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Rolling again, Alex evaded the knife for the second time. But just barely. He was breathing hard and the stones on the street bit into him as he slid along on his back. |
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Suddenly, one hand encountered a round object that turned under pressure. A rock! Perhaps half as big as his head. He caught it in his hand, mothered it and scuttled away from the little man, again. Behind Antonio, the big man was coming to his aid, huffing and pulling on the raw slope. It was now or never, Alex told himself grimly. And if he waited too much longer it was going to be never.
His body was taut in preparation. His will was concentrating on preparing for Antonio's next charge. The little man was eager, now. He was hurrying. He could hear his larger companion rapidly shortening the distance between them threatening to end the game before he tasted the blood he sought, needed. H e dove forward, his knife-blade eager for the salty taste of gringo blood dripping from it. Time seemed to stand still for Alex. The little Mexican paused, then plunged forward in what seemed like slow motion to Alex. He was sure he was going to get away. So sure! And the knife tore into his side leaving a trail of pain. I t was only reflexes, reflexes and determination that drove his hand up and out, ramming that rock into the side of Antonio's head with all the force left in him. Blood splattered in thin drops. The knifeman shuddered and then collapsed as if the strings holding him up were cut. As he fell he dragged the knife out of Alex.