Longarm and the Horse Thief's Daughter by Tabor Evans Page A

somewhere close ahead, waiting there to kill him with his bare hands.
    Longarm spotted a shard of rock on the floor. It was long and thin, roughly the size and shape of a spike. Or a dagger.
    He lay the piece of wood down and picked up the sliver of stone.
    It occurred to him—too late—that he should have counted the number of hammers back there where the workmen were resting. Two teams of cutters? Probably. So there should have been two hammers in addition to two chisels. He had passed right on by without paying attention to the tools the men had with them that he might have made use of. A fatal mistake? It could have been.
    There was no time to worry about that now. He had the stone knife. Henry might have . . . almost anything. Anything other than a firearm, that is.
    Longarm craned his neck to look at the ceiling. It seemed solid to him, but the miners knew their trade far better than he ever would. If they said the rock was rotten and could come crashing down with the concussion from a gunshot, he was inclined to believe them.
    Henry would know that too and would not risk death in a cave-in by trying to sneak a gun past the others.
    When he attacked—if Longarm could find him—the man would come with anything at hand, rocks or knives or clubs . . . anything.
    The adit Longarm was in opened up into a chamber where a large amount of ore had been removed from a concentrated area. He was able to almost, not quite but almost, stand erect in it. The change was a relief to his aching back.
    He stood there for a moment, back arched, his lamp playing a cone of yellow light onto the ceiling.
    He heard something. A faint skittering on the rock floor.
    He looked down again—barely in time to see the big thief from the day before charging for his throat.
    The man held a chunk of rock in his fist.
    A rock bludgeon against a stone knife. Their combat had come down to Stone Age weapons in a modern-age fight to the death.
    Longarm braced himself for the onslaught and involuntarily let out a low-pitched war cry as his enemy closed with him.

Chapter 23
    The fight was swift and brutal, over in almost an instant. The big man swung his heavy rock at Longarm’s head, intending to crush Longarm’s skull with one hard swing.
    Instead of pulling back, which Henry anticipated, Longarm drove forward, dropping underneath that roundhouse swing and jabbing Henry in the gut with his sharp, pointed shard of stone.
    The stone knife was wrenched out of his hand when Henry turned, grunting loudly.
    Longarm was so close that he could smell garlic heavy on the big man’s breath.
    When Henry pulled his bludgeon back, he grazed Longarm’s ear and knocked Longarm’s head lamp completely off, sending the carbide lamp tumbling to the floor, where it gave off a ghostly light.
    Longarm grappled with the bastard.
    Henry’s hands groped for Longarm’s throat, but Longarm clenched his hands together and drove them upward, knocking Henry’s hands away.
    Longarm pummeled Henry in the face and throat, drawing blood and a roar of rage.
    Henry succeeded in grasping Longarm by the throat. He squeezed. Longarm could feel his consciousness fading. His vision turned red and blurred.
    He knew if he did not break the hold soon he would die. He managed to get a grip on Henry’s little finger. He pulled. Hard. He heard the distinctive crack of a bone breaking, and Henry let out another roar.
    More to the point, his grip on Longarm’s throat loosened a little.
    Longarm shifted his grip from the broken finger to Henry’s wrist. He twisted and pulled, ripping that hand away from his throat so he could grab the other wrist with both hands. He twisted, forcing Henry’s hand away from his throat and down.
    Longarm elbowed the man in the face. He felt cartilage snap. Felt the hot rush of blood flooding over him.
    Henry cried out again but not so strongly this time. The big man seemed to weaken. He