“Go along with you now, and stay out of trouble,” Mrs. Diehl said.
The three men walked to the Shamrock; the only sound was the scuffling of their boots along the boardwalk. As they entered, Cecil Starit was stacking chairs on the tables, preparing to close.
“Is it Irish nectar you’ll be wanting tonight?” Cecil asked, as he glanced at the three men entering his saloon.
“Aye it is, and you might bring the bottle and four glasses, if you’re a mind to join us,” Pat said, as they unstacked the chairs and sat at the table.
“Thanks for the invite, I’d be pleasured.” Cecil brought the bottle and four glasses, poured each a shot, and said, “To your health.” They each drank, then Pat poured another round.
“Did you see Bull ride back into town?” Cecil asked.
“We did, which has us wondering why he came back. He’s a back shooter, and I know for sure that Josh has him buffaloed,” Scott said.
“’Tis not a good sign, I’m thinking—him being back,” Pat said. “But I’ve been knowing Josh Logan for many a year, and hard it is for me to imagine that Bull could’ve gotten a shot into him.”
“Any man can be ambushed,” Scott said. “Even the best. I’m thinking that we head out in the morning just as we planned. We’ve been hired by Josh to do a job for Mr. Nance, so nothing has changed.”
“I’m with you, lad. We can leave bright and early and keep an eye out for any possible ambush. If it happened before he was to turn off, we’ll find it.”
“I think you boys have the right idea,” Jeremiah Diehl said. “Heaven knows I hope that Josh is fine, but if he isn’t, Bill Nance will need your help even more.”
“Then there it is,” Pat said. “A final toast to Josh’s safety.”
Chapter 14
“Get up, son. You can’t be lying there. You’ve got to be moving. If you lie there, you’ll die. No son of mine ever died because he was a quitter.”
“Pa?” Josh whispered. “Pa, are you there?”
Josh felt the warmth of the sun slipping through the treetops. He looked toward the warmth, but could only see a diffused red. His eyes were closed. Try as he might, he couldn’t open them. He tried to raise his head and was engulfed in a sea of pain. He was being stabbed all over his upper body. It was like needles jabbed into his body, especially in the back of his neck, when he tried to turn his head. He moved his left hand up to his neck. “What the blazes is stabbing me?”
His hand found the prickly pear pad, as spines lanced into his fingers. He jerked his hand away, trying to figure out what it was. Tentatively he reached back again, felt a spine, moved his fingers away from it, and grasped an open space on the pad. He ripped the pad from his neck, leaving a few spines embedded. Now at least he could turn his head, even though the spines torn from the pad still pierced his skin.
“Why can’t I see?” He felt around his face, his eyes. They were crusted over with a hard, flaky material. Slowly, painfully, he began to rub and pick away flakes away from his eyes. When he felt most of the substance gone, he moistened his fingers with saliva and continued to rub. Gradually his eyelids opened. He looked at his fingers, blood. Some of the encrusted blood remained over his eyelids, but he could see.
What he saw shocked his clouded mind. There was almost no place from his waist up that wasn’t covered with blood. He tried to think through the pain. How did I get here? What happened? Gradually yesterday’s events started coming back. I remember the sun coming out. The glint on the hillside. I spurred the roan. The last thing I remember was the puff of smoke. I must have been looking right at it.
Josh hurt all over, but his head felt like it was going to explode. He tentatively touched the right side of his head. He felt a long, blood-encrusted gash. It hurt like blazes. Bull Westin. I knew he was a back shooter. Should have been more alert.
His mind couldn’t stay focused. He could swear Pa had been here, but he knew that was impossible. Gradually he started assessing his injuries. His left boot was gone and his left leg hurt like the dickens. He flexed it and it seemed to work fine. He moved his right leg—no pain. At least some part of me doesn’t hurt. His gun; he felt frantically for the Colt. Somehow the leather thong had held his gun in place. He breathed a short sigh—it hurt to breathe. Josh pushed himself up into a sitting position. He passed out.
He was out only a few minutes. As he regained consciousness he reached into his right pocket and sighed with relief. His Barlow that Pa had given him was still in his pocket. At least he had his knife and Colt. He needed to sit up. Josh took a deep breath and was rewarded with sharp pain on his right side. Hope that’s not a broken rib. My left boot is gone, my left leg hurts like the dickens. I must have been dragged. Where’s the roan? Josh looked around him as best he could … no roan. He pulled himself up against the big oak tree and leaned back. Sharp needles stabbed him all over his back. My gosh. The horse must have dragged me through a mile of prickly pear. I’ve got to get these things out of me. Josh passed out again.
When he came to, he started picking out the prickly pear spines that he could reach. His upper body was covered with them. Methodically he worked. Each long, barbed spine dug into his flesh and required a distinct yank to get it out. He removed the majority of the long spines from his arms and chest, but the tiny, fuzzy barbed spines remained. He was thirsty. He hadn’t had any liquid since the coffee the day before. He had to find water. He had to start moving. Josh passed out again.
“Come on, Josh. You best be moving. You’ve got to find water, my boy. You can do it. You’re a Logan. Your Ma and I are counting on you.”
Josh woke up and looked around. He could swear he heard his pa but no one was around. He knew he had to get moving. If he stayed here he would die. He might die anyway, but not like this … not giving up. I need a walking stick. He pulled out his Barlow and opened it. A green pin oak limb about six feet long lay within his reach. Must have blown off in the storm. He reached out, pulled it to him, and slowly trimmed the branch with his Barlow until it was as clean and smooth as possible. He slipped his knife back into his pocket, and using his newly found staff, braced against the tree and slowly stood. His head throbbed and it was hard to focus. He took his first step and fell. Josh lay there for a moment, pushed off from the ground with his lacerated hands, raised up to one knee, grasped the staff with both hands, and took a couple of deep breaths that were cut short by the pain in his right side. He slowly pulled himself to his feet.
He had to get to the ranch, but first he had to find water. It would be easier after the rain, although the water would be soaked up fairly fast in this dry country. He staggered forward, deeper into the the trees. There was a slight slope here. If he cut across it, he may find a stream bed. He kept moving forward, drifting in and out of delirium. He felt like his father was close, guiding him. He fell again—and again. Each time he got back up.
It was hard walking with only one boot. His sock had quickly been eaten away by the rough ground, and the sole of his left foot was bloody. He kept moving, one foot in front of the other. One more step; he had to find water. He had covered several miles. His head drooped, and he found it hard to keep his eyes open, then he fell, this time, over the small creek’s embankment. He tumbled down the side, through the brush into the rocky creek, and passed out again. He was within inches of water, but he wasn’t moving.
Travels Far had been watching Josh since the previous afternoon. He’d seen Bull shoot. He watched as Josh had been dragged into the timber. He waited until Bull left, then rode after the fallen man. The trail was easy to follow; blood was everywhere. The man would be dead when he found him. He would take his scalp and whatever of value and leave him.
The old Kickapoo had no use for the white man. His people had originally lived in the green land of the north, near the big lakes. Life was good and game was abundant. Then the white men moved in, they had been driven from their land farther and farther south. Now they were in Texas. There was plenty of buffa
lo and other game, but now they had to also contend with the Comanche.
Travels Far came up to the white man as he lay unconscious next to the tree. He had watched the man through the night and heard him speak through his delirium. Travels Far was a patient man. He could take this man’s scalp anytime. He waited. The white man, as if in a trance, rubbed his blood-encrusted eyes. He fumbled around, searching in his half blinded state, and found a limb. With his knife, he trimmed the limb into an acceptable walking stick, then he rested. After his short rest, he gathered himself and, using the walking stick in one hand while bracing himself against the tree with his other, he pulled himself erect and moved off in a staggering shuffle. The Kickapoo was fascinated that this man, as seriously hurt as he was, had gotten to his feet, and even though he constantly fell, he continued to move forward. The Kickapoo respected strength and bravery. This would be interesting to see how long the white man could keep going. Ah, he fell again. He lay there not moving.
Travels Far, no more than seven or eight feet behind Josh, sat his horse quietly watching the white man. He wouldn’t get up this time, and if he wasn’t dead, the Kickapoo would kill him. Again he watched, amazed, as the man pushed himself up and started staggering forward again. He could see the massive head wound on the right side of Josh’s head. Blood was still seeping down over his ear and his neck, yet he continued to move forward. As he followed Josh, he began to think, this white man doesn’t deserve to die like this. It would take a huge spirit to keep a man moving with the injuries he has. As the distance covered by Josh mounted, Travels Far made a decision. He would take this white man to his village. There the women could work with him. The man would probably die, but the Kickapoo people would not take his life.
Travels Far followed slowly behind the man. Each time he fell, he would rise again and move forward. He was now leaving a bloody footprint from his left foot. The sole of his foot was raw, but he kept moving forward. The Kickapoo wondered if the man would notice the creek he was approaching. The creek had pecan trees and pin oaks along the outer bank. Near the bank was a line of brush. The white man kept moving. He stopped momentarily at the brush line, pushed on through, and stepped over the edge. He fell, rolling into the creek bed where he lay still. Water was only inches from his face. Travels Far could hear him talking to himself.
“I can make it, Pa. I won’t let you down,” Josh mumbled. He moved his arm to get up and struck the water. He fumbled desperately forward and dropped his face into the water. It was fresh and cool. It tasted good as it trickled over his swollen tongue and down his parched throat. He splashed water over his head, cleaned his eyes and tried to cleanse his head of some of the blood—it was still bleeding. He lay quiet for a moment, then drank more water. How far had he come? If I only knew more about this country. But somehow I’m going to make it out of here. I know it. Josh wanted to roll over onto his back and relax those back muscles, but his back was covered with the prickly pear spines, and it felt like a thousand needles when he attempted to lie on his back.
He drank more water. He had no means to carry water. I must drink as much as I can before I start out again. He lay a moment more, then struggled to his feet, fell back to his knees, vomited most of the water he drank and passed out.
Travels Far rode his mustang into the creek bed, sat for a moment watching Josh, then slipped off his horse. He examined the white man closely. His body was bleeding and bruised, his left foot was raw, his left knee was swollen so much it was tight inside his pants leg. Shaking his head, he wondered, in disbelief, how the man could even stand on this knee. He looked over the white man’s hands. They were raw and bloody. They had taken tremendous punishment while he was being dragged. Travels Far examined Josh’s head wound. This white man was lucky. If the bullet had been the thickness of buckskin leather closer, he would be dead. Travels Far carefully moved his hand over Josh’s upper body. It was covered with prickly pear thorns, not only the big thorns, but the small fuzzy needles that worked their way into the flesh with every movement. They must come out or they would sour and smell and might even cause the man to die—if he didn’t die from his head wound or from injuries inside his body.
The old Kickapoo slipped his arms under Josh’s arms and clinched his hands together on his chest. He lifted Josh with one smooth motion and carried him to the mustang. The horse rolled his eyes at the white man smell but stood his ground as Travels Far spoke to him softly. With one motion, he powered Josh across the mustang’s withers. Josh lay on his stomach with his head to the left side of the horse and his legs hanging on the opposite side. Travels Far leaped onto the back of his horse, spoke to him again, and nudged him with his heels. The horse went up the opposite bank carrying the Indian and the white man.
Chapter 15
After saying their goodbyes, Scott and Pat had gotten an early start. Tiny had the wagon hitched with a new team and both their horses saddled when they reached the stables.
“Good luck finding Josh,” Tiny said as the two men were tying on their saddle bags. “Sure hope he’s okay.”
Pat’s brow was wrinkled with worry. Concern for his friend had kept him awake much of the night. He climbed onto the wagon seat and grasped the reins in his big hands. “We’ll be keeping an eye out for sure. Josh is a tough hombre. I’m hoping it’s nothing we’ll be finding. That’ll mean the lad is at least alive.”
Scott nodded. “I reckon we’ll find something. Bull Westin wouldn’t dare to come back into town if he thought there was a chance of running into Josh. Josh posted him out of town, and Westin knows that their next meeting will be his last. I hate to say it, but I think Josh was bushwhacked, and we’ll probably find him.”
Tiny shook his head. “I sure hope you’re wrong, Scott. I surely do.”
The hot summer sun was sliding up toward mid-morning when they pulled up at the point where Josh split off and they headed back to town. Not even noon and the sun was already intense. Scott yanked off his kerchief and wiped his face. “If Josh ain’t dead, I sure hope he still has his hat. Without your hat in this country, it don’t take long for this heat to kill you.”
“He’ll be needing water, too, laddie,” Pat said. “Let’s just move along his trail and see if we can spot anything.”
Scott moved ahead of the team as he tracked Josh. It was easy after the rain. His tracks were deep, as the hooves of his horse sunk into the muddy ground of yesterday. Today the ground had already dried, and the horses stirred little puffs of dust as they walked. “Looks like Josh let the roan out a little to let him stretch his muscles,” he said, as he registered the distance between the horse’s tracks. After a while, he could see where Josh had pulled him back to a walk. The roan was a big horse and, even at a walk, he covered a lot of country. “We’ll be reaching the point where Josh would have been turning southeast soon. If we don’t find anything before then, we’ll have to head south to get to the ranch.”
“We’ll be going a bit farther yet,” Pat said. With Scott doing the tracking, he kept a watch for any possible ambush site. They were in Indian country, and it never paid to relax out here. He had been in the cavalry for what felt like his whole life. Whether it was Indians or Johnny Rebs, a man had to be on his toes all the time.
“Hold it up,” Scott said, as he stepped from the saddle. He could see where the roan had leaped forward from a walk. He examined the ground and shinnery patches. There it was; a spot of blood. “Why don’t you climb down and take a look at this.”
Pat stepped down from the wagon and walked over to where Scott was kneeling.. “Shades of the devil,” Pat exclaimed. He reached down and picked up the coagulated blood. “He should’ve killed the bushwhacker when he had the chance.”
Scott walked a little farther, "It gets worse. Look at this.”
Pat walked over to Scott—there was sign that made his flesh crawl. “It’s looking like his foot caught in the stirrup. That crowbait roan must’ve took off running and dragging Josh. Lord have mercy, look at the bl
ood.” Every few steps there was another impression in the ground or blood on the prickly pear where Josh’s body had been ravaged. “Well, as much as I don’t like this, at least maybe we can find him.”
Scott climbed back onto his horse to follow the gruesome trail; Pat trailed behind in the wagon. The roan was heading for a bunch of pin oaks.
Scott noticed another set of horse’s tracks. These were unshod. “Looks like Josh has more trouble,” Scott said. “There’s an Indian following him.” When they entered the tree line, Scott found Josh’s boot where it had finally slipped off his foot. He saw where the horse’s momentum had slung Josh against the old oak’s trunk. Blood had pooled here. Josh must have been here for a long time. He saw where Josh had pushed himself against the tree trunk. Scott got off his horse and picked up a prickly pear pad covered with blood. He carried it back to Pat. “Look at this.”
Pat just shook his head. “Aye, ‘tis hard to imagine the pain this boy must be in. But I know him, and the lad is no quitter. As long as there’s an ounce of strength in his body, he’ll be fighting. Though I’m mightily concerned about the Indian.”
They followed Josh, noting where he would fall and get up, fall and get up. What was interesting was that the Indian’s horse was moving very slowly. It looked like he was walking right behind Josh. When they came to the creek, the brush was bloody, and the sign told the story. Josh didn’t even notice the creek before he fell.
Scott dismounted, and Pat followed him down into the creek. It wasn’t running, but shallow pools of water from yesterday’s rain stood in the creek bed. Reading the sign, Scott saw where Josh had drank from the creek, had vomited, and passed out again. They could see where the Indian had picked him up—no small feat—and evidently laid him over the horse, and leaped up behind him. The horse’s tracks led up the other side of the creek bed. Scott mounted up and Pat waited as Scott continued to follow the Indian’s tracks until they disappeared on the rocky ground east of the trees. Scott cast about trying to find the tracks. He gradually increased his circle, but there was no more sign of the Indian. He had just disappeared.
Logan's Word: A Logan Family Western - Book 1 (Logan Family Western Series) Page 11