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arm. Nothing serious.
    Chanting voices of the warriors hiding in the shadows blended with the songs of warblers and screech owls, the cooling night air filling with an eerie choir. On their knees, they pounded the ground with rocks, stones, a tree limb, their bare hands, anything, creating a rhythmic beat, strong, repetitive, and loud.
    Blood and sweat ran down Hughes’s forehead, stinging his eyes, a deep gash above his left brow full of grit and dirt. He lunged at Quanah, knocking him off his feet. Then flinging himself on the Indian, he pinned him to the ground.  
    In the dirt they rolled, locked in a death duel, panting, grunting, each man fighting for his life, Hughes on top one minute, Quanah the next. Then, on their feet, throwing punches, landing blows, an elbow to the side, a fist to the chin. Pulling, kicking, clawing, they fought like animals.
    Quanah brought a knee up, swift and hard, to Hughes’s groin. Hughes stumbled sideways, trying to stay on his feet, to keep breathing through the gut-wrenching pain. Doubled over at the waist, he saw the Indian diving toward him, tomahawk raised.  
    Hughes swung upward with his knife, butt end of the handle first. It struck against Quanah’s temple, knocking the man to his knees. With a quickness, Hughes struck again, this time to the other side of the head, and Quanah fell sideways, unconscious, tomahawk slipping from his fingers, dropping to the rocky ground.
    Removing his belt, Hughes cinched Quanah’s wrists, binding his hands tight behind his back. He then rolled Quanah over, face up. “Quanah Parker, chief of the Noconis. You don’t look like much more than a napping baby. Except for the blood covering your face. And the war paint .”
    Hughes walked over to where his saddle lay next to his guns and removed his canteen, taking long gulps of water, still panting, trying to catch his breath. He went back to Quanah and straddled him, knelt down with knees either side of his waist, and poured water onto the Indian’s face. He tossed the canteen aside and waited. “I’ll be the first thing you see when you come to.”
    Coughing, sputtering, Quanah opened his eyes, seeing Hughes on his knees straddling him, arms upraised, both fists gripping the knife, ready to land the final blow. “Waya Agatoli,” he said, his voice choked and harsh. “Wolf Eyes. You fight like a warrior.”  
    “I am a warrior. You fought an honorable fight, Chief. But you lost.”
    “Yes. I lost. You can now release my spirit to the moon, who still smiles on you.” Quanah called out to his warrior who held his horse. “Honor my words. Send Wolf Eyes to ride away into the land of no harm. My horse now belongs to him.” He looked at Hughes and said, “Our spirits will fight again in the secret world of the dead. I will not let you win the next fight.” He smiled. “Go ahead now. I am ready.”
    Hughes lifted his arms higher, tightening his grip on the knife. With a force that took all of his breath, he plunged the knife down as hard as he could into the ground, inches from Quanah’s left ear.
    Unflinching, unblinking, unsmiling, Quanah’s eyes remained focused on the stars.  
    “Maybe I’d rather fight you again in this world of the living, on a day when I’m in the mood to throw a few punches. An honorable opponent is hard to come by these days.” Hughes removed his knife that was hilt-deep in the stony ground. “Thanks for the use of your horse. You can come steal him back next time you’re in San Antone.”
    “If I had won, I would not have let you live. Man Who Sees With Wolf Eyes must be a little loco .”
    “There’re worse things in life than being a little loco , like being a lot dead.” Hughes strapped on his guns, threw his saddle onto the back of Quanah’s horse, and before mounting said, “I think I’ll keep this as a souvenir of our fight.” He picked up Quanah’s tomahawk, lashing it to his saddle. “You can keep my belt that’s around your wrists as