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before it thudded onto the bottom of the sandy, rock-littered wash.
    Luke scrambled after the weapon, but before he could reach it McCluskey was on him again. He dropped his feet over Luke’s head, snaring him with the chain between the leg irons. Luke grabbed the chain just as McCluskey jerked his knees back, and his grip was all that prevented the iron links from crushing his windpipe.
    McCluskey dragged him over onto his back and tightened the stranglehold. At the same time, the outlaw picked up one of the rocks scattered around the bottom of the gully and swung it up, then brought it down toward Luke’s head.
    The rock was the size of two fists put together, and it would have crushed Luke’s skull like an eggshell if it had landed. Luke saw the blow coming just in time to jerk his head aside. The rock slammed into the ground a couple inches from his right ear.
    Luke let go of the chain and immediately started to gag as the pressure increased on his throat. He reached up and behind him with both hands and caught hold of McCluskey’s knee. From that angle he couldn’t exert as much strength as he would have liked, but he forced the joint in the wrong direction as best he could. It was enough to make McCluskey cry out in pain, and the grip on Luke’s neck eased.
    He twisted and shoved, and his head popped free of the hold McCluskey had had on him. He levered himself up on his left arm and buried his right fist in McCluskey’s midsection. McCluskey rolled onto his side, gasping for breath.
    Luke knew the feeling. His lungs were starved for air, but he couldn’t afford to take the time to catch his breath. He went after McCluskey, scrambling up and throwing punch after punch. He pounded the outlaw’s head from side to side. Blood splattered from McCluskey’s nose and mouth. He put up his hands, but he wasn’t fighting. He was pawing feebly in an attempt to block Luke’s punches and making little mewling sounds.
    Luke drove one last punch to McCluskey’s jaw. The outlaw’s eyes rolled up as he went limp. He was out cold.
    With his chest heaving, Luke pushed himself to his feet and stumbled back a couple steps so he could look around. He spotted both Remingtons and hurried to pick them up before McCluskey regained consciousness. When he had both guns in his hands and had backed off about a dozen feet to cover the prisoner, he finally had the chance to catch his breath and gather his strength.
    His throat ached from the chain. He growled as he thought about stomping McCluskey’s face in. He wasn’t the sort to kill a man in cold blood or even beat up an unconscious opponent, so he ignored the impulse and waited for the outlaw to come to, using the few minutes to regain breath and strength.
    The outlaw began to groan and twitch. Luke had seen the man regain consciousness before, so the sight was a familiar one.
    McCluskey blinked and gradually pushed himself up to a sitting position with his back against the side of the gully. “Damn you,” he said thickly through bloody, swollen lips. “That’s the second time you’ve knocked me out. It’s not gonna happen again.”
    â€œDamn right it’s not,” Luke rasped. “The next time you give me any trouble, I’m going to kill you, McCluskey. Consider that fair warning.”
    â€œBig talk.”
    â€œNot if I can back it up.” Luke motioned with the left-hand Remington. “Get up. You’re going to crawl back to the top.”
    â€œI can’t climb with these leg irons on!”
    â€œFigure out a way,” Luke told him coldly.
    McCluskey rolled over so that he was facing the slope. He had to pull himself up with his hands and push his body along with knees and toes. The wash was only about fifteen feet deep, but by the time McCluskey crawled out of it and collapsed on the ground, his hands were bloody and the knees of his trousers were shredded and had blood on