Ghost Moon (10 page)
I laugh ruefully to myself. In the course of a sunset I have convinced myself to go home and to stay here. So much for making a decision. With a sigh, I wrap myself in my poncho and settle beside the fire.
Something is wrong. I've gone from sleep to wakefulness instantly, but I don't know what has woken me. The branch has burned through and the glowing ends lie in the bed of coals that is what remains of my fire. I listen.
At first there is silence, but then I hear one of the horses whinny softly and shuffle its hooves. Is it being stalked by a mountain lion? Slowly I reach out for the branch lying in the fire. When I have a good grip, I throw the poncho off, stand up and shout.
Both horses whinny loudly. The light of a half moon shows me three human shapes frozen by the rear of the wagon. Before I even think of reaching for my gun, the largest figure yells and leaps at me. He has a painted war club raised, and for a big man he moves incredibly fast. I swing the branch at him. I miss, but the end flares up, revealing a glimpse of a face distorted by a scream, eyes wide and mouth open. It is Ghost Moon, the warrior Godfroy warned me about. I duck the first swing of his club, and we stand eyeing each other in the near dark.
One of the other men by the horses shouts something in Apache. I glance over and my opponent seizes his chance and lunges at me. I duck once more and thrust the burning branch up at his face. It strikes something and I hear a scream. Ghost Moon lets his club go in mid-swing and it sails over the fire and clatters against a rock. He staggers back, both hands clasping his face.
I drop the branch and reach for my revolver. As I draw and cock it, I become aware that there is only one man over by the horses. I just have time to wonder where the third man is, when an arrow shatters against the rock beside my head. I have to get out of the firelight. Firing a wild shot into the darkness, I scramble away from the fire and into the rockfall. I'm clambering over a large jagged rock when the second arrow hits me. It only grazes my cheek, but I flinch and lose my footing. My right foot flies off the top of the rock and my thigh hits the rock as I fall. There's a loud
crack
, and I scream as pain shoots through my leg.
I end up huddled at the base of the rock with my left leg bent under me. My right leg is stretched out at an unnatural angle. I'm oddly calm. I know my leg is broken, but the initial searing pain has dulled to a strong ache. I'm oddly aware of everything. I can feel the warm blood trickling down my cheek and hear the
swish
as an arrow flies over my head. I'm still clutching my revolver, and I let off a shot toward the glow of the fire.
My shot is followed by some shouting and another arrow that clatters into the rocks to my left. I cock my gun and fire again. That only leaves two loads in the chamber. I decide to save them in case my attackers try to come over to finish me off.
I hear more voices, hoofbeats on the hard ground and then silence. I listen tensely for the sounds of someone creeping up on me, but there's nothing.
I don't know how long I huddle there in the rocks. My broken leg goes numb, but my left leg, bent awkwardly beneath me, begins to hurt. I realize that I can't stay here. Even if the warriors are gone, it could be days before anyone comes by and finds me, and I'll be dead long before that.
Taking a deep breath, I grip the rock beside me and begin to straighten my left leg. As I rise, my broken leg drags on the ground. I can feel bone ends grating against each other somewhere deep in my thigh. Waves of nausea sweep over me. I'm sweating profusely, yet I'm shivering with cold. But I have to keep going. If I don't, I'll die.
Inch by inch, I work my way around the rock. Eventually, with many stops and with tears of pain and frustration mixing with the blood on my cheek, I arrive behind the rock where I built my fire. There's a gap here with nothing to lean on. I reach over to the rock, but overbalance and fall. I land on my left side, but my broken leg flops to one side and the wave of pain forces another scream out of me before I black out.
I don't think I'm unconscious for long, but when I come to, all I want to do is lie where I am. I'm cold, but as long as I don't move, there's not much pain. If I just lie still, everything will be all right.
No, it won't! Move or die, those are my only choices.
Crawling on my good side, using my left arm to
drag myself along, I finally make it around the rock
to my fire. I scrape together some sticks that I had
collected earlier and shove them onto the glowing
coals. The small flames that lick around them and
grow are the most comforting sight I've seen in my life.
I haul my poncho over me, huddle as close as I dare to
the warmth of the fire and fall asleep.
I
t's daylight when I open my eyes. I'm curled around the still-warm coals of my fire, so close that my poncho is singed. I lie still for a long time, working out what really happened last night and what is a fragment of the series of unsettling and confusing dreams that plagued what little sleep I managed to grab.
Ghost Moon and the other two were from the reservation, trying to steal the horses. My musings are disturbed by a soft bray. I twist my head to see the two mules standing a few feet away regarding me curiously. Behind them sits the wagon. There is no sign of the horses, which makes sense. Ghost Moon would want to move fast. The horses would help him, but the wagon and mules would just slow him down.
I'm ridiculously happy that I have survived the night, and now I have mules and a wagon. My problem is using them to get back to Blazer's Mill. I obviously can't do anything much with my broken leg flopping around. I look around for ideas.
The branch that I thrust into Ghost Moon's face is lying close by, the burned end black and cold. Perhaps there is a way I can immobilize my leg.
It takes a long time and causes a lot of pain to remove my belt. I realize that I've dropped my revolver somewhere in the rocks, but there's no way I'm going back to search for it. I cut wide strips off my poncho and rest. The next stage is going to be even less pleasant.
Collecting everything I will need close, I prop myself up on my left elbow. My good leg is fairly straight, and if I lean forward across the remains of the fire, I can reach close to my ankle without putting too much strain on my right leg, which lies beside it. I slip my belt and a couple of strips from my poncho under my left leg.
Now comes the hard bit. Reaching as far down as I can, I grab my right pant leg. I take a deep breath, count to three and haul my broken leg on top of my good one. My scream scares the mules, but it's done. I lie back, panting.
When the pain has subsided and my heartbeat returned to normal, I lean down, lay the branch alongside my broken leg and wrap the belt and poncho strips around everything. The belt I tighten close to my hips, above the break. The material I tie as best I can at my knee and as far down my calf as I can manage. It's cumbersome and far from perfect, and the knots are not as tight as I would like, but it'll be better than having my broken leg flopping around as I move.
I spend much of the rest of the day dragging myself over to the wagon, calling the mules over and crudely hitching them up. I talk to them constantly, thanking them for being such placid animals and so helpful. I promise them everything from their freedom to vast banquets of hay.
Finally, I manage to haul myself up onto the bed of the wagon. If I lie on my left side, as far forward as possible, I can see beneath the seat and give rough directions to the mules by hauling on the reins.
Despite the slow travel of the mules and all my precautions, every bump on the short journey back to Blazer's Mill is agony, but I'm insanely proud of my achievements. Despite everything, I haven't panicked or given in and just lain down. I've cheated death.
As I round the last hill and see Godfroy's house, I let out a weak cheer. The mules smell water and food and keep going even when I drop the reins and black out once more.
“You're one lucky fella,” Frederick Godfroy says as his wife, Clara, feeds me tiny spoonfuls of delicious soup. Whether I'm lucky or not can be argued both ways. I'm not lucky to have a broken leg, but I'm lucky not to be dead.
Last night, when the mules sauntered up and began drinking calmly at the trough, Godfroy came out to see why there was an empty wagon in front of his house. At first sight, with blood all over my face, he thought I was dead, but then I moved and cried out.
My crude attempt at a splint told him that my leg was broken, so he called a couple of men over and took the front door off the house to carry me in on. That short journey hurt as much as anything I had been through that day, as did removing the splint, cutting my pants off and Godfroy prodding to see what the damage to the bone was. Apparently I cursed him roundly and told him to leave me alone, but I remember very little until I woke up this morning in a makeshift bed in his parlor.
“Didn't think you'd appreciate being carried upstairs,” he says with a smile as Clara holds my head and feeds me some more soup. “Far as could tell last night, the break's simple.” He glances down at the two mounds made by my feet beneath the sheet that cover me. “Your right leg's about an inch shorter than the other, so I reckon, the bone ends are not matched up exact, but I'm not about to go pulling to try and set it better.
“I saw much worse in the war. With those splints I put on and a good long spell lying on your back, the bone ends should knit together well. I reckon you'll have a limp, but you should be able to get around all right.”
“Thank you,” I say weakly. “You saved my life.”
“Nonsense. You did that. If you hadn't got yourself here, you'd most likely be buzzard food by now. What was I going to do, leave you outside in the wagon to smell the place up? If there's anything here that'll save your life, it'll be Clara's soup, so eat up.
“Now, you're more than welcome to stay here until you mend. I've sent a man off to Fort Stanton first thing this morning to let the army know that you're here and that those three have run off. I expect there'll be a patrol down here in a few days, and I asked for the fort surgeon to be with them, though I don't know there's much he can do that hasn't been already done. Meantime, you let Clara fuss over you.”
“Thank you,” I repeat. “The Apache that I burned last night, Ghost Moon, he watched me leave yesterday.”
“I reckon he saw you with those two fine horses in tow and saw his chance,” Godfroy says.
“If I hadn't woken up, he'd just have taken the horses and left.”
“I doubt that. He's mean as they come. If you hadn't disturbed him, I reckon you'd have woken up with your skull caved in or your throat slit. I am a bit surprised that he didn't kill you for burning him like you say you did. Maybe you hurt him real bad or the others persuaded him not to. After all, the army'll put a lot more effort into catching a murderer than a horse thief.
