanche couldn’t fly. The Indian seemed to sense his thinking, and for a moment, the confusion in the black eyes was gone. There was nothing there but terror, terror that turned to an icy calm. Then that, too, was gone, and there was hatred for an instant, pure unadulterated hatred, and then nothing. The black eyes were suddenly empty. Just blackness, deeper than anything Ted had ever seen.
    And he held on.
    Straining with every muscle, Ted hauled the Comanche back several inches, then stopped to catch his breath. He dug his teeth into his lower lip and pulled again, far enough for the Indian to raise up on his knees. Ted lay there panting. For the first time, he realized his shoulder hurt