Habibullah made his move as the other riders strung out toward the pivot flag, each either running interference for the man who held the carcass or trying to get into a position to steal it. Obviously knowing that rider would have to come back toward the circle after he rounded the flag, the Tajik slowed, lurking on the near side, aiming to intercept. Habibullah’s remaining helper, an agile man who seemed to have been born on the back of a horse, drifted easily to his right while Quinn galloped the gray up alongside on his left. Habibullah turned in the saddle, giving him a wary look.
Holding the leather quirt in his teeth and leaning forward over the gray’s head to give it plenty of speed, Quinn smiled and gestured at the oncoming rider with his right hand as if to say “all yours.”
A buzkashi rider cannot be a timid man, but looking up and seeing the hulking Habibullah and two sidekicks bearing down on him made the rider who held the carcass flinch and cut right in an attempt to dart around. This put him broadside to the oncoming horses and allowed Habibullah to crash in, driving his larger bay into other animal. Horses squealed and collided as dozens of hooves pounded the earth. Centrifugal force threw dirt and dung and the tail end of the carcass into the air as the horses spun from the momentum. Quinn was able to squirt by on his gray, hazing three opposing riders out of the way so Habibullah could snatch the flopping buz as he plowed by. The startled rider had to use both hands to stay in the saddle and surrendered the goat without a fight.
Now, with the goat in his possession, Habibullah tucked the quirt between his teeth and spurred the bay back toward the flag at the far end of the field.
The next round had a similar outcome with Quinn using the gray to haze away other riders so the big Tajik could gain the point. Muzra was able to rejoin the contest, but Quinn had proven himself Habibullah’s ally by then, so it didn’t matter.
The sun was well up by the time the third round commenced. Mirages of morning heat began to drift up from the hard-packed dirt. Bits jangled and leather groaned as riders wheeled their horses, all bathed in sweat, waiting. A portable speaker on the sidelines crackled and a static-filled voice made an announcement in Uyghur. Quinn couldn’t understand the words but knew this was the last round. The horses were too valuable to risk in the heat.
A horn blew and the riders, Habibullah included, flung themselves at the battered goat carcass intent on finishing the game with honor. Caught up in the fierce competition, Quinn did not see the newcomers until they were almost on top of him. There were two of them, throwing up trails of yellow dust as they brought their horses in at a gallop from a row of trucks to the south. Quinn spun his horse, getting a quick 360 look, and saw a third horse, nostrils flaring on its huge black head, bearing directly at him from the sidelines. Something in the rider’s hands caught a glint of the morning sun. At fifty feet Quinn could see it wasn’t a riding crop but a two-foot length of metal rod.
Caught between the scrum behind him and the newcomers, Quinn spurred the gray forward, urging the big animal directly at the two men galloping toward him, and creating some distance between himself and the man on the black horse. The oncoming riders slowed, circling Quinn like wolves, pestering the gray with their quirts and pushing him toward the man with the spear. Quinn swung with his quirt, hearing it whistle past the intended target. The gray gave an energetic hop and cow-kicked at the nearest rider, missing but keeping him at bay.
To an onlooker, the three horses circling around Quinn against the backdrop of other horses vying for the carcass looked to be an extension of the game. But Quinn saw it for what it was, a direct attack.
Quinn lifted the reins, using his heel to urge another kick from the big gray. Snorting and trailing a line of slobber, the horse gave little hop, and then lashed out, hooves connecting with the thigh of the nearest rider with a crack like a gunshot.
Relaxing the reins, Quinn turned the gray to face the man on the black, shouldering past and narrowly missing a stab in the thigh. Two more new riders tore out from the sidelines, each carrying their own short spear. Both smiled crooked smiles, the way a lion surely looks at an impala before bringing it down. He gave a fleeting thought to making a break for it, but the black horse was fresh and showing his back would only turn Quinn into an easier target.
Spinning again, Quinn realized his only option was to use the other buzkashi players as a shield and look for a chance to put some distance between himself and the armed riders.
He might have made it had Habibullah not retrieved the carcass and run directly at him. The entire scrum of twenty horses followed, coming at Quinn from behind, carrying him like a wave toward the man on the black. Quinn twisted in the saddle as they washed together, but there was nowhere for him to go.
He felt a dull thud as the point of the metal rod impacted his shoulder, shoving him backwards but not quite unseating him. Quinn felt no pain, but the familiar rush of adrenaline said he’d been hit. He rolled his shoulder and flexed his hand to make sure there’d been no serious damage to the tendons or ligaments, turning the gray at the same time to put its rump toward the assailant. Gathering the reins, he collected the horse, urging it to bring its hindquarters up without moving forward. Snorting like a warhorse, the big gray arched its powerful neck and gave a hop before letting fly a backward kick with both hooves. Metal shoes snapped against the black horse’s ribs, cracking like a gunshot and catching the hapless rider’s knee. He yowled in pain, slumping forward in the saddle in an effort to keep his seat and maneuver out of the way in the swirling mass of screaming horses and shouting riders.
Quinn began to feel light-headed as he spurred the gray through the oncoming riders past Habibullah and his men. He reached to touch his shoulder and his fingers came back wet with blood. Some sort of claxon began to sound, hollow as if set deep inside his head. His vision began to narrow. Swaying in the saddle, he heard angry voices shouting something in Chinese. There was a gunshot and Quinn in his daze wondered if he’d been hit. His shoulder was on fire. He could hear engines, see the blurred image of the big six-by-six truck full of PLA soldiers rolling onto the field. Horses stomped and nickered, not understanding why the game had stopped as uniformed officials poured onto the grounds. Rough hands clamored for Quinn, dragging him from the saddle as he blinked stupidly, using all his energy in an effort just to remain conscious. Shoved flat on his back, he could see nothing but a small circle of sky above the angry faces of soldiers who held him down.
A Chinese woman in dark glasses hovered over him and ripped away his padded shirt, slapping away his hand as it lifted it in a feeble attempt to defend himself.
“Get away from me!” he tried to yell but managed little more than a whisper. Too weak to resist, he could no longer even raise his head.
“Hold him!” The woman in glasses hissed, drawing a blade from her belt.
Quinn felt the world close in around him as she plunged the knife into his chest.