‘Pa, that horse of his looks to be a good one. Ain’t there some way we could mix him in our herd?’
‘No, I don’t think so, Frank. What we’ll do is take the stallion back and let him run loose. Someone’ll find him and when we hear about the lucky guy finding a big black with a brand no one recognizes, we’ll offer to buy him. I agree, he’ll make a good addition to our stock.’
Without raising his head, Buck tried to make out where they were. Looking sideways all he could see was sand dunes undulating into the distance. Feeling the pain from the bright sun scorching his eyeballs, he quickly closed them and relaxed to the jogging of his horse, the throbbing in his head matching the jolting of his head.
The next time Buck returned to consciousness was when the three stopped. Only partially aware, he felt his hands being cut loose. The sharp stabbing pain took his attention and he didn’t know that his legs had been loosened also. Not until, like the first time, his leg was jerked up and he was thrown from the saddle. This time he landed flat on his back in soft, gritty sand. Hot sand.
‘Well, Mr Armstrong, this is where we leave you. When you look around I think you’ll agree it’s a good place. At least as good as any. From where I sit they all look alike. Just sand as far as I can see. No water, just sand and the sun,’ his laugh sounded harsh. Frank rolled Buck over, tightening the gunbelt around his waist. ‘There. Now when someone finds your body they won’t wonder why you weren’t wearing your six-gun. C’mon Frank. We got a good ride ahead of us to water.’ Laughing the two rode away, leading Buck’s big black stud.
This time it was the cool air that brought the big man back to life. Buck faintly remembered hearing the Hightowers’ laughter before passing out. Waking up shivering, he curled up and clutched his swollen hands to his stomach. Time passed as he slowly became aware of where he was. Except for the light breeze that blew across the sand there was only one other sound, that of his groans as he sat up. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees he thought about what had happened. They had beaten him and then left him to die. Somehow he had to beat that.
Resting with his head hanging, Buck tried to think. How long had they ridden after the beating? How far into the sand blow had they came before dumping him off his big black? More importantly, he realized, which direction did they go when they rode off?
His head still ached with each beat of his heart and each time he moved his skin, stiff with dried blood, felt like it was being ripped off. But he had to start if he was going to survive. To sit through the coolness of the night was to die in tomorrow’s heat. The swelling from the beating his face had taken had left his cheeks puffed up and he could barely open his eyes. Seeing through thin slits, he looked around sluggishly. The moon, having just risen above the dark horizon, lit the landscape and let him see the stark sameness. Clumps of low-lying brush were few and far between, each throwing long shadows across the blowing sand.
Letting his head drop, he rested with his chin on his chest and thought about a drink of cold water. Chasing that thought out of his mind, he took a deep breath only to be stopped by pain. Breathing deeply expanded his chest and sent pains through his upper body. Frank had hammered him and now every one of those wallops offered its own level of pain. It was quite possible, he realized, that he had one or more cracked ribs.
Forcing his eyes open, he looked down and saw the marks left in the soft sand where he had lain. Looking up a little, he found where the soft blowing sand was filling the depressions left by the walking horses. That way, he saw, was where he’d have to go. Toward that bush near the top of the next dune. He’d have to crawl, but he couldn’t just sit here and die.
Crawl he did. Standing up was impossible. The pain in his stomach nearly made him faint when he tried to straighten up. To move at all meant going on hands and knees and his hands were still too painful to support his weight. On his elbows and knees was slow, but he did move toward that bush.
Reaching his goal he went on the few feet to the top of the low dune and, with the moon rising directly behind him, he sighted ahead for the next goal. Hour after hour he crawled. As the feet and yards went by he found his body loosening and he was able to maintain a certain rhythm … one elbow to pull and a knee to push and then the other side. The trail he was leaving in the sand, he thought, was probably a lot like that left by the movement of a sidewinder rattlesnake.
Exhaustion finally caused him to stop and rest. The moon, early in its monthly phase, was almost directly overhead as he simply ceased all movement and let his head droop. Tired and sore as he was, he realized that he couldn’t surrender to sleep. Some time before the moon set he’d have to find a place to hole up. Some place with a little shade to protect him from the sun that was sure to make the next day painful. A place next to a waterhole would be asking too much, he smiled … or tried to smile. Even that made his face hurt. Between his torn skin and the dryness of his mouth, any smiling would have to wait.
Rested, he started out again. Up this dune, down the other side, sometimes letting his weight overbalance him and he’d roll down the next slope, crawling on to his next goal to do it all over again. He had no way of telling how far he went but he had to keep moving. The realization that he couldn’t even be sure he was still going in the right direction was almost too much. Shaking his head in denial, he forced that thought away. No matter. He’d have to keep moving.
Luck was with him. Coming to the top of an especially tall dune, he started looking ahead for his next marker when he noticed that darkness was thinning out. False dawn, a sign that the sun would be coming up in a few minutes. For a while he’d been aware that clear thinking had become more difficult. Tiredness and loss of moisture made his head feel like it was full of soft cotton. Getting a thought through that thick mass was becoming harder as the night wore on. Sluggishly, he mulled over whether to stay on top of the dune or to roll to the bottom. The question of where would be a better place to spend the coming day seemed to take a long time to frame. The answer took even longer.
He was about to just let gravity take control when he noticed that the down side of the dune he was on didn’t just slope off. He was on top of some kind of low bluff. He’d have to circle around a ways. Out of habit he spotted the next goal, a strange-shaped bush, and rolled to one side. Crawling a little and rolling, letting the loose sand help, he finally made it past the side of the bluff and slid to the bottom. Now he could see what had got in his way. It was a rock outcropping. In the waning moonlight, the low lying wall of shale-like rock was in darkness. Lying still, resting his tired body, he watched as the light of the coming dawn showed him one corner was darker than the rest. He’d found a small overhang. This might offer him some shelter from the coming day’s heat.
CHAPTER 24
The overhang wasn’t enough to keep his entire big frame out of the sun but without it he’d not have made it through the day. The shade, with the exception of the earliest hours of the day, was enough to keep his head and upper body out of the direct blistering sun. Moving as the sun made its gradual way across the bright blue sky, he was able to keep everything protected except his legs. By noon his feet, inside the leather boots, felt like they were cooking. Try as he might, he couldn’t curl enough of his body to get all the way under the narrow rocky cave.
Late afternoon, when the sun pasted its zenith and shade from the rock outcropping itself began shading the bottom of the shallow gully, the difference was remarkable. Battling the heat and working his hands helped keep Buck from dwelling on his growing thirst. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a drink. Thinking about it made his dry mouth water, early on. Later in the morning he slipped a small round rock under his tongue, hoping to generate saliva. But by the time the life-saving shade began its slow march across his broiled legs, his tongue had swollen and even if he could have closed his mouth, his lips wouldn’t have met around it. Blisters around his lips had cracked and even that little amount of moisture drained away because his tongue
wasn’t able to move.
Lying still in the afternoon shade he thought about the coming night. Somehow he’d have to find water; he knew he wouldn’t last another day without it. It seemed, lying still to conserve his strength and possibly reduce the amount of sweating, he could feel his body dry out. Late in the day, just before the evening breeze sprang up, he realized he was no longer sweating: that was a bad sign.
It was hard, out waiting the sun, wanting to begin the night’s journey to either water or death, but he knew outside the gully the sun was still burning the sand. Move or die, his mind told him, move or die. But move too soon also meant death. The breeze and shade made a noticeable drop in the temperature, though, and moving slowly and carefully, and using the rock wall for support, he stood up. Weakness made his legs tremble and without the rocks behind him he would have fallen over. Tonight, he swore, he wouldn’t crawl, he’d walk.
Even without water, the day’s rest had refreshed him. At first his steps were shaky and more of a shuffle than a real step, but as the moon, a little larger tonight, came up, his muscles worked loose and his stride lengthened. Before the full light of the big, yellow white orb began shortening the shadows of rocks and bushes, he was making good time. At least now he was walking up the dunes, going from one clump of sagebrush or rock to another. The first target he saw, the odd-shaped bush he’d marked in his mind that morning, had turned out to be a large rock. More and more as he made his way, rocks and even a few boulders started showing up.
As he walked, keeping his mind focused on maintaining what he hoped was the right direction, he flexed his hands. Trying not to think of how thirsty he was he built a mental image of what he must look like, his face streaked with dried blood from the beating or blistering from the sunburned area that were more usually protected by his wide hat brim. Those thoughts helped for a while but as his body began to tire the throbbing of his head and the other pains that filled his body became minor. Thirst filled his every thought.
As his legs fought to keep moving, his vision began to blur. Standing for a minute on the slight rise that had taken a long time to climb, he looked ahead. Where last night he had been looking through mere slits, now he could open one eye fully and the other, still blocked by a rough feeling scab, would only open about halfway. But there, just a head a ways was a shimmering pond of water. Yes, there. Excitedly he took off running, only to fall as he tripped over a bush.
Groaning and with new soreness, he slowly got to his feet and looked for the pond. Disappointment filled him as he saw nothing but more sand, brush and rocks for as far as he could see.
Drunkenly now, he walked as his legs felt close to giving way. He wanted a drink. He wanted to lie down and sleep. Why not? Wouldn’t it be easier if he just lay down for a while? Get some rest and then go on?
No. Images of Hightower laughing as he rode away filled his mind. No. He wouldn’t give up. There was an accounting coming and by damn he was going to be there to get his due. For another hour or two he walked, going from one rock to the next, from one goal to the next, heading for water.
Breathing through his nose was becoming difficult. His tongue seemed to fill his mouth and for a time he’d been breathing through his nose. Now trying to fill his lungs with the cool night air was taking real concentration. His whole head felt like it was thick and full. One step at a time, with wobbly, trembling legs he walked through the moonlit night. Earlier he had walked without stopping. After a few hours it was too much and he had to stop and rest. As the moon moved across the sky his rest stops came more frequently. Looking ahead for the next goal he saw that the moon was nearing the far horizon. Daylight wouldn’t be far away.
He couldn’t stop. Even if he found another rocky overhang to cower in, he’d never make it through another day without water. He couldn’t stop. Weaving, stumbling and more than half asleep, he went on. Now, as the morning sun started bringing light to his world, he no longer was looking for the next marker to walk toward, he just walked.
Buck didn’t know when he fell, he was unconscious before hitting the ground. As the sun came up and the heat of the day fired up he wasn’t aware of it. Even with the bright light of day shining fully on him, he didn’t move.
CHAPTER 25
For a long time there was nothing but brightness. His world was no more than a glaring intense unmoving brightness that would gradually fade away into black nothingness. Once, when coming up into the bright shimmering he thought he could see a gray shadow moving by. Trying to figure out what this was, he gave up and once again let go and let the thinking grow fainter as he slipped into unconsciousness.
A cool wet cloth pressing lightly against his lips brought him by easy stages to awareness. Feeling weightless, he tried to open his eyes but couldn’t. Comfortable coolness made him accept his stillness. Hazy, he could hear voices far away. Not wanting to move he fell back to sleep.
It was the movement of light and shadow playing on his eyelids that woke him up. Opening one eye, he saw a dirty white canvas tunnel curved overhead. The dark skeleton shadow of a tree limb swaying played on the other side. His world exploded into bright sunlight as a canvas curtain was flung back at the end of the tunnel.
‘Well, so you finally decided to wake up and join the living, huh?’ The man climbing into the tunnel was a dark shadow with the sunlight behind him. ‘You are alive, aren’t you?’ Buck tried to figure out where he was. The last thing he remembered was intolerable thirst, a pain-filled world and putting one foot ahead of the other. Turning his head to see where he was, brought a groan and a stab of fire.
‘Ah, well, I would not be moving around too much too soon, young man. Somehow you’ve gotten yourself in trouble and it’ll be a while before you are completely out of it. Now, rest and in a little while I’ll have food brought to you.’ Softly chuckling the man turned and, moving very carefully, climbed down. It was Juan Navarro. That meant the tunnel was more than likely the sheepherder’s wagon. Wondering how that came to be, he dozed off.
Hunger and the smell of coffee roused him the next time. For the first time the dull ache in his stomach was hunger, not from the beating he’d taken. Moving very slowly and carefully, he pulled the thin blanket away from him and tried to set up. Wearing only his long johns, he looked down to see that his upper body was a mass of greenish-tinged black and blue blotches. Moving even that little bit caused each one to throb.
Getting out of the bed and making his way to the end of the wagon took a long time, but the smell of cooking food helped him along. Pushing aside the curtain he looked out on the sheepherder’s camp. The old Basque sat on a blanket, leaning back against a log on one side of the cook fire. He looked up when Buck stuck his head out. His son, Jose, had been stirring something in a big fire-blackened pot hanging over the fire but now stared up at the man crawling out of the back of the wagon.
‘Here,’ Juan cried, motioning to his son, ‘help him, Jose.’ The young man didn’t move and Buck stumbled over and lowered himself to the ground, leaning back against the log with a sign.
Glowering at the young man, Juan commented, ‘You should probably stay lying down for a while longer.’ His son said nothing but went back to stirring the pot.
‘I couldn’t stand it,’ Buck’s voice sounded more like a frog croaking than his normal gruffness. ‘The smell of food cause my stomach to raise such a noise that I couldn’t sleep any more. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying around, but I’ll be surprised if my belt still fits.’
‘I guess a cup of coffee would be the place to start. Since we brought you in, you’ve been drinking nothing but water. No wonder you’re hungry.’ Pouring a cup he handed it across to Buck. Gratefully, the big man sipped the hot liquid and nearly dropped the cup.
‘Yes, your lips are still a bit raw. I should have warned you.’
‘Raw lips and from what my chest looks like, a face that is one big blister, I’d say. You’re moving around a bit more since the last time I saw you. How’s that wound
coming along?’
‘Ah, it takes an old man longer to heal. Slowly, yes, slowly I am getting better. Thankfully, for all his bad manners, my son is making things better for me. On the other side, you look a lot worse and move like you hurt a lot more, but, no, you are not as bad as one would expect. Losing your hat out in that sun wasn’t a good idea. But from the marks on your body I have a feeling you didn’t just lose your way or your hat.’ Juan didn’t ask questions outright, but it was clear he wanted to know.
‘It certainly wasn’t my idea of a good way to see more of your country. How did you find me?’
‘It was Jose who found you. First he found your horse and then when he went looking for you, thinking you’d maybe fallen off or been bucked off or something, he found you. You were unconscious and looked dead but let out a groan when he tried to turn you over. He put you on your horse and brought you here to camp. That was three days ago. We’ve been giving you a little water every so often.’
‘Well, I owe you my life, Jose. I don’t know how far I came or how long I was without water, but I don’t think I’d have made it another day.’ Jose didn’t respond. Tapping the big spoon on the side of the pot, he set back from the fire and watched Buck.
His father frowned at the young man’s discourtesy and glanced at Buck. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, how did you get in such a state? It looks like you’ve been in a big fight and didn’t do so good.’
‘I let a couple of hard men get the drop on me,’ he explained, and went on to tell about the beating and the ride out into the sand blow. As he talked, Jose’s attitude began to change. ‘That’s where I got to, where you found me, Jose,’ he finished his story.
Buck and the Widow Rancher (2006) Page 11