Oh, what an idiot. you're baring your neck to the headsman's block. You deserve to die with ignominy, you stumbling, sightless fool! To think I credited you with respect when you're as blind as all the rest. Die, cretin. Die, Jared Rington. Rink was there, no more than an arm's length from him. The big lummox's nerves were strung taut, shredded, fraying under the pressure. His head swung from side to side. He didn't know which way to look. Because of that, he didn't look anywhere. He saw everything, but in doing so, he saw nothing. His mind was so full of stimuli that it was unable to process what was right before his eyes. And that was all Cain required. He would use Rink's blindness to his advantage. He timed the rhythm of Rink's movements, watched and discerned the momentary gap where the eyes swung a fraction of an instant before the barrel of the gun followed. Into that fraction of space, Cain would insert himself. Before Rink could make any sense of his appearance, it would already be too late. A-one and a-two and a-… now. From within the shroud of blankets that was the body of the bison-skulled monstrosity to Rink's left, Cain erupted. He made as little sound as possible, and didn't so much leap out as jut forward from his waist, arm streaking down at the juncture of Rink's neck and shoulder. It was a guaranteed instant kill. The point of his blade jabbing down to puncture the heart from above. Rington would die instantly, drop like a slaughtered steer. No shout of warning to Joe Hunter.
Except Rink wasn't as blind as he looked.
He detected the shifting shadows and he jerked away. The blade still slid into flesh, but instead of finding that pinpoint where the blade could be forced down into the heart, it found resistance in the form of his sturdy clavicle. The metal scoured bone, but it was deflected away from the vitals and into the pectoral muscle.
"Sumbitch!" Rink grunted, his gun coming around. He?red in an arc, not waiting for the target to present itself before jerking on the trigger. Three times he?red. Two bullets cut chips from the rocks, one snatched at the blanket swathing Cain's form. Then Cain's knee thumped against his forearm, halting the gun, and the knife once more cut a swathe through the night. Rink staggered back, blood from his sliced forehead invading his vision.
Move, move, move. A mantra for both men.
Even as Cain extricated himself from his hiding place, Rink was?ring again. Blind, but with determination. One bullet scoured Cain's left thigh, another plucked hair from his head. But then Cain was out of the line of?re and he cut again at Rink.
Sliced to the bone, Rink kicked back. His foot caught Cain in the gut, propelled him backward. Cain was too canny a?ghter to be caught so easily. Instead of?oundering for balance, Cain allowed his momentum to take him over in a roll that brought him back immediately to his feet. And in that instant he was already coming back at Rink. Rink was big, powerful beneath his clothing, trained to deal with dangerous foes, but unprepared for one as determined as Tubal Cain, Father of Cutting Instruments. The Harvestman.
Rink shot again. But the bullet passed through space that Cain had occupied a second before. He was already two paces to the left. As Rink swung toward him, he arced his blade under the barrel of the gun. The pinching of Rink's eyes showed Cain he'd cut him. Then Cain gained the space below Rink's armpit, squirmed under and behind the big man, and looped his free arm around his throat. He jerked backward, sliced at the throat.
Rink grabbed at his knife, but Cain heard the telltale groan of someone in pain. Cain released him, kicked him away. Rink staggered and his head banged off the rock wall. Pivoting, he fell?at on his face. Blood mingled with the chalk-white sand.
Finally, Cain gave voice.
But all he had to say was "Ha!"
He stepped forward. Rink didn't get up. Cain smiled. Leaned down and plucked the gun out of Rink's grasp. Distantly, he caught the sound of someone calling his name. He turned quickly, heading into the narrow passage.