The following is an excerpt from Osage Fire


They came together in the center of the clearing, panting hard as they fought. MacLeod sensed something coming toward him, and blocked the tomahawk as it came down in an overhead swing at his head. MacLeod countered by slashing upward with his knife.

Cold steel ripped into the Indian's belly. MacLeod felt the first resistance, the desperate, surprised hardening to try and keep the knife out. Then, as the blade dove into soft flesh, the man's stomach muscles surrendered. A gush of warm blood covered MacLeod's hand as he withdrew the knife.

The man slumped against him. MacLeod could smell the cloying odor of blood and sweat between them. The Indian's breath came out in a sharp gasp of pain, and then changed to a long sigh as his knife and tomahawk dropped from nerveless fingers. The Indian muttered something in a gurgling breath, but the words were never finished.
Clutching each other like lovers in the dark, MacLeod could feel the life go out of the man, felt it when he gave it up. The Indian slipped limply to the ground at his feet.

Trying to quiet his ragged breathing, MacLeod stepped away from the fallen man. Feeling his blanket with his feet, he picked it up and wrapped it around his shoulders. Holding his left arm against the wound in his side, he settled down to wait. MacLeod was sure the Indian was dead, but only a damn fool fiddles with a wounded Indian in the dark.