The Piegan made no attempt to employ his bow.  He had no need.  Clutched in his right hand was a wicked weapon known as an eyedagg, a short club boasting a tapered spike at the end.  It could shear into an eye socket clear to the brainpan.
   Nate King's shoulder slammed into the Piegan's and both fell.   Nate tried to twist to wind up on top but his leg caught on the man's war horse.   Both of them landed on their sides.  heaving erect, Nate parried a blow aimed at his head.  The heavy club jarred his forearm to the bone.
   Circling, the Piegan swung again and again.  Nate dodged, ducked, pivoted, all the while retreating.  The club gave the warrior a greater reach, and it was all Nate could do to ward the flurry off.
   Around them guns boomed, someone cursed, warriors screeched.  Yet Nate dared not take his eyes off his adversary, not for a second, or that eyedagg would find a fatal spot.  Once more he blocked a powerful swing to the head, the tip of the spike digging a tiny furrow into his chest.

   The huge cat snarled, a fierce, hissing cry that caused Evelyn King's pony to whinny and shy.  Evelyn was so scared, she forgot to firm her grip on the reins.  Her mount bounded to the left, brushing against a boulder, and pain seared her leg.
   In a lithe leap the mountain lion reached the lip of the high boulder it was on.  Crouching to spring, it snarled again, its black-tipped tail twitching.
   Evelyn gaped up into savagely piercing eyes, horrible orbs that seemed to stab icy claws deep down inside of her.  She knew she should wheel her pony around and get out of there but her limbs would not move.
   The painter's whole body went rigid.  Her pa had told her mountain lions did that when they were about to attack.