The wolf’s tensed muscles trembled slightly in anticipation, then he calmed himself and lay motionless again, his eyes unblinking, locked on the two figures. The smaller animal was nearly level with him now. He knew if he attacked it, the larger one would be able to rush to its defense. Better to take care of the bigger one first.
The crouching figure moved past his hiding place and its large, long-legged companion moved forward too, until he was almost level with the spot where the wolf lay concealed. In spite of himself, another tremor of anticipation ran through the wolf’s body.
Tug looked up suddenly. He had heard something. Or sensed something. He wasn’t sure. But there was something close by. Something bad. He rumbled a low warning again.
Will looked at him and grinned. “What is it now?” he asked. “It can’t be our friend the wolf. He’s definitely heading this way.” He pointed in the direction the wolf had been following and moved forward.
Ears pricked, senses screaming a warning, Tug followed, stepping nervously.
A blue jay darted away from a low bush nearby with a sudden flurry of wings. Both Will and Tug started nervously. Then Will laughed at his old companion.
“Happy now? It was nothing but a big bad blue jay,” he said.
Tug shook his mane angrily. He had been sure there was something . . .
The wolf attacked. Tug was aware of a sudden, violent rush of movement from a thicket behind where he stood. He whirled to face the direction of danger, spinning on his rear hooves. But the wolf, now clear of the bushes, was already leaping for his throat, fangs bared. Realizing the danger, Tug reversed his spin awkwardly, turning away from those slashing teeth.
The wolf crashed into his right side, sending him staggering for a second, and Tug felt those fangs raking down his shoulder, gouging deep into the muscles there and sending hot blood cascading down his foreleg. The wolf hung on, his fangs ripping and tearing deeper and deeper into the muscle as he shook his head savagely.
Tug whinnied. As his front hooves came back to earth, he tried to bring his rear hooves up to kick at his attacker. But his right front leg was badly injured, muscles and tendons torn and lacerated, and it faltered under him. He lurched away, stumbling as it refused to bear his weight. Finally, the wolf tore free from its terrible grip. It hit the ground and rolled, then crouched beneath Tug, teeth bared for another attack.
Will’s arrow slammed into its side, with all the force of his bow’s eighty-pound draw weight behind it, from a range of less than four meters. The arrow ripped through the wolf’s body, tearing organs and rupturing blood vessels and destroying its heart on the way, killing the beast instantly. It fell to the ground, eyes glazed and lifeless, with nine centimeters of the arrow protruding from its far side.
“Tug!” Will’s cry was almost a scream. At first, he thought Tug had evaded the wolf’s attack. Now he could see the torn flesh of his horse’s shoulder, the gleaming white of exposed bone and tendon, and the bright blood streaming down Tug’s right foreleg. Will threw the bow aside and rushed to his horse, tears forming in his eyes and coursing down his cheeks.
He threw his right arm around Tug’s neck and reached clumsily with his left to touch the terrible wound.
Tug balanced on three legs, placing no weight on the injured limb. He whinnied in surprise as the shock wore off and he felt the first throbbing pain from the injury.
“Oh god, Tug! Oh god!” Will was momentarily helpless at the sight of his injured horse. In all their years together, he had never seen Tug so badly wounded. Now, faced with this terrible, red-pumping gash, his mind froze, refusing to accept what had happened, refusing to think about what he must do next.
Then his training reasserted itself. He had a medical kit in his saddlebag. He relinquished his embrace around Tug’s neck, patted him gently several times, and then reached for the saddlebag.
“Steady, boy. Steady. Take it easy. You’ll be fine.”
Will opened the medical pack and studied it for a few seconds. He’d need a bandage pad to stanch the flow of blood, and a long pressure bandage to hold it in place. He found both items and placed them ready. But before he could bandage the wound, he’d have to clean it. He took out a gauze pad and a small jar of the pungent ointment that would cleanse the wound and dull the pain. He never liked handling the medication, as it was derived from warmweed, and the smell reminded him of an unpleasant episode many years ago. But he knew it was a highly effective treatment for any wound. He also took his canteen from the saddle pommel and unstoppered it, pouring a large amount of water over the wound. The blood continued to flow as the water hit it, the color diluting to pink at first, then turning deep red again. He dabbed at the wound with a linen pad, trying to be as gentle as he could, yet knowing he had to use some firmness. Tug flinched once, then stood still.
“Good boy. That’s it. You’ll be fine,” Will crooned. His eyes narrowed. As he cleared the blood momentarily, he could see how deeply the wolf’s fangs had torn into Tug’s flesh. This was no superficial wound, he realized. He might be able to render first aid, but Tug was going to need help far beyond his limited skill.
He pushed the negative thought aside, then smeared a liberal dose of the painkilling cream into the wound. Again, Tug trembled slightly but made no complaint. Soon, Will hoped, the analgesic properties of the cream should take effect. Now he braced his largest bandage pad over the wound and held the end of a rolled linen bandage against it. He tossed the rolled end over Tug’s withers, leaned under him to retrieve it, and wound it under his body and up over the bandage pad. Then he repeated the process over and over, until the linen wrapping held the pad firmly in place. As he watched, the bandage slowly turned red with seeping blood. But then the coagulant mixed into the ointment took effect and the blood flow slowed.
He stepped back and surveyed his work. Then his eyes blurred with tears again and he moved forward, embracing the horse—careful to avoid the area of the wound—resting his head against the rough, shaggy coat.
“Oh god, Tug, please be all right.”
Tug shifted awkwardly. The pain in his right shoulder had lessened dramatically with the application of the salve. But when he tried to put weight on the right foreleg, it gave way under him.
“I’ll have to get you to the closest farm,” Will said, thinking desperately. It would be a long walk, with Tug limping on three legs, but Will had already realized that he would have to go for expert help, and he couldn’t leave Tug alone in the forest in this condition. He took Tug’s bridle and began to lead the way back toward the second farm that he had visited earlier that day. It was the closest to the spot where they now found themselves, and he remembered there had been a sizable barn there where Tug could rest while Will went for help. With any luck, the farmer might have a horse he could borrow.
The thought saddened him. Many times over the years, he had ridden to fetch help. But he had always done so with Tug. Now he would be leaving the little horse behind while he rode a strange horse to bring back the expert help that Tug needed. The realization only served to heighten his fears as Tug hobbled along behind him.
3
“IT’S A BAD ’UN, YOUNG WILL, AND NO MISTAKE.”
Old Bob straightened from where he was crouched beside Tug, studying the deep wound in his shoulder. It had taken a day and a half for Will to fetch the old horse breeder. It had nearly broken his heart when he rode off on a borrowed horse, leaving Tug in the care of the farmer.
Relief had flowed through him when they returned and he opened the barn door to see Tug standing in a stall, ears pricked, nickering a greeting to him. Maybe it was going to be all right, he thought. After all, Old Bob was reckoned to be a near wizard when it came to horses.
Now, however, Old Bob was shaking his head doubtfully. “It’s a bad ’un, young Will, and no mistake.”
Will’s heart sank. He felt an enormous lump forming in his throat.
“He’s not going to . . . to . . . ?” He couldn’t bring himse
lf to finish the question.
Bob looked at him, shaking his head, as he realized what Will was trying to ask.
“To die? No. The salve has done a good job keeping infection out of the wound. You did well there. The question is, will he recover completely? That shoulder muscle is badly damaged and he’s not a young horse anymore.”
“But . . . what will I do if he doesn’t . . . ?” Again, it was a thought that Will couldn’t finish.
Old Bob patted his arm gently. He knew only too well of the bond that formed between a Ranger and his horse. He remembered the first day Will and Tug had met each other and the almost instant rapport they had developed.
“Let’s not worry about that before we have to,” he said. “I can’t really tell here. We need to get him back to my stables, where I can work on him. Help me get him into the cart.”
Bob had a specially designed cart for transporting injured horses. It had high sides and a ramp at the back. Will led Tug up the ramp, going slowly as the little horse hopped on his single working front foot up the sloped timber. When he was in the cart itself, they passed a canvas sling under his belly. The sling was then attached to the high sides of the cart and they took up tension on it so that it was supporting most of Tug’s weight, taking the strain off his uninjured legs.
As he took his place beside Bob on the driver’s seat of the cart, Will felt a familiar nudge against the back of his shoulder as Tug butted him affectionately. He reached back and fondled the horse’s muzzle as Bob clicked his tongue to the burly cart horse and the cart lurched forward.
“How long have you and Tug been together now?” Bob asked. Will thought for a moment.
“Must be about fifteen years,” Will said, smiling to himself as he cast his mind back over the period they had spent together. They’d seen so much together, he thought, from the mountains of Picta to the burning waste of the Arridi desert.
“Hmm,” Bob said thoughtfully, and Will looked at him, concerned by the old horse breeder’s tone.
“What?” he said. “What is it?”
But Bob shook his head, unwilling for the moment to say any more on the subject.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just wondering is all.”
But Will sensed there was something behind the question, and he wasn’t sure he was going to like it.
Back at Bob’s farm, they carefully helped Tug down from the cart and led him, limping on three legs, into a warm, dry stall in the barn. There, Bob gently removed the bandage, crooning apologetically as he did so and taking care not to cause the little horse any undue pain.
Will watched in an agony of uncertainty. There was nothing he could do to assist Bob, nothing he could do to lessen Tug’s pain. He forced himself to stay silent, although the temptation was to question the wizened old horse handler at every shift of expression or muttered comment. Now that the heavy bleeding had stopped, he could see how deeply the wolf’s fangs had savaged Tug’s flesh. There was a large torn flap hanging loose. Bob screwed up his mouth as he examined it and assessed it.
“Have to stitch that,” he said. “But we need to clean the wound completely first. Don’t want any infection getting in there.”
He set about applying salves and ointments to the raw flesh, dabbing gently, speaking to the horse as he did so. From time to time, Tug would flinch, and instantly the gentle hands would stop what they were doing and instead soothe the little horse, stroking his nose and neck. Old Bob glanced around and saw the drawn expression on Will’s face.
“Nothing you can do here for the moment, young Will,” he said. “Why don’t you go into my cabin and get us some supper? I’ll be through here in fifteen minutes and you can come and see Tug then.”
“I’d prefer to stay,” Will said awkwardly, and Bob nodded, smiling at him.
“I know you would. But with all respect, you’re distracting me. Every time I make a sound or Tug flinches, you start forward, and then you stop. Just let me do my job and make yourself useful getting supper ready. All right?”
Will hesitated. He was loath to leave Tug, but the thought that he was distracting Bob, that he might cause him to make a mistake while he was tending to the horse, settled the matter. He nodded and turned away, then turned back and patted Tug’s muzzle.
“I won’t be far,” he said.
Tug snorted. His normal reaction would have been to shake his head and mane violently. But such a movement would have caused pain to his injured leg.
I know. Now let Bob get on with his job . . . worrywart.
It was the expression Will often used for Tug. The young Ranger smiled now that it was being applied to himself.
“I’ll be back,” he said, and left the barn. As he reached the big double doors, he heard Bob say softly: “I thought he’d never go.”
Tug responded with another snort.
4
EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, BOB FOUND WILL IN THE BARN, where he’d slept in the hay beside his horse. The old trainer nodded to himself. He’d heard Will get up in the middle of the night and leave the cabin, and he’d guessed where he’d gone.
Knowing that Will desperately wanted to care for his horse, Bob allowed him to check the wound for any sign of inflammation or infection. Thankfully, there was none. Then he supervised the Ranger as he put a new bandage on. The flap of torn skin had been neatly stitched back in place and now there was only a slight flow of blood to be stanched.
When that was done, he dropped a hand onto Will’s shoulder.
“Come on now,” he said. “Breakfast, and then we’ll talk.”
They sat outside Bob’s kitchen in the early-morning sunshine. But the sun did nothing to raise Will’s spirits. He sipped his coffee, without his usual relish, and morosely broke pieces off a sweet roll on the platter in front of him.
“I won’t lie to you, young fellow,” Bob said. “Tug’s hurt bad. It’s a terrible wound. It’s much worse than a simple bite. The wolf hung on when he bit into him, shaking his head and pulling with all his body weight, and he cut deep into the muscles and tendons.”
“But he will recover?” Will asked, and his heart sank as the old horse trainer hesitated, his gaze sliding away.
“I hope so. But we won’t know for four or five days at the earliest.” He saw the fear in the young man’s eyes and hurried to give him what little reassurance he could offer.
“He’s not going to die, Will. He’ll recover in that sense. But the leg may never mend properly. I just don’t know. I’ll do all I can for him and he’s a strong and healthy horse.”
“So we just have to sit and wait?” Will said. But Bob was shaking his head before Will finished the sentence.
“I have to sit and wait. You’ve got work to do back at Redmont.” Bob eyed the young man shrewdly. In truth, he had no idea if Will had pressing work to do back at Redmont. The probability was high that he did, as Rangers were constantly being called on. But he knew that the worst thing for Will would be to sit here brooding for the next four or five days. It would be better to get him back to work, to take his mind off the situation here.
Will stared at his hands on the table. He did have a lot of urgent work waiting back at Redmont. But this was Tug! He looked up at Bob.
“I don’t have a horse. What can I do without a horse?”
Bob smiled reassuringly. “I’ll lend you a horse. I have plenty of retired Ranger horses here. Not as spry as Tug, maybe, but good enough for a few days.” He saw Will wavering and he reinforced his argument. “Will, there’s nothing you can do here. You’ll sit around watching Tug and worrying about him. And he’ll know you’re worried, and that will affect him.” He paused, then added, “It could delay his healing.”
That did the trick. The thought that he might have an adverse effect on his horse’s convalescence was enough for Will. He came to a decision.
“I’ll pack my gear. Would you get the horse ready?”
Bob leaned across the table and gripped his forearm.
“Good
lad. And I imagine you’ll be wanting to say good-bye to Tug.”
It took an enormous effort to leave Tug in the barn. Will stood patting his neck and muzzle for some minutes, speaking gently to him. Old Bob stayed out of earshot, giving them privacy. Then, finally, sensing that Will didn’t know how to tear himself away, he coughed to attract his attention.
“Time to go, Will Treaty. Cormac is ready and waiting for you.”
Will hugged Tug’s neck one last time, gently touching the bandaged wound with a forefinger.
“I’ll be back in five days,” he said.
Tug shook his head, but it was a more gentle action than his normal, boisterous movement.
I’m not going anywhere.
Will’s eyes filled with tears and Tug nudged him with his head.
That was a joke.
Dashing the back of his hand across his eyes, Will turned quickly and walked out of the barn into the bright sun.
Cormac was a chestnut, with a light-colored mane and tail. He was somewhat taller than Tug, but with the same shaggy coat and solid, muscular look that all Ranger horses shared. Old Bob had put Will’s saddle and bridle on him and tied the Ranger’s camping gear in place behind the saddle.
Will judged that he was a few years older than Tug. But he still looked fit and energetic—and he was vaguely familiar. Will had the sense that he had seen him somewhere before.
“Will, this is Cormac. Cormac, this is Will,” Old Bob said as he handed the reins to Will. He slapped the chestnut on the neck affectionately. “He’s a good horse, this ’un. He’ll serve you well for a few days. Mebbe not as fast as he was five years ago, but he’ll still run all day for you—and keep going into the next day as well.”
“That’s the way you train them, Bob,” Will said, with an attempt at a smile.
Bob noticed and slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, Will Treaty! Off you go then. I’m sure you have all sorts of important work to do. And never fear, I’ll take good care of Tug.”
The Lost Stories Page 33