Murdock was tempted to make a sudden dash out on the point of the bank
and dive into the river, but it was already too late. The man who was
holding the spear had moved behind him, and Ross's wrist, held in a vise
grip at the small of his back, kept him prisoner as he was pushed on
into the meadow. There three shaggy horses grazed, their nose ropes
gathered into the hands of a third man.
A sharp stone half buried in the ground changed the pattern of the day.
Ross's heel scraped against it, and the resulting pain triggered his
rebellion into explosion. He threw himself backward, his bruised heel
sliding between the feet of his captor, bringing them both to the ground
with himself on top. The other expelled air from his lungs in a grunt
of surprise, and Ross whipped over, one hand grasping the hilt of the
tribesman's dagger while the other, free of that prisoning wrist-lock,
chopped at the fellow's throat.
Dagger out and ready, Ross faced the men in a half crouch as he had been
drilled.
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