By Theodore V. Olsen
A Spur Award-winning writer Rhiannon's black Irish mood hardly slipped. whilst it did, Dragoman - his oldest adversary, continuously burning in his head like a dwell coal - was once almost certainly the reason. Now Comanches had abducted Dragoman's daughter, and he might visit any lengths to get her again . . . together with snatching anything Rhiannon held beneficial until Rhiannon, raised via Indians and clever to their methods, rescued Melissa Dragoman.
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Rhiannon's voice dropped to a whisper. He picked up the bottle, took a long pull from it, shuddered, and set it down. "Man, I won't tell you. I'll show you. " He shrugged off his brush jacket and laid it on the bar. Staring at Warrington, he peeled off his shirt and dropped it on the coat. Then he turned around slowly, full circle, the saffron light from an overhead lamp polishing his pale, massive torso as he turned. " Warrington's face had lost its color; he could only stare and swallow. " Rhiannon's upper body was a criss-crossed map of old welts and scars.
They were yelling and cursing, three of them falling back. But the others were on him, trying to grapple with him. He brought the blade up underhanded, trying for a belly and fetching an arm instead. Again a hoarse scream was heard as the steel cut up vertically, elbow to shoulder, ripping deep. Rhiannon kicked out at the next man, catching him in the thigh. The fellow's leg folded and he went down. The third one made a grab for Rhiannon's arm and he pivoted hard on his heel, throwing his weight behind his bunched shoulder, and smashed him high and hard in the jaw, click-snapping his teeth.
Overriding all of it was the crushing agony that filled his head. It rolled in like great combers of the gulf waters he'd once seen at Matagorda, crashing at the back of his skull in a pulse-timed rhythm, slugging and letting go and slugging back to his blood beat's roar. He did not move again. He lay quiet and tried to think. . but a silent something as long as he didn't move. And keeping still meant less pain. Threads of thought forming like trickles of molasses. Shaping themselves into shreds of meaning.