Page 17 of In Honor’s Defense

While the two men at the center bickered, the others started separating themselves from the clump. Either they planned to make a run for it, or they were setting up an attack. Either way, Luke didn’t have much time, and with the Horsemen’s vow not to use deadly force, he couldn’t completely eliminate the four-to-one disadvantage.

He flicked a glance at Nate. The kid looked scared but steady. When their eyes met, Nate shifted his gaze quickly down to the sack hanging from his right hand, then back up to Luke.

Luke gave a tiny dip of his chin, holding back a grin. The kid had grit. A brain too.

“Rush him!” the leader shouted.

Pandemonium erupted. Nate swung his sack upward toward his captor’s face. Luke fired at the second man. Numbers three and four charged.

Man Two howled in pain as Luke’s bullet winged his arm. Man One grunted, then yelled, “Snake!” as the contents of Nate’s bag spilled out on his head.

“Run, kid!” Luke barely got the words out before Men Three and Four plowed into him and knocked him to the ground. He lost his grip on his revolver, but he didn’t care. He preferred his fists for close-combat scenarios anyway.

With a roar, Luke grabbed Man Three by the collar and tossed him to the side, making sure to throw him in the direction of the leader. He couldn’t afford to let any of the rustlers chase after Nate. He needed to demand all of their attention if the kid was going to have a chance.

“That all you got?” Luke taunted as he threw Man Four off of him and bounced to his feet, fists ready.

Man One grabbed the snake off his head with a growled curse and hurled it into the dark. His gaze locked on the fleeing boy, but he only managed one step before Luke charged.

Catching the rustlers no longer took precedence. Covering Nate’s escape did. And if that meant taking on four men with nothing but his fists and his wits, so be it.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Luke slammed the leader into the ground, then crashed a fist into his jaw before the other gang members grabbed him from behind. Luke fought like a wild man. When they restrained his arms, he kicked at their knees and used his head as a sledgehammer, cracking the front of one man’s skull with the back of his own.

Their grips loosened. Luke started to pull away. Bunched his muscles. Prepared to attack the leader, who was scrambling back to his feet, knife in hand. Luke’s focus zeroed in on the weapon, preparing to knock it away with his forearm. But just as he pulled away from his captors, the man he’d winged with a bullet lurched at him from his blind side and drove a blade beneath his ribs.

Luke roared and turned on the injured man. He struck a fierce uppercut to his jaw, and the man fell like a stone, but it was too late. By the time Luke’s attention returned to the leader, the man was upon him, his own knife slashing downward. Luke raised his arm to block. The blade sliced into his skin and bounced off bone, but Luke didn’t stop. He punished the leader with his fists. To the midsection, the chin, the side. He took nearly as many punches as he gave. The rustler was a scrappy fighter. Dirty too.

“Hold him!” the leader shouted.

Luke chanced a glance behind him. The others were advancing. Fast. He pivoted and swung, only to have the leader’s blade find him again, in the back of the thigh. Luke’s leg buckled, taking him down to one knee.

The rustlers pounced. One kicked his face, his pointed boot colliding with Luke’s chin and snapping his head back. The second one rammed him from the side. Luke fell.

He tried to rise, but a weight held him down. Boots slammed into his head. Fists pummeled his ribs. He fended them off the best he could, but his injuries sapped his strength. He curled into a ball, arms raised to cover his head, but the blows kept coming. Consciousness began slipping away.

“Enough,” the leader called, his voice sounding far away even though Luke knew he was practically on top of him. “Step aside so I can slit his throat and be done with it.”

Each man got in one last kick or jab. Two sets of hands pried Luke’s arms away from his head. A third set yanked his jaw upward, exposing his throat. Luke peered into the eyes of his killer.

A cavalryman didn’t thirst for death, but he knew how to face it with courage. “God . . . will . . . avenge.”

The rustler hesitated, knife raised.

All at once, a gun boomed. Hooves pounded the ground.

The leader glanced away as he brought the knife down. The blade glanced off Luke’s collarbone, leaving his throat intact.

The rustlers scattered.

A horse whinnied, the sound familiar. Luke strained to see, turning his head a few agonizing degrees to the right.

Titan? But how . . .

A rider slid off his back, Luke’s rifle in hand. He crouched in front of Luke’s face.