Dorothy Garlock (35 page)

Sant jumped from his horse, dropped the reins to groundtie the animal, and darted into the woods. Once there he thought of his spurs. Kneeling down, he unfastened them from his boots and hung them over a low branch. He wanted no jingling to give his presence away. Years of fighting and hunting beside the Sioux had taught him a thing or two about woods fighting. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in Sant’s mind that he would find the man and kill him. Like a shadow he moved among the trees. All his senses focused on the hunt.

In the end it was so easy to locate the man crouched behind the boulder that Sant wanted to laugh. The damn fool was just sitting there watching the trail and waiting for him to appear so he could shoot him. Sant came up behind him and was within a few yards before he spoke.

“Stand up and turn around, ya yellow-bellied buzzard bait. I want to know who ya are before I kill ya.”

Shock kept Fuller still for several seconds. Then he leaned his rifle against the rocks and, careful to keep his hands in sight, stood and looked into the barrel of Sant’s Smith and Wesson.

“Who are ya?” Sant said again.

“Who wants to know?”

“The man who’s goin’ to splatter yore brains all over them there rocks ya was hidin’ behind.” Without taking his eyes off the man, Sant spit.

“Bowman had it comin’.”

“Yore a low-down back-shooter. Ya didn’t have the guts to face him like a man.”

“What’s your stake in this?”

“What’a ya think? Ya stupid clabber-head. Ya shot my partner and ruint a damn good hat.”

The man stared across the short space like a man in a trance. He was trapped and faced a fight to the death. He had never thought it would turn out this way. He might win, but there was something about this battle-scarred old timber wolf that told him he wouldn’t.

Suddenly life was sweet and he wanted to prolong it.

“Mind tellin’ me who you are?”

“Sant Rudy. I reckon a man’s got a right to know who kills him.”

“Then you’d better know, too. I’m Fuller.”

“Howdy.”

“Are you givin’ me a chance?”

“Why, course,” Sant said gently and shoved his gun into the holster. “I’d not kill a rattlesnake without givin’ it a chance to coil up.”

Fuller stared at the other man for a long moment, his face expressionless. His mistake had been in thinking that the old man would break and run. He’d killed Bowman. That’s what he’d set out to do. He’d put the second bullet in him to make sure. Damned old man had nicked his leg with a bullet when he fired into the bushes. Maybe he should’ve stayed and shot it out with him then and there.

Well, hell, no use putting it off any longer. It had to come sooner or later. George dropped into a half crouch, his lips curled back from his teeth, his protruding eyes made brighter with mingled rage and fear. His hand clawed for his gun.

In the quiet woods a gun boomed like a crash of thunder. George Fuller was thrown back against the rocks and crashed into his rifle, and both slid down into the dirt. His gun had not cleared his holster.

Calmly, Sant walked over and looked down at him. There
was a strained, foolish expression on George’s face as if he couldn’t believe what had happened to him. Sant had aimed for his forehead but had shot him through the eye.

“Shit!” he said and spat on the ground beside the dead man’s head. “Reckon I’m gettin’ old. Missed twice today.”

22

T
he well water was fresh, cool and sweet.

After drinking deeply, Willa hung the dipper on the post beside the pump. It was good to be out in the sunshine. She wished that she were free to walk into the foothills behind the ranch, to smell the pines and pick the wildflowers that bloomed on the grassy slopes. If she could be alone for a while to listen to the bird songs, it would rest her mind.

Maud was asleep, Jo Bell in her room. For the moment, at least, she had a few minutes to do whatever she wanted to do. She would visit with Billy. She liked the old man. He had not only a wealth of wisdom to impart, but a sense of humor. At times he even poked fun at himself.

Willa saw the riders when she was about half way to the cookshack. There was
one
rider and he was pulling something behind his horse, she realized on closer scrunity. The other horse was riderless. Then it dawned upon her that it was Smith’s horse following along behind one of those Indian carriers called a travois, and a man was lying on it.

Was Smith so drunk he couldn’t stay in the saddle? Had he drunk himself senseless as he had done at the stage station and his friend was bringing him home? What a waste of a human being. A wave of shame washed over her. Shame for the secret dreams she had harbored of making a life with this miserable excuse for a man.

She stood perfectly still as the horse pulling the travois neared. Then she saw a blond head with a bloody rag tied around it. Breath left her and a knot of fear and dread formed in her stomach. He was not only drunk, he was hurt, too. Her heart began to beat furiously and she shook as if she were standing naked in a snowstorm. After a moment of hesitation, she lifted her skirts and began to run. Billy was coming out of the cookshack by the time she reached it. Both of them hurried to meet the rider.

“What’s happened? What’s happened to Smith?” Billy demanded in a voice made high by his concern.

Sant stopped the horse. “Caught a couple a bullets down by the creek crossin’.”

“Bad?”

“I ain’t knowin’ yet.” Sant’s dark eyes rested intently on the woman who pushed herself in front of Billy to look down at Smith.

“Then what’er ya lollygaggin’ fer? Get on down to the house so we can take a look see.”

Willa’s heart dropped like a rock. Smith looked so young, so pale, so helpless. Blood covered his shirt and the leg of his britches. She tried hard to recall Jo Bell’s words so she could whip up her resentment against him, but her mind was completely out of circuit.

Unexpectedly, her vision blurred. She tried to blink away the moisture and failed miserably. She looked up at the man who had turned in the saddle to look down at her, knowing
perfectly well he could see her tears. In the back of her throat she made a choking sound, and her voice was shaken loose.

“He’s lost . . . a lot of blood. You’ve got to get him in a bed. If he should go into shock get some honey or sugar water down him and keep him warm.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sant turned the horse toward the cabin behind the bunkhouse. Willa stood motionless until Billy nudged her arm.

“The boy said ya was handy at nursing. I’d be much obliged if ya’ll turn a hand to help.”

“He’s not a boy. He’s a grown man.”

“I be knowin’ that.” Billy looked at her strangely. “Are ya helpin’ or not?” Worry made him speak harshly.

“I’ve not had much experience with gunshot wounds, but I’ll do what I can.”

She walked along beside the travois as it bumped over the rough ground. Jo Bell’s hateful words kept pounding in her ears.
He’s got a jug and a whore stashed somewheres. He
ain’t comin’ till him and the jug is drained.

“Plenty!” Billy shouted. “Plenty Mad! Get yore worthless hide out here ’n’ get Smith’s horse. Gal-damn that ugly bowlegged cuss! He ain’t never ’round when ya need him. Plenty Mad!”

“God the damn hell, Billy. Why you yellin’?” The Indian crawled through the corral bars. When he saw Smith, he came to look down at him. “What you on that travois for, Smith?” Plenty Mad bent over and peered at Smith as if he expected him to answer. “You dead, Smith?”

“Of course he’s not dead. Any fool could see that,” Willa said angrily.

“How I know he not dead? He not move.” The Indian looked her up and down with his hands on his hips. “Silly white squaw talk, talk, talk,” he muttered.

Willa didn’t hear him. Her heart was working like a runaway windmill. Now was not the time to panic, she told herself sternly. She must remember everything she had ever heard about tending gunshot wounds.

Willa stayed beside Smith, her eyes on his face, until the horse pulled the travois under the porch roof of the cabin. She held the door open and stood back while Sant and Billy, straining under Smith’s weight, carried him inside and placed him on a bunk built against the wall. Willa was vaguely aware that the cabin was neat and dim and cool. Other than that, she was unaware of anything but Smith.

Gasping for breath, Billy straightened after pulling off Smith’s boots.

“Ma’am, there’s a teakettle a hot water on the stove in the cookhouse and clean rags in the cupboard by the wash bench. If ya’ll fetch ’em, me and Sant’ll take off his britches so we can get a look at his leg. ’Pears to be just above his knee. Bullet still in there, ain’t it, Sant?”

“Yeah. The cut on his head ain’t bad. Bullet parted his hair some. Ain’t deep. Bled a lot. He helped get his self on the travois before he passed out.”

Relieved by Sant’s words about the head wound, Willa went to get the water and the bandages.
Passed out.
So he
was
drunk. She had to get away from this place, from him, before she did something foolish. As soon as she convinced Maud that Inez could take care of her, she and Jo Bell would go to Sheridan. Maybe they could be gone before Charlie got back. Once there, Jo Bell would go her own way and she would go hers, putting all this behind her.

A glimpse of Inez hanging the heavy draperies on the line reminded Willa that she had the key to Maud’s room in her pocket. She ran out the door, the bundle of rags in her arms.

“Inez,” she called. “Smith’s been shot. Here’s the key to Mrs. Eastwood’s room. Stay with her. See that Jo Bell stays
out of the room. I’m afraid of what she might do. Maybe she would only aggravate her, but I can’t take the chance she might hurt her. She’s got this notion that the ranch would be hers and Charlie’s if something happened to Mrs. Eastwood.”

“Smith shot? Blessed Virgin! Who shot him? Is it bad?”

“I don’t know who shot him or how bad.” Willa couldn’t bring herself to tell Inez that he’d been away for days drinking and . . . whoring.

“Poor Smith.” Inez shook her head sadly. “That boy’s had a cat on his back since Mr. Eastwood was killed. Don’t worry, honey, I’ll look after Maud and see that little hussy don’t bother her none. Go on. Do what ya can for the boy.”

“Thank you.”

Why did they keep calling him a boy? He was a man, for Godsake, a man who was responsible for his actions the same as any other man.

Sant met Willa at the door of Smith’s house and took the teakettle from her hand. They had removed Smith’s clothes and covered him with a sheet from his hairless chest down to the ragged wound in his leg. The bullet had left a raw, red, ugly hole that was still oozing blood. Think of what has to be done, she told herself sternly. Think of that and only that.

“Besides these bandages, we’ll need boiling water to rinse the knife we must use to get the bullet out, something to use as disinfectant—vinegar or whiskey, and ointment if you have some. The teakettle water will do for us to wash our hands in. I brought lye soap.”

Billy began pulling things out of a cabinet. He placed a bottle of whiskey, tweezers and pincers on a table that he drew up close to the bunk.

“We got some of that Lambert listerine. Old saw-bones from Buffalo left it here.”

Willa’s eyes met the old man’s. “You’ve done this before.”

“When I had to. I ain’t good at it.”

“I may not be good either. Shouldn’t we send for the doctor?”

“Be tomorry before he got here,” Sant said. “Bullet’d be all festered in by that time. Reckon we ort to get on with it before he comes to. It’s gonna hurt like hell.”

Willa scrubbed her hands, a procedure a doctor had told her was essential when working on an open wound. Without having to be told, Billy washed his hands. When Sant brought a pan of boiling water, they scalded the tweezers, pincers and a sharp knife.

After washing away the blood, Willa discovered the almost spent bullet had gone through the fleshy part of Smith’s leg and had almost come out the back. If she made a small cut on the back of his thigh she could reach the bullet without probing the wound. She told this to Billy, and he gently rolled Smith over onto his side, being careful to keep his privates covered.