Date: Sun, 23 Oct 1994 00:03:53 -0400 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: The Hunter and the Hunted (p 1-6) c 1994 N. L. Cleveland Reno Raines pushed his hair back, shoving the long damp blonde strands away from his face and neck, wiping the sweat from his brow with the already sodden black and white bandana crumpled in his hand. He tasted the salt caked on his lips, and licked them reflexively. His canteen had been emptied hours ago. His gun was slick with sweat, the metal hot to the touch, even in the shade. Would this heat never let up? Dust devils danced in the dry cracked dirt of the farmyard. At least in the thin slice he could see, from his vantage point, watching the yard and the door. Dustdevils were the only motion here. Had been for hours. Arizona in July was not his idea of a vacation wonderland, no matter what all the local license plates said. He just wanted to get this over with, and get out. Alaska sounded good right now. There must be plenty of bail jumpers up there. Maybe he'd talk to Bobby about it, after he finished this collar. He shifted his position, trying to relax his shoulders and ease the cramp that was working its way up his back. He felt the rough denim of his shirt scraping on the jagged wood. He didn't have much room to work with, here behind the falling down walls of the abandoned chicken coop. There were almost as many holes as wall. And he didn't want to be seen. Not just yet. He glanced cautiously over his shoulder. His bike was still securely hidden, behind the rickety outhouse, past the collapsed ruins of the barn. The sunbleached gray wood shimmered in the heat, the sharp splintered angles of the boards waving and flowing like a sinuous silver sea, before his heat dazed eyes. Another trickle of sweat worked its way down his forehead, stinging into his eyes. He blinked and rubbed at the irritation, then blinked again as his body stiffened into a hunter's crouch. Motion, at last. A hint of dust blew across his vision, and a man on horseback followed, his shirt and jeans and boots caked with the ever present gray dust. There had been no sound of jangling bit or stirrups to warn him. Reno blinked again and focused. The rider had no saddle, no stirrups, no bridle, just a twist of rope across the horse's nose to control it. So Joe Half-Elk had gone into the hills to hide. His informant at the bar had been correct. And now he was here. For some mysterious rendezvous. A rendezvous that would never take place, now. He held himself still, hardly breathing the hot, flat air as he waited for Half-Elk to dismount. He didn't want to shoot the horse, or run it into the ground, unless he absolutely had to. Dumb beast never a had a choice. The man sliding off its back had. Had made those choices, had decided to kill a woman in a drunken brawl, and then had decided to half-kill a Deputy Marshall sent to arrest him, before escaping into the hills. Reno was here to bring him back. Not bring him to justice, that was the law's job. Just bring him back, and pick up the reward along with the man. That was his job. He was a bounty hunter. Not something he was terribly proud of, sometimes. But it was the closest he could be now to what he had been, once. The bitter memories twisted in his soul. He'd been a cop. A good one. But on the lam, a fugitive from the law now. Framed for the murder of a crooked cop he had been sent undercover to expose, his fiancee shot dead in his arms in a hit meant for him, instead. Convicted on perjured testimony, and now an escapee from a federal prison, being hunted by the very man he had been supposed to bring to justice....His life shattered. All he believed in destroyed. He pushed aside the past...there was nothing he could do about it now.. and concentrated again on the yard in front of him. The horse stood obediently, its rope halter trailing lightly on the ground, the animal fixed to the spot as if a boulder were attached to the other end. Half-Elk had trained the animal well. Odd. This didn't fit the pattern of a man who killed on impulse. He leaned forward, straining to see where Half-Elk had gone. The skin on the back of his neck prickled and he whirled, too late...There had been no sound. No hint.... He glimpsed the flashing metal in the man's hand, and fired, twice, at point blank range, unable to believe he had missed....the blow came almost instantaneously, his ears were ringing and his vision was clouded as he shook his head, trying to think, trying to focus. He rolled, kicking out instinctively at the half-seen man shape, hitting air, and wood. A dark shadow moved across his eyes and he was choking, gasping for air and struggling to breathe, an iron band across his throat. He noted his body struggling, distantly, as if it were someone else's. The skin on his scalp burned with the pain as his head was yanked roughly back, Half-Elk's fist twisted in his hair. He looked up, into the angry, contorted face. A flash of terror twisted his guts and he wondered if this would be the last sight he would ever see. Not here, not now. He arched his back, fighting to be free. "You're the wrong one!" The words floated across the top of his mind, as he slowly made sense of them. He still couldn't breathe, and dark patterns were creeping around the edges of his sight, sound was fading from his ears. His body hit the concrete hard ground. The gritty texture of the dirt impressed itself into the skin of his face, the dry dust crept into his nose, and he sneezed, and breathed and coughed, air rushing back into his lungs. His hands were grabbed and twisted behind him, and tied tightly together. Hard boots shoved him over onto his back and he glared up at the shadowed form above him, starting to kick out until he saw his gun held casually in Half-Elk's hand. A smile glinted across the man's face and then he knelt and stuffed Reno's bandana in his mouth. Reno snapped at the fast moving fingers, getting a sharp slap across the face with the barrel of the gun. Dazed, he tasted the salty warm trickle of blood starting inside his cheek, and lay still while Half Elk finished tying the bandana into a gag. His brain was starting to work again and he kicked himself mentally for falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book. Letting an Indian sneak up on him...Bobby would never let him forget it....And how had he missed the man with his gun? Two times..he knew he'd fired two times..... His head hit the ground with a thump, and Half Elk was gone, just a faint scent of dust and scuffing on the dirt to note his passing. He'd returned to the yard. To the house. To his rendezvous? Reno pushed himself up against the wall of the chicken coop, forcing himself to his feet, and staggered towards his hidden bike. He had a few sharp metal edges there that he hoped could fray the rope enough to get him free. He had to try, anyhow. Or just sit and wait for whatever Half-Elk had in mind. A shout from the yard and a scream of terror from the horse pulled Reno back, away from the bike, away from safety, from freedom. Curiosity pushed him towards the yard, curiosity sharpened by the clashing sound he heard, metal on metal.... He tripped over the uneven ground, and stumbled against the edge of the wall, leaning on it, panting and short of breath still, his throat aching as the parched air passed through it. The horse had disappeared, its hoof beats a fading tattoo in the distance. He watched, amazed, as Half Elk fought with a long bladed knife and metal hatchet....a tomahawk..his lips shaped the word even as his mind thrust it away as impossible....but tomahawk it was...fought .against another man, one wielding a flashing metal sword. A sword? This was insane. Why would Half-Elk come out of hiding, to a meeting at this shattered ruin, only to seek a fight to the death? And a death struggle it was, to Reno's hardened eyes. Why indeed? The second man was shouting now, his voice barely audible between the clash of metal and grunts of effort from the two combatants. Reno strained to hear him. "You killed my woman, you bastard." "And you killed my tribe. Murderer. You will pay." That was clear enough. So maybe it hadn't been a drunken brawl at all. Maybe Half Elk had known exactly what he was doing in that bar, and in escaping. Maybe. Half Elk swung his knife, feinting for the legs of his opponent, and suddenly it was all over. The man blocked the feint, and left his neck open to a hard fatal blow from the hatchet. Reno watched, sickened, as the man's body fell, suddenly slack and lifeless, to the cracked, rock hard ground. His life blood soaking into the thirsty earth, feeding it. Reno realized suddenly he was in the wrong place, as Half Elk turned to face him, his eyes glowing with a crazed unholy glee. Reno backed up, without thinking, from the sheer menace that reached out at him from the man before him. He saw Half Elk's lips move, and heard his voice, magnified by a trick of the air...the whisper carrying to him clearly in the utter silence as even the wind held its breath.... "So die the murderers of my tribe. The Ghost Dancers will dance again. So han hanta shu shunna ho.... " Reno froze in place, all the hair on his body tingled and rose, as if pulsing with an electrical charge. He saw light, and mist swirling around the fallen corpse, swirling up and out and moving with what almost looked like a purpose. Moving towards the chanting form of Half Elk, who stood, his arms raised, as if accepting a benediction. Half-Elk's body began to glow as Reno watched, fascinated, forgetting to run while he had the chance. Sparks circled the Indian's face, traced the metal blade of his knife, leaped glittering up the shaft of the tomahawk...And then, with fire arching between the two metal tips of the knife and the bloody tomahawk held at the furthest expanse of his reach, Half Elk began to levitate, slowly rising off the ground. Reno moved forward, pulled towards the spectacle, incredulous, frightened, yet drawn like a magnet to its source. He stepped closer, fighting himself all the way, his rational mind trying to argue and pull back, something else impelling him onward. He was barely a foot away now, his eyes wide, drinking in the vision of this man floating in a cocoon of light and pulsing energy. Reno could almost touch it, almost taste it, metallic and electric, on his tongue. Almost smell it. He could feel the fire touching the outer rim of his soul and he hungered for it, hungered for more. Tears started in his eyes, tears for something he'd lost, and never known he'd had. For something he'd glimpsed, but never seen. He ached with an emptiness he had no words to describe. HIs hands writhed against the bonds holding them back, as they sought to reach, to feel this ephemeral thing. Half Elk's body jerked, quivered, and sank to the ground. The man's arms drooped, his grasp loosening on the knife and tomahawk, and he let them slip to the hard packed earth as well. He collapsed to his knees, then sprawled on his face in the dirt, his eyes closed, his body still except for the regular rise and fall of his chest. He wasn't dead, then. Reno was seized with weariness, a sudden sleepy weakness, and staggered back, trying to keep his eyes open, to keep his mind focused on what had to be his next move, escape. Half Elk would hardly leave a witness to his murder. Reno knelt, awkwardly and leaned back, reaching for the knife that lay out of sight, behind him. His fingers strained in the dust, then his wrist was gripped in a harsh, painful grasp. Half Elk...awake. The hand levered him up, forcing him to stand to keep his wrist from being broken. "Little one, you are too early. Come back when you are grown." The voice whispered in his ear, and he was pushed forward, to fall face first in the dust. He rolled, and saw Half Elk standing over the body of the slain man. Reno watched, trying to comprehend the meaning of his actions as Half Elk picked up the sword the man had used and lay it across a cracked, empty concrete water trough in the yard. He saw the Indian raise his tomahawk and bring it down on the sword in a ferocious, powerful swing, shattering the blade. Then Half Elk turned, and walked out of the yard. Not looking back. Following the path of the horse. Walking back towards the distant hills. Reno scrambled towards the shattered blade, turned and felt the hilt of the sword fit smoothly inot his hand. He levered it against the crack in the trough, bracing it, and began sawing monotonously at the rope around his wrists, feeling the blade slice into his skin when he hurried too much. He took a deep breath and sought to calm himself. It wouldn't help to bleed to death out here. He'd have plenty of time to catch up to Half Elk. The man was on foot, after all. It wasn't like he could fly....or anything. He had just about convinced himself that he had just been suffering from heat hallucinations, and had imagined the whole levitation scene, when the ropes parted and his wrists were free. He yanked the sodden bandana out of his mouth, spat the last of his precious moisture just to try and get the taste of salty dust and sweat out of his mouth. He leaned back against the trough, feeling the solid reassuring bulk of the crumbling concrete. This was real. This was no dream. What had happened before....couldn't be. That was all. He closed his eyes, resting them against the white midafternoon glare of the summer sun. The image he'd seen, of Half Ellk walking away, emerged unbidden from his memory. Half Elk, with two ragged holes in the back of his shirt. Two ragged holes rimmed with dark, clotted blood and dust. It must have been another hallucination. The heat. The sun. He shook his head, trying to shake away the persistent, troubling image. He opened his eyes and swept them across the yard. Past the huddled body of the unknown man. Towards the chicken coop. Looking, subconsciously, for something that glittered. He stood, and paced behind the crumbling ruin of the coop, back and forth, twice. Staring at the ground. Laughing at himself. They must be here. They must be somewhere. If I missed they're a mile away now. If I didn't..... Something. That glittered. He knelt over it. Silver metal gleamed in the sun. Blurred before his eyes as the sweat tricked in. His fingers reached down. He noticed they were shaking. It was a bullet. From his gun. He felt it in his hand, the hard, heavy weight of death pulling at his wrist, tugging it down. He rolled the twisted shape in his palm. Recognized the make. Saw the flattened tip, where it had gone in. Saw the red, the shreds of flesh and blood that clung to its tail. Held a messenger of death in his hand, baffled. I didn't miss. He brushed lightly at the dust. Found its twin. Held them. Stared at them. Shivered, suddenly cold in the broiling July sun. He rose to his feet and stalked back to the yard. Walked carefully around the body lying there, ignoring the buzzing swarm of bottlenose flies that rose off the gaping wound in the man's torso, where his neck used to be. Ignored it. Ignored the pathetic round object that used to be his head. Searching for his gun. Found it, finally, under the sagging porch of the house, where it could have been kicked, or thrown, during the duel. Two bullets had been fired. Only two. He had a splitting headache now. The sun, the heat, the lack of water, the pounding he'd taken...the frustration... He walked slowly back to his bike. Pulled out the phone. Dialed. "I'd like to report a dead body...." He paused. Stopped, as the voice on the other end yammered in his ear. Slowly, he pressed down on the power button. Turning his phone off. He put it back in his saddlebag. Sat, silently, for a moment. Then kicked the bike into gear and headed slowly off in the direction Half Elk had taken. Watching the dust for tracks. Finding none. Driving by dead reckoning, instead, aiming for the dark distant hills, shimmering in the heat, across the flat desert valley. Watching, all the time, for a tiny black speck in the vast white expanse that could be a man. =========================================================================