“This is as far as I go. You damn Horrells are a jinx.”
“Merritt and his missus ain’t gonna like this,” said Martin. “What you want us to tell them?”
“Tell them to go to hell,” Barkley said. He rode south, toward El Paso and the Mexican border.8
When Nathan reached the place where Barkley and the Horrells had parted company, he paused for only a moment before following the single set of tracks that led south.
“I may be wrong, Cotton Blossom,” he said, “but I’d bet my saddle Clint Barkley and the Horrells have split the blanket. It’s about time the chicken-livered varmint quit hiding behind the Horrells.”
Nathan rode carefully because Barkley would expect pursuit. Knowing they were stalking a man, Cotton Blossom loped ahead, wary of danger. Nathan estimated Barkley had not more than a three-hour start, which meant he wouldn’t catch up with the outlaw before dark. To ride at a fast gallop was out of the question, for at any time, Barkley might double back and attempt an ambush. Cotton Blossom had been down enough trails to know that a rider doubling back meant trouble for Nathan Stone. If Barkley left the trail, mounted or afoot, Cotton Blossom would turn back to meet Nathan. With Cotton Blossom scouting ahead, Nathan had only to stay out of rifle range. An hour before sundown, Nathan reined up beside a spring. He unsaddled the horses and quickly prepared supper for himself and Cotton Blossom. Dousing the fire, he moved well away from the spring. Near where the horses were cropping grass, he stretched out, his head on his saddle.
“Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “I’m counting on you. He may come after us.”
Barkley, Nathan decided, would ride all night, attempting to outdistance pursuit, or he would resort to bushwhacking. Being hunted was hell on a man’s nerves, as Nathan could testify, and he fully expected Barkley to come hunting him in the darkness. He wouldn’t be hard to find, for in the still of the night, keen ears could hear the horses cropping grass. While Nathan knew he could depend on a warning from Cotton Blossom, he found himself unable to sleep. For the sake of comfort he had removed his gun belt, but in his hand he held one of the deadly Colts Captain Sage Jennings had given him. Nathan dozed, and when he suddenly awoke, he wasn’t quite sure what had disturbed him. Then he knew. In the starlight, the horses stood with heads raised, having ceased their rhythmic cropping of grass. Cotton Blossom growled low, slipping silently into the shadows. Nathan lay still, hardly daring to breathe, aware that any movement might draw fire. The sound, when it came, only the keenest of ears could have heard, for it was the snick of a hammer being eared back. Nathan rolled away from his saddle barely seconds before slugs tore into the ground where he had been lying. He returned fire, shooting at muzzle flashes, but a frantic sound of running feet told him he had missed. Seizing his gun belt, he sprang to his feet and went after the bushwhacker. Then there was only silence, and having nothing to guide him, Nathan took refuge behind the trunk of a huge pine. It was a risky situation. While he could goad Barkley into shooting and revealing his position, he didn’t know where the gunman was. But again Cotton Blossom served him well. There was growling, a scuffle and cursing, but before Nathan could reach the scene, there was a yip of pain from Cotton Blossom and blazing gunfire from the darkness. A slug whipped past Nathan’s ear while a second one tore into his left thigh. Firing at the muzzle flash, he emptied one Colt with a drum roll of sound. He had the second Colt ready, but there was no need for it. There was a soft sound somewhere ahead of him, but a low whine identified Cotton Blossom. He waited until Cotton Blossom reached him, and placing his hand on the dog’s head, he felt a gash that still oozed blood. Cotton Blossom had been struck with the muzzle of a Colt or the butt of a rifle. Nathan’s own wound was bleeding as he could feel the blood running into his boot. He had waited long enough, and he limped toward the shadow that was the body of Clint Barkley. He lighted a match and found that the outlaw had been shot twice.
“Captain Sage Jennings,” said Nathan, a lump in his throat, “this yellow-bellied, backshootin’ coyote could die a hundred times and it wouldn’t even the score. But it’s all I can do, muy bueno companero.”
Returning to the spring, Nathan kindled a small fire and put on water to boil. He must attend to his own wound and to Cotton Blossom’s. Taking strips of clean muslin from his pack, he tied a strip above his wound, seeking to stop the bleeding. When the water had begun to boil, he soaked some of the muslin and washed the dried blood from Cotton Blossom’s head wound. He then soaked clean cloth in disinfectant and placed it over the wound.
“Lie down and keep that in place,” he said, “so the medicine can do its work.”
Nathan then removed his trousers and cleansed his own wound. The lead had missed the bone, but there was a ragged, bloody exit wound that continued bleeding, despite all his efforts. Finally he took mud from the spring, and after applying a heavy coat to the bleeding wound, wrapped it tight with muslin.
“We’ll ride out at first light, Cotton Blossom. I reckon we’re still a long way from El Paso, and I’m needin’ a doctor.”
When Nathan awoke at first light, he knew he had made a mistake. He should have ridden all night, for his left leg was stiff, swollen, and so painful he could barely stand. He boiled water, washed off the mud, and applied disinfectant. Quickly he prepared breakfast for himself and Cotton Blossom, finding that the dog’s wound probably wasn’t as serious as he had at first thought. His own wound, however, was a different story, and he could almost feel the fever engulfing him. He removed from his pack a quart bottle almost full of whiskey, and hating the stuff, downed as much of it as he could stand. The rest went into his saddlebag. With difficulty he loaded the packhorse and saddled the grulla. Unable to put all his weight on his left leg, he mounted awkwardly from the offside. The horse watched him curiously, wondering what had come over him.
Nathan rode south, and with the sun beating down, it seemed unseasonably hot. But it was the fever, and although Nathan had consumed most of the whiskey, it seemed only to have made him drunk. Near sundown, reaching a fast-running creek. Nathan tried to dismount. His wounded leg wouldn’t support his weight, and having drunk most of a quart of whiskey, Nathan fell. His head struck a rock, and with a groan he relaxed. The sun dipped below the horizon and twilight came. The horses cropped grass while an anxious Cotton Blossom waited, but as the first stars winked silver from a deep purple plateau. Nathan Stone lay unmoving....
Far into the night Nathan awoke, his teeth chattering. His head throbbed like the beating of a drum, almost in time with the ache of the wound in his swollen thigh. There was no more whiskey, and hungover as he was, Nathan never wanted another drop of the stuff. He crawled to his horse and seizing a stirrup leather, managed to get to his feet. He again had to mount from the offside, failing three times before he was finally in the saddle. His head reeling, he tottered from side to side, knowing he must ride on. Knowing that if he again fell from the saddle he might die where he lay. He looped the lead rope of the packhorse around his saddle horn and headed the grulla south. The animal chose its own gait, pausing to graze along the way. Nathan slumped in the saddle, unknowing, uncaring. When he again lifted his head, the last star had winked out and the eastern horizon swiftly was changing from gray to dusty rose. Somewhere ahead a horse nickered and Nathan’s grulla answered. The distant horse nickered again. Weary, thirsty, the grulla trotted ahead.
“I’ll milk the cows, Ma,” said fifteen-year-old Ellie Wells, “but it’s Jamie’s job to feed the horses. I whacked him on the head but he wouldn’t get up, and he cussed at me.”
“I’ll tend to him,” Myra Wells said wearily. Jamie was thirteen and inclined to laziness when Jubal Wells was away, but it was the only peace Myra knew, for Jubal was forever swearing at the boy. Except for the guzzling of rotgut whiskey, she reflected, Jamie was already acquiring his father’s bad habits. She was about to go rip the covers off Jamie when Ellie came running to the house.
“Ma,” Ellie cried, “there’s two horses
back of the barn. One’s carrying a pack and a man’s riding the other. He’s all slumped over like he’s asleep or sick. There’s a dog with him and he growled at me.”
“Stay here,” said Myra, “while I wake Jamie. Turn the ham when it’s ready and break half a dozen eggs into that bowl.”
She took a tin cup, and dipping it into a wooden bucket of cold water, prepared to do exactly what she had been threatening to do. The door to Jamie’s room consisted of only a feed sack curtain, and she peeked in, not wishing to embarrass him if he was out of bed and getting dressed. But he was snoring, the blankets over his head. With a sigh, Myra took hold of the blankets and ripped them off. Like Jubal, Jamie wore no nightshirt and took the cupful of cold water on his bare hide.
“Damn it all to hell,” he exploded, leaping out of bed.
Myra seized him with her left hand and with her right, laid her open palm on his bare behind with a force that sounded like a pistol shot.
“Ow,” he bawled. “Damn it, Ma ...”
Myra swatted him again, but he barely felt it, for an even greater indignity had fallen on him. His sister Ellie was peeking around the curtain, enjoying his predicament.
“Ma,” he cried in anguish, “I ... I’m ... get her out of here.”
“I told you to tend the ham,” said Myra.
“The ham’s done,” Ellie replied, “and I took it off the stove.” She smiled at Jamie and stayed where she was.
“We’ll leave you alone,” said Myra, “if you think you can get dressed quickly. There’s a stranger at the barn, perhaps sick or hurt. We may need your help.”
“I’ll hurry,” he said miserably, hunching over in an attempt to cover his privates.
“Shame on you,” said Myra, when she and Ellie had returned to the kitchen, but there was no rebuke in her voice.
Ellie laughed. “I reckon he won’t take a chance on that happening again,” she said.
Jamie emerged in overalls, flannel shirt, and brogan shoes. His eyes were on the floor, his face was red, and despite herself, Ellie laughed. Jamie swallowed a mouthful of swear words, bit his tongue, and said nothing. The three of them headed for the barn. The two horses stood with their heads down, while Nathan Stone slumped over the saddle horn.
“He’s been hurt,” said Myra, her eyes on Nathan’s bandaged left thigh. “Ellie, loose his feet from the stirrups. Jamie, you help me get him off the horse.”
Once the girl had freed Nathan’s left boot, he would have fallen off the offside had not Myra and Jamie caught him.
“We must get him to the house,” Myra said. “Jamie, you take his feet.”
“Pa’s goin’ to raise hell,” said Jamie.
“He’s been hurt,” Myra said. “Helping him is the Christian thing to do.”
“There’s nothing Christian about Pa,” said Ellie, “or that no-account Ike Puckett and Levi Odell that he rides with.”
Myra Wells said nothing, for it was the truth. Three years before, her husband had been killed by Indians. Left with two children, she didn’t hesitate when ex-buffalo hunter Jubal Wells had asked her to be his woman. Wells had moved them to a godforsaken hard-scrabble spread in southern New Mexico, fifty miles north of El Paso. Immediately, Wells had become partners with Ike Puckett and Levi Odell in the selling and trading of horses. Occasionally, the trio drove horses to the Wells place, where they would remain for a few days before being driven away and sold. The last bunch had been gone only four days when a sheriffs posse rode in, seeking stolen horses. Since then, Jubal Wells and his companions had brought no more horses to the Wells corral, and that had pretty well told Myra where they were getting the horses.
“He’s awful heavy, Ma,” Jamie panted. “Let’s put him down and rest a minute.”
They lowered Nathan to the ground, and Cotton Blossom crept as close as he dared. After a brief rest, Myra and Jamie took up their burden and continued on to the house.
“We’ll put him on my bed,” said Myra.
“It’s near time Pa was gettin’ back,” Jamie said.
“I’m aware of that,” said Myra shortly. It wouldn’t matter where they lay the wounded man, she thought. Jubal Wells wouldn’t even want him in the house.
“Jamie,” Myra said, when they had Nathan stretched out on the bed, “those horses must be exhausted. Unsaddle them, rub them down, and water them. Then stall them with our horses in the barn. Ellie, I’ll need you to help me. Stir up the fire in the stove and put on a kettle of water.”
Myra started to unbuckle Nathan’s gun belt, only to have him seize both her hands. She found herself looking into cold blue eyes that sent chills up her spine. She spoke just as calmly as she could.
“I’m going to see to your wound, and the gun belt must be removed. I’ll hang it on the bedpost where you can reach it.”
She thought the hard blue eyes softened just a little. They closed again and he let go of her wrists. She removed the gun belt, fastened the buckle, and looped it over the bedpost. She then loosened his belt and unbuttoned his trousers.
“You’re taking them off?” Ellie asked.
“I am,” said Myra. “I’ll manage. You don’t have to watch.”
“I’ll help,” Ellie said. “I’ll take off his boots.”
Nathan offered no objection, and since he was a dead weight, he seemed to have again lapsed into unconsciousness. When they had wrestled him out of the trousers, Myra Wells was shocked at the condition of his wound.
“Lord, Ma,” said Ellie, “it looks awful.”
“Awful enough that he could lose that leg, if not his life,” Myra said. “I only hope Jubal hasn’t drunk up all the whiskey on the place.”
“There’s most of a jug,” said Ellie. “Last time he passed out, I hid it. When he come to his senses, he thought he’d drunk it all.”
“Get it,” Myra said. “This man may need it all.”
Myra bathed Nathan’s wound with hot water. When Ellie brought the jug of whiskey, Myra soaked two thick cloth pads with it. One of the pads she placed over the wound where the slug had gone in, and the other over the ugly exit wound. These she bound in place, and then soaked them with more of the whiskey. Ellie had brought a tin cup from the kitchen, and filling it almost full, Myra patiently got Nathan to drink it a little at a time. Even in his condition, Nathan fought the vile brew.
“Either he ain’t a drinking man, or he’s used to better whiskey,” said Jamie from the curtained doorway. “The dog looked hungry, so I fed him the ham. It was cold, anyway.”
Myra Wells continued forcing the whiskey down Nathan, and for all that day and far into the night, the fever wouldn’t let him go. His fight had become theirs, and none of them slept. Finally, two or three hours shy of first light on the second day, Nathan began to sweat. Ellie and Jamie gave up and slept, while Myra remained beside Nathan. She dozed and when a slight sound awakened her, the first gray light of dawn crept through the window. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and then she laughed, for Cotton Blossom peeked around the curtain, only his head visible.
“You can come in,” she said, as kindly as she could.
Cotton Blossom took a wary step or two, pushing the curtain aside. He sat down near the foot of the bed, looking first at Nathan and then back to Myra.
“You’re a faithful one,” said Myra. “Make yourself at home.”
“Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said weakly.
“He’s been concerned about you,” said Myra, “and well he should have been. I’ve been pouring whiskey down you since early yesterday morning.”
“I’m obliged, ma’am,” Nathan said. “Where am I?”
“In my damn bed,” said an angry voice from the doorway. “By God, somebody’s got some talkin’ to do.”
Jubal Wells had come home.
CHAPTER 9
Cotton Blossom was the first to react to Jubal’s hostility. He turned and was about to do some real damage if Nathan hadn’t spoken to him. The dog retreated until he stood beside the bed.
“Sorry,” Nathan said. “He didn’t like the sound of your voice.”
“And I don’t like some damn drifter and his fool dog squattin’ in my house, with my woman, when I ain’t here.”
“Jubal,” said Myra quietly, “he’s been hurt and would have died without attention.”
“Woman,” Jubal growled, “there’s some settlin’ to be done, but for now, there’s a use for you. Ike and Levi are here, and we had no grub for two days. Git in the kitchen.”
He turned away, and Myra sat with her face in her hands.
“I’m sorry to be the cause of trouble, ma’am,” said Nathan. “You go ahead and do what you have to do. I’ll get up and get out of here.”
“You’ll stay where you are until you’re able to be up and about,” Myra replied. “I’ve done no wrong.”
Myra left him there, and he could hear her in the kitchen. Soon there was the aroma of frying ham, and Nathan felt the pangs of hunger gnawing at him. For more than two days there had been nothing in his belly but bad whiskey. He wondered where Jubal had gone, guessing that he and his friends were unsaddling their horses. This woman who had rescued him had courage, and she proved it by bringing him a tin cup of hot coffee and a platter of fried ham and eggs. She had brought a bowl with an assortment of ham scraps for Cotton Blossom.
“You need food,” she said.
“I do,” Nathan agreed, “but this is a bad time for you, Mrs....”
“Wells,” she finished. “Myra Wells.”
“I’m Nathan Stone. Until I’m able to ride, I’ll stay in the barn. I won’t go on taking your and your husband’s bed.”
“He’s not my husband,” she replied, “and I’m through sharing this bed or any other with him. He took us in, me and my two children, when we were destitute.”
“You have no family, then?”
“My parents live in Ohio,” she said, “and I can’t go back. I ran away when I was just fourteen, married my husband, and we came west.”
The Killing Season Page 13