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his attention focused on his opponent's eyes. The knife itself would just be a distraction.
    He saw Flick’s eyes narrow just before the next strike, the knife reversed and coming down from over the man's shoulder. Rick stepped in, crossing his hands to block and then grab the wrist. He covered his moves by stumbling forward, trying to make it look like a clumsy mistake. He jerked Flick's arm, guided the knife past his torso on the right side, and pulled forward and down. Flick was pulled over his balance point and fell to the floor, flipping over on his back.
    As soon as he came around, Rick landed on top of him with both knees—trying to drive his breath out. Flick was strong enough to prevent that and began to bring the knife over for a strike to Rick’s back. Moving as fast as he could, Rick caught Flick’s wrist when it was still outstretched. They were almost motionless as both locked their legs to gain leverage as they strained to control the knife. Rick was pressed so close that all he could see was the tattoo of a buffalo and a box-like group of small black scars on Flick's upper arm.
    In one of those rare, still moments he'd found in the middle of chaos, he admired the artistry of the buffalo tattoo, eyes, horns and even the tangled mane picked out in shades of brown. While this was going through his mind, he had gained the leverage he needed and was banging Flick's knife hand on the wooden floor.
    Suddenly, Rick felt something hard poke his waist, and a male voice said, "OK, we’ve all enjoyed this but it’s time to leave. Don't fucking move or I'll blow your nuts off."
    Rick froze and—inches away—saw a smile growing on Flick's face. Very slowly, Rick released his grip and looked back. It appeared that he'd guessed wrong. One of the two men he’d thought would run away was holding a small revolver on him.
    Irrationally, Rick thought it should have been a long barrel Colt like in movie westerns, but this was just a Smith and Wesson. He figured it wouldn't be very accurate with that short barrel. Then again, it didn't need to be exceptionally accurate when it was inches from his belt.
    "Now, that's not fair." Rick stood up and raised his hands. "This was supposed to be a knife fight."
    "You know there ain't no rules in a knife fight."
    "You watched that movie, too?" Rick smiled. "Wasn't Newman great?"
    The gunman in front of him said dryly, "Yup," and smashed his knee into Rick's crotch.
    Rick felt fireworks explode in his head, his stomach twisted in a violent attempt to escape, and he crumpled to the ground, conscious but not terribly interested in the rest of the world.

CHAPTER 6
April 26, 1973, Wounded Knee, South Dakota
    Rick felt as if wires were blasting raw electricity through his whole body. He found it fascinating that, although his body had taken far worse punishment, the systemic shock of a good kick to the balls—while never fatal—was still something you couldn't just shake off.
    He didn't think that there were any simple ways to escape the general store and figured that he couldn’t really improve his situation inside without killing someone. Consequently, he was willing to be dragged along after Flick by the two men who had held back in the doorway. Henry was left in the store, sobbing and trying to keep his knee from moving.
    Eve was nowhere to be seen. For a second, Rick felt the virtuous glow of self-sacrifice before he admitted that keeping her at liberty significantly raised his chances of getting out of this alive and so was a lot more self-serving than self-sacrificing. Flick noticed her absence as well and growled at the two men who were supposed to be guarding the door but they just shrugged.
    "Never mind her," Flick said. "Paleface here is number one priority. We can always pick the girl up later—maybe have some fun with her. Just don’t lose this guy too." Then Flick headed deeper into Wounded Knee; the other two each grabbed one of Rick’s arms and followed.
    Dusk had