At that, the bikers roared with laughter.
“Black dust, but the wrinklie’s got balls!” Cranston smiled, then his eyes went as hard as broken glass. “Well, we got enough to spare one for some entertainment. Okay, slave, if you win, you take the place of the stud ya chill. Never have enough men with real guts.”
“And if I lose?” the old man asked, standing straighter.
The rest of the prisoners stayed motionless and silent. Their doom was sealed; this madness had nothing to do with them.
Hooking both thumbs into his leather gun belt, Krury sneered. “Then we deliver ya to the cannies alive,” he said in an edged voice. “They got a ceremony called the Blood Dance. Starts with taking off your skin and feeding it back to ya. Something about sweetening their food.”
“Then they get creative,” another biker added, rubbing his crotch. “And guess what ya eat next?”
The old man swallowed with difficulty, but said nothing.
“Still game, old man?” Cranston demanded, resting a hand on his blaster.
A stiff breeze from the stormy clouds overhead ruffled the prisoner’s gray hair as he nervously flexed both hands.
“The name’s Denver Joe,” he said softly. “Denver Joe Sinclair, although I’m really from Indy.” For some reason this seemed to be important to the old man, a source of pride.
“Be smart, old-timer!” Another biker laughed. The man had long dirty red hair tied off in a ponytail that reached his waist. “Choose the mines and live. Anything’s better than being a toy for the cannies.”
One of the women prisoners burst into tears at that, and the others merely trembled. A man on the end of the line looked as if he were about to be sick.
“Yeah, I should work in the mines,” Denver Joe shot back. “But then a gutless feeb like you would suck scabbies in a gaudy house to stay alive. I’ll go down fighting, ya mutie lover!”
Vastly amused by the unexpected display of rebellion, the bikers laughed even louder this time. With a snarl, the redheaded rider started forward, drawing a hatchet from his belt, but Cranston stopped the man with a stiff arm across the chest. The two stood there for a moment, like a breed master holding back his prize bloodhound.
“Whatcha think, Larry?” Cranston said, glancing at the skinny old man and then the muscular biker. “You missed twice with your net and killed a slut we could have ridden tonight. I think you owe the pack some entertainment.”
“Anytime,” the biker snarled.
“Winner take all?” Denver Joe added as insultingly as possible. “My life against your place in the gang?”
“Done!” Larry growled, starting to strip off his leather jacket and spare weapons. Kneeling as if in prayer, the old man took some dirt and rubbed it into his palms.
Cranston narrowed his eyes at that. Dirt in the palms was a fighter’s trick from the arena of a baron. A person did that so the sweat wouldn’t make him drop his knife. But the wrinklie didn’t have a blade. Was this some sort of trick, or worse, a trap? It almost seemed as if the whitehair was trying to goad the biker into a fight right then and there. But that made no sense. Larry was twice the old man’s size, and there wasn’t a chance in hell the outlander could win. Gut instincts learned in a hundred battles told the chief biker there was something very wrong here, but he couldn’t figure out where the danger was. No sense taking chances, though.
“Not here,” Cranston announced loudly. “We’ll drive to the mesa near Death River, and you two can fight after we eat tonight.”
“Gonna chill him now!” Larry snarled, his face contorted with hatred, and he charged at the helpless old man.
With surprising agility, Denver Joe dodged out of the way of the lumbering biker, then held his bound wrists toward Krury. Face-to-face, the two men stood for a long moment, then the biker pulled a blade and slashed the ropes around the old man’s hands. Now free, Denver Joe brutally kicked the biker in the balls and grabbed the knife from his limp hands just in time to block another slash from Larry. The two men circled each other, looking for an opening to end the fight fast. The oily knives gleaming evilly in the setting sunlight, the fighters darted in slashing, then moved apart again, while the watching bikers cheered and laughed. Mute as forgotten stones, the helpless slaves said nothing under the watchful blasters of the remaining coldhearts.
Diving forward, Denver Joe stabbed at the biker’s face, driving him backward. But Larry shifted to the side and speared his knife into the older man’s thigh. Blood welled from the wound, and Denver Joe cursed loudly as he grabbed the wound, trying to staunch the blood flow. One inch more inward, and the blade would have cut the big artery in his leg. He had to move faster and end this quick.
The bikers cheered as Larry danced in closer and stabbed Denver Joe again in the leg, and then the side, the smaller blade of the oldster only cutting air as he tried again and again for a death blow to the throat.
But the blood loss was starting to slow his hand, his breathing becoming more labored. Backing away from the younger fighter, Denver Joe headed for some weeds and was soon splashing in ankle-deep water. Then he dramatically slipped and fell into the shallow creek. Grinning in triumph, Larry charged in for the kill and Denver Joe threw a fistful of mud at the biker’s face. Larry easily sidestepped the gob and went straight into a tangle of weeds. Tricked! As he tripped, the biker threw himself forward to avoid going down, and Denver Joe rose to rake his knife deep along the exposed neck of the fumbling man. Now the cheers and laughter of the biker gang stopped completely.
Blood spurted from the severed artery, and the hapless biker dropped his knife to grab the ghastly wound in both hands. But tiny squirts of red continued to pump from between his dirty fingers. Denver Joe shifted about in the muddy water, seeking another opening as his adversary mouthed curses and removed a hand from his gore-streaked throat to pull a small blaster hidden inside his shirt.
“Here’s something for ya, wrinklie!” he stormed, thumbing back the hammer.
Moving fast, Denver Joe threw the stolen knife as hard as he could and it slammed deep into the biker’s wrist, pinning his hand to his chest. Fingers convulsing, Larry accidentally triggered the blaster and the rear of his shirt ballooned as the .22 slug blew out his side.
Cranston inhaled sharply at that, and started to draw his own weapon, then paused. Larry could still win this. It was only a flash wound, nothing more, and Denver Joe was defenseless. Just pull out the knife and shoot him dead. Do it, boy!
Blood was swirling in the muddy water, as a pale Larry pulled the hand free and fired twice at the older man, missing each time. Diving into the mud, Denver Joe rolled closer to the biker and incredibly came up with the earlier dropped knife to ram it to the hilt in Larry’s crotch. A geyser of blood pumped from the hideous wound, and the biker screeched as his adversary slowly stood, using the strength of his legs and arms to force the blade upward through balls and stomach. As Larry started to convulse, Denver Joe grabbed a fistful of hair to yank back the dying man’s head and then cut the exposed throat open from ear to ear.
Gurgling horribly, Larry fell face forward into the filth of the creek to weakly shudder before going completely still, only a few small bubbles of escaping air rising from his buried face.
Breathing hard, Denver Joe waded to the shore of the water hole and tossed the crimson-splattered blade on the ground before the stunned bikers. Dead silence reigned for an impossibly long time before somebody spoke.
“Black dust, ya did it,” a burly biker snarled in amusement. “Cut Larry open like a hog.”
Rubbing an old scar, Krury added, “Never seen that done to a man before.”
“He was a punk,” Denver Joe wheezed, his clothing trickling red from the minor wounds. He was still at the mercy of the coldhearts, and lived or died at their whim. Killing Larry hadn’t been enough.