Paint the Hills Red

by Ron Schwab

  He flung her to the earth, and she collapsed there, stunned, groping in the mud, her mind foggy. Groggily, she turned over and raised herself up on one elbow, shielding her eyes with her hand as she tried to ward off the fierce rain that pelted her face. She could barely make out the blurry mass of the man who towered over her, leering and triumphant.

  “Bitch,” he snarled. “God damn bitch. You gave me a chase. If I had the time, you’d pay me for your trouble. Pay me like the puta you are.”

  She struggled futilely like an injured bird to get up, until the gunman’s booted foot smashed into her cheekbone and slammed her head against a protruding ragged chunk of granite. She looked up at the fuzzy outline of his rifle aimed to fire, before her vision faded, and she found herself looking into two black, empty tunnels. Panic gripped her for only a moment when she realized she could not see. Exhausted, she surrendered to her fate and fell back, strangely unafraid, to await the bullet that would end it all.

  “Take a good look, sweetheart. I’m the last living thing you’ll ever see.”

  Through the pain that racked her skull, it finally registered in her hazy brain she must be staring at the killer, and he, of course, was not aware that she could not see. What was he waiting for, she wondered, lying there limp and motionless like a rag doll, the rain pelting her face like tiny stones.

  “Kind of hate to do this,” she heard the gunman’s voice. “Kinda like shootin’ a piece of good horseflesh.”

  The gun exploded, roaring like thunder in her ears. She felt no pain, only a creeping numbness taking over first her legs and then her arms. The spinning in her head was carrying her away like wheat chaff in a whirlwind. So this is how it was to die.

  8

  STRUGGLING TO MAINTAIN his precarious hold on Megan, Dan leaned his rifle against the wall, shifted the young woman in his arms and carried her to the fireplace where he knelt down and placed her gently on the buffalo hide rug. Her chest rose and fell evenly he observed, but her face, normally dark and lustrous, was bleached white. He turned her face toward the fireplace to catch the flickering light. Her left cheek was raw and swollen, puffed up like a mushroom from her upper jaw to her eye. He probed the injury tentatively, satisfying himself that the jaw was not broken.

  Then he spied the sticky crimson that matted the disheveled hair above the ear. With deft fingers, he parted the sable strands and uncovered a gaping wound. It was only a few inches long but ominously deep. Fortunately, it seemed to be clotting. It needed attention but could wait.

  What troubled him most was the deepness of her sleep. There was not the lightest fluttering of an eyelash, not the faintest moan from her throat, not the least twitch of a muscle. But for the steady rhythm of her breathing, she might have been a model from sculptor’s wax. He resolved that whoever had been responsible, whether Dunkirk or someone else, would answer for it.

  He got up and started rummaging through the trunk where he stashed his meager wardrobe and momentarily retrieved a faded red union suit. He snatched up two flannel shirts, returned to Megan’s side and yanked off her mud-caked boots and soggy woolen socks. Then he removed her shirt and trousers and hesitated only a moment before slipping off her undergarments.

  He dried her off quickly and maneuvered her legs and arms into the red flannel. She could almost turn around inside his long johns, Dan thought, but they would keep her warm.

  He shoved his cot next to the fireplace and hoisted her off the floor, carefully placing her on the mattress. After covering her with a wool blanket, he was satisfied he had done all he could to make her comfortable, not that she would know the difference in her present state, he thought, but her body should and, hopefully, it would respond.

  Next, he washed her face, dabbing tenderly at her puffy cheek which was showing the first traces of blue and purple now. He sponged the sticky blood and mud from the hair that was pasted around the awesome gash above her ear, and as he did so, fresh blood began to trickle from the wound again. It would have to be closed, he decided.

  He found his straight-edge razor and came up with a three-inch needle and some tough cord he used for lacing leather. He would have preferred something more refined, but this would have to do. He sliced the hair around the wound away in hunks, and then shaved her scalp bare about three inches on each side of the wound. In a matter of minutes he had adeptly closed the wound with a half-dozen crisscross stitches. That finished, he pulled a chair up beside the bed and, with a deep sigh, dropped onto it. He sat there basking in the warmth of the fire, his neck and shoulders aching, his own healing wounds suddenly throbbing and hurting. He gazed at her sallow, peaceful face, helpless to do more, knowing there was nothing left but the vigil, the wait, to see which way her condition turned.

  Damn, if he had insisted that she stay the night or if he had accompanied her back to the Bar G. Of course, she would not have consented to either. He had never seen such a headstrong woman. But who would have dreamed someone would have been stalking the ranch in a storm like this one. Could he or anyone else ever sleep with peace of mind with men like that riding the Pine Ridge? My God, it was 1882, only five years since Custer had met his Maker at the Little Big Horn. A Sioux raid, although unlikely these days, was a risk a man assumed when he set his roots in Pine Ridge. But this murderer was not Sioux: he was white. Dan had not anticipated a war on this front when he purchased the ranch from Ike Hanson.

  He thought of the gunslinger he had left sprawled in the mud, stone dead, hands clutched at the bleeding cavern in his chest as if in death trying to dam up the scarlet river that escaped between his fingers.

  He glanced over at the Sharps rifle that leaned against the wall. A souvenir of army days. He had snatched it up when he had heard the muffled voices outside because it was handy. The Sharps could bring down a bull buffalo at a hundred yards. What it did to a man at ten, he did not like to think about.

  But he had had no choice, he reminded himself. The gunman’s own rifle had been aimed at Megan Grant’s head when Dan had burst upon the scene. The man had been facing Dan when he broke out of the trees, but he had been so absorbed in finishing off his victim, he had never seen him, and Dan’s instincts had told him it was not a time for granting quarter. He had squeezed the trigger of the Sharps, and he winced now at the memory of its recoil against his shoulder in the same instant that the bullet had lifted the man upright and driven him backward with cannon like force before dropping him in the mud. A glance at the fallen gunman had satisfied Dan that the man was beyond help.

  Seeing she was unconscious, Dan had scooped Megan up in his arms and trudged back down the hillside for the sanctuary of the ranch house.

  Dan’s eyes drifted shut and then blinked open, the hair on the back of his neck bristling at the sound of footsteps on the creaking porch. He bolted out of his chair and grabbed the Sharps just as someone rapped harshly on the oak door.

  “It’s me, Dan,” came the familiar raspy voice.

  Dan lifted the latch and opened the door. “Come on in, Sol.”

  “I’m lookin’ for Meggie,” the grizzled man said. “She ain’t come home yet. I came upon your horse over on the ridge. Somebody shot him. I figured maybe Meggie—” Then the old man saw Megan, and he whipped off his hat and hobbled over to her bedside. His face, ruddy from the wet and cold, turned ashen as he stared at Megan’s quiet form. He looked up questioningly at Dan.

  “I don’t know how bad she is, Sol. It’s been several hours since I found her. Her face looks bad, I know, but I think it’s the gash above her ear that’s causing the trouble. Either the man struck her, or she hit her head when she fell. I stitched the wound shut the best I could, but she must have taken quite a blow. She hasn’t moved since I brought her here.”

  “Man . . . what man?”

  “I don’t know who he was. Big, solid-looking man with kind of a hawk nose. Dark. Wore a Plainsman hat. From what you say, he must have taken a shot at Megan up on the ridge and killed the horse.” He shook his head in d
isbelief. “She must have come all the way back here on foot. Anyway, I thought I heard a voice outside earlier. I suspected it was my imagination, but I went to the window to take a look, and I saw the big man heading across the ranch yard toward the timber on the west side of the house. He had a rifle in his hand, so I figured I’d better check things out. Damn glad I did. He was getting ready to put a bullet in Megan just as I got there.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He’s dead. I left him where he fell. Maybe you’ll know who he is. You can take a look in the morning.”

  “Sounds like Rafael Mendosa. He wears a Plainsman. He’s one of Dunkirk’s hired guns. My guess is he was headed to your place and saw a chance to kill two flies with one swat.”

  “I’m still skeptical, Sol. I can’t believe anyone would kill for a piece of land. But if this man works for Dunkirk, like you say he does, I’ll see that he gets back to his boss. I’ll deliver him personally.”

  Sol grunted. “Do what you want, young fellar. I don’t give a good goddamn anymore.” He nodded toward Megan. “You seem to know a little somethin’ about doctoring. What do you think?”

  “All we can do is wait. I don’t know any more than you do. I dealt with wounded soldiers when I was in the field because I had to, and I watched the post surgeon at Camp Robinson and picked up a few things. I’ve seen people lie unconscious for several days and then wake up bright and alert like nothing had ever happened.”

  “I’ve been around some, too,” Sol said, his voice cracking. “but I’ve seen more than one that never woke up.”

  Dan placed a comforting hand on Sol’s shoulder. “She’ll wake up, Sol, I know she will. Bed down here tonight, and we’ll wait this out together.”

  “I wasn’t planning on going no place,” Sol said. “I’ll put my horse up in your barn. While I’m out, I’ll see if I can round up that dead jasper’s mount.”

  After Sol returned from putting up the horses, Dan threw some blankets on the floor. He was not as strong yet as he thought. The exhaustion was overpowering him and his strength was draining away like sand through an hourglass. He felt light-headed and slightly nauseous and knew that if he didn’t get rest, he would be flat on his back in a matter of minutes.

  Sol had taken up the vigil at Megan’s bedside, and as Dan stretched out on the floor, the old man said, “Get some shut eye, young fellar. I’ll wake you to spell me later.”

  “Let me know if she starts to come out of it,” Dan said.

  “I will, son.”

  Dan curled up, his hip and shoulder shifting futilely in an attempt to find a soft spot on the hardwood floor. But Dan was too tired to fret about it much. He looked up at the old man who kept his watch at Megan’s bedside, a gnarled hand resting on her lifeless arm, his weary, green eyes fastened on her face. Bleak eyes that reflected deep morose and pain. Those eyes. Where had he seen them before? Had his path crossed with Solomon Pyle’s at some other time and place? He always remembered eyes. He thought of them as the windows to the soul. If he painted the eyes right, he had the person right, no matter what other flaws might mar the canvas.

  Then he knew. Yes, he had seen those eyes before. He dropped off into a drugged sleep.

  When he woke up, he was greeted by a bright, sun-filled room. The storm had passed. Dan tossed off the blankets and sat up, shaking his head groggily, trying to clear his mind. “Why in the hell didn’t you wake me so you could get some rest?”

  “I was going to wake you, son,” Solomon Pyle said from his station by the bed. “But I wasn’t in no state for sleepin’ and you was limp as a neck-wrung rooster. You did your job; sitting here was mine.”

  “How is she?”

  “She ain’t come around yet, but she’s been stirring some.”

  Dan got up and stepped over beside the bed. Megan was turning her head slowly from side to side, her arms flailing helplessly as Sol pinned her shoulders gently, but firmly against the bed and whispered soothingly like a man might calm a skittish horse. A wave of relief swept over Dan. She was climbing out of it; she was going to pull through.

  Suddenly, Megan’s body tensed and just as quickly relaxed and her eyes opened. “Sol?” she asked.

  “Right here, Meggie,” he said touching fingers to her pale cheek.

  “Sol,” she choked, her eyes jerking wildly without seeming to focus.

  “Meggie? What is it, child?”

  “I . . . I can’t see. Sol, what’s wrong with me? Mendosa? Where is he?”

  Sol Pyle looked like a man who had been kicked in the balls, Dan thought. Breathless, Dan knelt down beside the bed. “Megan, it’s Dan McClure. You’re all right. You’re in my house. Mendosa’s dead. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Her hands went to her face. Her fingers explored the flesh around her eyes, touching her eyelids as if to confirm that all the parts were there. Her teeth dug into her lower lip and several of the tears she was trying to hold back squeezed out of the corners of her eyes.

  “I can’t see anything,” she cried. “I can’t see. I . . . I’m blind.”

  Dan could see she was on the verge of panic, bravely trying to subdue the fear, the utter terror that had to be overwhelming her. He took her hand in his and drew it away from her face.

  “Megan, I know it’s easy to say, but don’t be afraid. Sol and I are here, and we’re not going anyplace.”

  “I can’t help it,” she replied, her voice husky. “I’m frightened. More than I’ve ever been.”

  “I can understand,” Dan said. “You had a blow on the head. Give it time.”

  “How much time? An hour? A day? A month?”

  “I don’t know. A few days, maybe.”

  “What if I can’t see then?”

  “We’ll take you to Fort Robinson and have the post surgeon take a look at you.”

  “What if he says I won’t see again?”

  Dan hesitated. Sol looked up at him with glazed eyes. “Then you won’t,” Dan said, “and you’ll have to adjust to it and accept it.”

  She yanked her hand away. “You cold son-of-a-bitch. You act like I stubbed my toe or something.” She curled up in a ball and began to sob pathetically. “I don’t want to live if I can’t see,” she murmured.

  “Yes, you do,” Dan said, his voice firm. “Now, get hold of yourself.”

  “Get away from me. Get out of here!” she screamed.

  “Meggie, child,” Sol said.

  “I am not a child,” she snapped, choking back tears.

  “Then quit acting like one,” Dan said.

  Sol’s face flushed. “Now look here, Dan. We’re in your debt for what you done, but there ain’t no need to be so damned mean about this.”

  “There’s no debt, Sol. Besides, this would have never happened if Megan hadn’t come over to help me out. But she’s got to be patient. She doesn’t have any other choice. You and I both know the best thing she can do right now is eat and rest.”

  “Damn you, Dan McClure,” Megan said, turning toward Dan, composing herself. “I’m here. You can talk to me. Both of you, quit talking back and forth like I’m deaf or something.” She paused while she touched her arms and legs inquisitively. “What am I wearing?”

  “My long johns,” Dan said.

  “I don’t remember putting them on.”

  “You didn’t. I did.”

  “You mean you took my clothes off? Stripped me naked?”

  “Well, not entirely. I didn’t take off the emerald ring you wear on your right hand.” He was pleased to see some color returning to her cheeks now.

  “Damn you, Dan McClure. Double damn you. What right did you have to do that?”

  “Megan, please, swearing isn’t becoming of a lady. And believe me, I didn’t have time to notice a thing.” And he hadn’t at the time. But he found himself now consciously remembering more than Megan would have liked and the memory was a rather pleasant one.

  “I suppose now I’ll end up in one of your filthy paintings,”
she said.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Dan said. “Not the way you look now. Half bald, your face swollen like a pumpkin. No, I’ll pass.”

  Her eyes, though unseeing, blazed momentarily and swelled up with tears, and he could see her straight, white teeth gritting between slightly parted lips. “I hate you, Dan McClure. I have you to thank for this. I’ll never forget that.”

  She spoke slowly, almost hissing it out. Her words stung, but he had accomplished his purpose. He had lured out the feisty bobcat in her; now she was ready to fight and that’s what she would have to do in the days that lay ahead.

  Sol sat there motionless, his shoulders slumped, his face skewered up, and a perplexed look in his eyes.

  “Sol,” Megan said, “I don’t want to stay here. Take me home. Now.”

  “But Meggie, I don’t think you’re ready to travel.”

  “I said now. I won’t stay another minute in this man’s house. If you won’t take me, I’ll go on my own. You can’t hold me here. I’ll get out of bed and find my way out somehow. I’ll walk home if I have to.”

  The old man patted her consolingly on the arm. “Now, Meggie, just you calm down.”

  “All right, old man. You don’t believe me?” She lifted herself shakily and sat up in bed. “I’m going home.”

  Sol shrugged and held out his hands in an empty gesture. He looked up at Dan, his eyes pleading.

  “She wants to go home, Sol. I think you’d better take her,” Dan said. “Megan?”

  She did not reply but sat there on the bed, her lips pursed tight, her arms folded across her chest, as though protecting the small, well-defined breasts that Dan knew lay beneath the woolen underwear.

  “I’ll make a bargain with you, Megan,” Dan continued. “Let me rustle up some breakfast, and we’ll all have something to eat. Then I’ll help Sol hitch up your buckboard and get you settled in for the ride home. Will you let me do that much?”