Craig Johnson - A Serpent's Tooth - A Walt Longmire Mystery

It was then that he charged from the rock and slammed into me with the additional force of having launched from above. It felt like someone was trying to beat me to death with a rock, hammering the side of my head and shoulder. I took the first two hits and then bull-rushed the man against the canyon wall as pieces of debris fell down on us from the triangular slabs that projected upward like miniature pyramids.

I felt the air go out of him and decided that short of just blowing his brains out, slamming him against the other side of the canyon wall might be an option, so I did.

Whatever air was left in his lungs from the first impact most certainly left his body in the next, but with a lucky swing the rock made better contact and I felt my neck muscles give way along with my knees as I fell forward.

Expecting the knife to begin carving at my guts any minute, I pushed off and up, swinging the .45 but missing him as he ducked. I fell backward, and he continued to pummel me with the rock as I rolled to the side, trying to protect my head and bring up my sidearm.

I felt the big Colt 1911, a mechanical device that had stood the test of time by remaining cutting edge for more than a hundred years, fly from my hand as the most primitive weapon from the eons slammed against my arm. I drove my hand after the thing, but the rock grazed the side of my face, and I decided I’d better deal with first things first.

As he lifted the rock for one last skull-crushing blow, I drew my waterlogged legs underneath me and thought about a high school line coach who had said, “I don’t care how big they are, boys; they can’t do anything if you get ’em up off the ground.” I pushed across the tiny channel and carried him out of the water against the rocks with as much force as I could muster, feeling not only the air go out from him but also the structural integrity of his rib cage give way.

I heard the softball-sized rock drop into the water as I held him and stood there, the weight of the two of us driving my boots into the deep sand at the edge of the creek. Breathing heavily, I wiped some of the blood from my face, pushed back, and looked at him still hanging slightly above me.

Lockhart.

He was breathing in sync with the popping sounds in his chest and the soft gurgle of his exhale.

I sank a little deeper and wasn’t sure what to do with him before we both disappeared underneath the cloudy water. I reached behind him and unrolled the tucked hood of his tactical jacket, reversed the thing, and hung it over the top of the rock, effectively hanging him up like a side of beef.

I snapped the buttons on the front of the jacket so that he wouldn’t slip out and drown in the three feet of water. “This time”—I gasped, trying to catch at least part of my breath—“you don’t walk.”

I started pulling one of my legs from the muck, lost my balance, and reached across to the other side with one hand, at least giving myself a fighting chance of working the boot free. Turned as I was, I could feel my left foot coming loose with a sickening vacuum. I eased it back down in order to attempt to lift the boot with my toe. I figured that if Bidarte got out of the other side of the canyon he would be on foot—a trail I would only be able to follow if I had shoes.

The boot came loose slowly, and I lifted it clear and took a step further down the creek to where my .45 had fallen into the water. Careful to not overstep, I searched the bottom with my hands, running them along the smooth surface of the sand, but feeling nothing. I worked my way forward, my face only inches from the surface of the water as my teeth began to chatter. I bit down hard in response, figuring I still had a ways to go and that the nearest weapon, other than the rock, was my own.

My hand brushed against something, and I pulled it out of the mud.

Lockhart’s tactical boot.

At least I wasn’t the only one.

I tossed it behind me, took another step forward, and became aware that there was more light on the surface of the water in front of me. Raising my head and wiping some more of the blood away, I could see that the canyon had opened into a small, rectangular pool.

And someone was standing in that pool of water and light.

Backlit as he was, I could see the outline of his hat and the drape of his leather jacket as his lean body turned slightly to the side, like a snake, relaxed but ready to strike; his left arm dropped down along his side, curved like a long fang.

The water reflected like some alternative universe, and I watched as he planted a leg forward, maybe twenty feet away: perfect throwing distance. “Sheriff.”

With my chin only a few inches from the surface, I watched the water drip from the brim of my hat. I tried to think of a more compromising position but couldn’t come up with one.

He didn’t move. “You are looking for something?”

I lied, since it was the only option open to me. “I think I might’ve found it.”

He adjusted his head, and I was sure he was looking at Lockhart, still hanging from the rock but now making a few noises. “I heard the sound of the fight and thought I would come back to see who had won.”

“Pick off the winner?”

“Señor Lockhart is in possession of some information that I might not like to be made public.”

I continued to breathe heavily. “Like Dale Tisdale?”

He waited a moment and then moved his leg to indicate the water, the eddies of his movement rippling across the surface and lapping against me. “As I recall, your weapon is one of those old .45s.”

Trying not to move my hands but desperate to feel steel somewhere, I stretched my fingers out underneath the surface. “Yep.”

“My experience with ancient firearms is limited, but I think they still fire, even if submerged.”

I stretched my fingers a little more and thought I felt something at the farthest reach of the third finger of my right hand. “I’ve heard that, too.”

“But it also might blow up in your face.”

I nudged my fingers a little and could feel the trigger guard as I carefully pulled it toward me. “It might.”

“Or you could miss.”

Gently turning it, I could feel the grip in my fingers. “I could.”

“It will most certainly jam, so you will only get one chance.” He gestured ever so slightly with his back arm, and I could hear the lethal click of the foot-long stiletto opening. “Whereas I am armed and ready.”

Lifting gently, I slipped my finger in the trigger of the cocked and locked weapon. “I figured.”

“Sometimes the knife is better.”

“Maybe.” I thumbed the safety on the submerged Colt. “But you could miss.”

He laughed softly. “I could, and you would not be the first to bet his life on that.” He still didn’t move and, except for the voice, he might’ve just melted like the reflections and disappeared into the night. “I don’t want to kill you, Sheriff, but I will not return to prison.”

“Ours are a lot nicer than yours.”

He laughed again.

“Color TV and Ping-Pong tables; with your hand-eye coordination, you could be a champion in no time.”

“As appealing as that might be, I think I will pass.”

I had the Colt in my hand now, safety off and ready for fire—but would it? When I brought the thing up, it would still be filled with water or plugged up with mud and would most likely blow up in my face, not shoot his. My choices were to fire it and take what happened, or throw the thing at him in hopes that it might upset his aim. I was battered and bloody, but I still liked my chances in hand-to-hand, especially if he’d already thrown the knife.

Eyes. Throat. With the weight of my horsehide jacket, I figured his targets were limited, but . . .