Favor knelt motionless next to the bedroll where his second lay, watching as Rowdy took long, deep breaths.
Rowdy's eyes were lidded and his face looked almost peaceful. The flickering fire cast dancing shadows across his face, misshapen and wrong.
Favor studied the changed, swollen contours of the younger man's face, noting distantly the leftover flecks of dried blood from where they had tried to scrub some of it off in the dark.
Favor's gaze traveled slowly across purpled skin, cataloging all the cuts and abrasions, finally coming to rest on the bandages wrapped around the battered torso. Blood had again soaked through another set of bandages and continued to creep outward over Rowdy's ribs.
Rowdy moaned softly and shifted, and Favor reached automatically toward Rowdy's bruised cheek, but froze halfway there and forced himself to lower his hand, fingers balling into a fist.
He took a deep breath and ground his teeth, pushing himself up off the ground. He stalked over to where Wishbone stood by the chuck wagon, a carefully measured distance—just close enough to come running at a second's notice and just far enough to give the illusion of privacy.
At Favor's approach, Wishbone rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand and held the other up in front of him.
"Like I said before, boss. I done what I could and he's probly gonna be fine in a few—"
Favor shook his head.
Wishbone trailed off and looked at him blankly, lowering his arms.
Favor put out his hand, palm up.
"Give it to me."
Wishbone's face crumpled.
"Mr. Favor, you don't have to do this. Pete and the rest—they'll get 'em."
"Give it to me, Wish."
Wishbone huffed, exasperated. "Boss, the men look up to you. And so does Rowdy! He wouldn't want—"
Favor laughed harshly, incredulous.
"What, Wish? What would Rowdy want? Tell me, what in blazes do you think he would want me to do?"
Wishbone opened his mouth to retort, but the drumming of hooves cut him off.
A string of riders trotted up to the remuda, a few riderless horses in tow.
They dismounted, and one broke away from the group to join Wishbone and Favor.
Pete pulled off his hat and sighed.
"We took care of 'em, boss. Cam was there, too. Harris got loose though. I had Quince put the steers back in with the rest of the herd."
He took a breath.
"Even gave them bastards a chance to come in peaceful. Don't think a lot of the boys were too interested in that, but then I guess neither were they. They started shooting, and...we took care of 'em."
The scout shook his head. "Nasty business."
"Where?"
Pete stared blankly. "Boss..?"
"Where did he go, Pete?"
Pete was silent for a moment, then his eyes drifted over to the figure lying on the bedroll next to the fire.
He looked at the ground and his shoulders sank.
"North, boss. He went north."
Favor's mouth twisted into a gruesome approximation of a smile, then it faded and he turned his gaze back to Wishbone.
"Mr. Favor, you can't..."
Favor put out his hand again.
The cook protested, "Gil..."
Favor's face flashed an expression of unbridled fury for the briefest moment, then it gave way to agony.
"Please," Favor pleaded.
Wishbone sighed and covered his eyes, then finally reached behind his back. Hesitantly, he pulled a knife from the back of his belt and pressed it into Favor's waiting hand, but did not release it.
He looked desperately at Favor and said, "Just...just be careful."
The trail boss nodded solemnly.
Wishbone reluctantly let go and Favor curled his fingers around it.
He took a step, then paused. He glanced back at Rowdy for a moment, and down at the knife. His lips tightened, and he tucked the weapon into his own belt. Then he turned wordlessly and headed for the remuda.
Someone was shaking his shoulder roughly.
Favor protested and started to sit up, vaguely aware of a person standing over him.
He mumbled something in protest about the time, half-awake and not comprehending. A few seconds later, the figure resolved itself into Rowdy.
"...bunch of rustlers took 'em, Mr. Favor."
Still sleep-bewildered, Favor griped, "'S too early."
"Boss, you hear me?" rasped the other.
Rowdy was clutching Favor's shoulder and wobbling unsteadily.
Favor rubbed his eyes and realized with groggy alarm that Rowdy's face was covered in blood.
"Rustlers..." managed Rowdy again, and began to pitch forward as his eyes rolled back.
He fell face down on Favor's legs. For a dazed moment, Favor wasn't sure what to do. Then he screamed, "Wish! Wishbone, get over here now!"
Favor's mount trotted on. He pulled back gently on the reins and the horse obediently slowed, eager for a chance to rest.
Favor dismounted and loosened the girth. The horse ambled over to a nearby patch of grass and started nibbling on the shoots.
The moon had come up.
Favor glanced up at it, silently thanking it for providing enough light for him to go about his duty.
He looked back down at the hoof prints in the sand, both sets of them.
A trampled firewheel flower stuck up lopsided from one set of tracks.
He bent down slowly and plucked the flower, broken stem and all.
Straightening up, he twirled the flower idly between his fingers, trying not to think of the red stain that had blossomed so bright on Rowdy's shirt.
He looked out across the prairie in silent contemplation for a long time, then put the flower in his breast pocket.
Favor turned and marched back toward his horse and tightened the straps. He climbed back up into the saddle and clicked his tongue.
He rode on.
Wishbone came running, doctor's kit in hand.
Favor tried to shift under Rowdy's dead weight, but didn't have the leverage to do it. An instant later, Pete and Quince came and hauled the ramrod up off Favor's lap and flipped him gently onto his back.
"Easy, easy!" snapped Wishbone.
Favor pulled himself over next to Rowdy and his mouth fell open.
The handle of a knife still jutted from Rowdy's coat, protruding from next to the pocket.
Wishbone's mouth tightened. Almost clinically, he said, "First thing's first—gotta get that out of there."
He placed one hand palm-down on Rowdy's side, thumb and fingers around the blade, and used the other to pull the knife out.
There was a soft, wet sliding sound as the blade came out, and with one final tug, it came free.
Wishbone let slip a sigh of relief and his shoulders relaxed a little. He held on to the knife for a second, not quite sure what to do with it, then simply dropped it on the ground beside him.
With bloody fingers, Wishbone started scrabbling at the buttons of Rowdy's heavy coat, then simply tore the buttons loose on the coat and the shirt below. He peeled the soaking shirt back to reveal Rowdy's midsection.
A few of the men gasped.
"Oh, hell..." Quince swore.
Favor's stomach dropped as he took in the numerous injuries written in red and purple across Rowdy's skin. From his broken nose and wrongly-bent fingers to the numerous broken ribs and the knife they'd pulled from him, it was clear that this had been a personal, vindictive attack.
Wishbone pulled a wad of bandages from his bag and pressed them to the wound.
"Quince, come here," ordered Wishbone.
The drover took a nervous step forward then faltered.
"Me?"
"Get over here! Come press on them bandages. Right now!"
Quince frowned but obeyed.
Mushy leaned over and took off his cap, wringing it in his hands. "Is he...he ain't dead, is he Mr. Wishbone?"
Wishbone didn't look up as he began to probe Rowdy's abdomen carefully. "No, but you're gonna be if you don't put the cleanest water we got on the fire and tear up some more bandages."
Mushy nearly dropped his beloved hat but caught it and pulled it onto his head once again, then scrambled toward the chuck wagon, glancing back at Wishbone and Rowdy every couple steps.
A dark patch sat unmoving in the trail up ahead.
He slowed his horse's pace as they neared the form, hand hovering over his revolver.
Harris had run his own mount to death. He was now on foot.
Favor said quietly, "Come on, boy," and spurred his horse on.
Rowdy shot a glance at the rider next to him.
"Hey, Cam, you sure you want to just leave them steers back there? No one to watch 'em?"
Cam smiled. "Sure, Yates. We're just little way from camp. They ain't gonna get real far."
Rowdy persisted. "I can stay back and watch 'em if you want to ride on ahead. I don't mind."
Cam shook his head. "Nah, these are my orders. And I aim to follow them to the letter."
"Well, it's your beef now, or it will be in a few minutes, anyway. Good price, too." He laughed. "So who's giving you them orders? I ain't never heard of such a shy trail boss in my life."
"Oh, you'll meet him yourself when we get to camp. He ain't so shy once you get to know him."
"I guess everyone's got a right to privacy," said Rowdy, and shrugged. He glanced back at the small herd behind them. "You ever think about our job? Us leading them beeves all this way over desert and prairie and plain old rock just for them to get shipped back east—just to die, I mean. It's funny, you know?"
Cam watched him closely. "Yeah, funny. I guess some of them deserve what they get."
Rowdy wrinkled his nose and squinted at him. "Deserve it? What d'ya mean?"
Cam looked ahead. "Camp's right here."
Rowdy frowned but nodded, not saying anything.
Cam led his horse to a stand of brush and scraggly trees. "You can tie up here. We got a fire going on the other side of this thicket."
Haltingly, Rowdy said, "Yeah...I saw the smoke a ways back."
He dismounted and started to tie the reins to the bush, but pursed his lips and simply dropped them instead.
Cam looked back at Rowdy and flashed his teeth. "Come on! Camp's just over here."
Rowdy smiled cautiously, but followed him.
A small fire burned low in a dug pit surrounded by several rough-looking men. Their heads turned as they heard steps and the men rose to their feet.
Cam introduced him. "Boys, this here is Mr. Rowdy Yates."
Rowdy nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but didn't get the chance.
"Well, Yates."
Rowdy jumped and pivoted.
"I been waiting a long time, but I'm sure glad you could make it," came a voice from the thicket.
Jack Harris stepped out of the brush, gun in hand.
Calm and cold, Favor said, "You go for that pistol and I'm gonna shoot you in the stomach."
Harris stood frozen for a long while, then suddenly his shoulders relaxed and turned to face the trail boss, hands in the air.
"You ain't gonna shoot me. I remember what Yates did to me, but I remember you, too. You're a real good man."
"Throw your gun away, Harris."
Harris did as he was told, still smirking, and tossed his pistol a few feet away.
"My friends are not gonna—"
"Your men are dead."
Favor started walking forward; small, deliberate steps.
Harris backed up instinctively as his grin faded, then held his ground.
"You're bluffing. You won't hurt me."
Favor continued forward.
"Favor, I—you're a good man. I ain't even got a gun! You can't..."
Then something in Harris' face twisted.
"He beat me so bad once I was in the hospital for a month, and then again in Abilene so my jaw was wired shut. Worse than that, he shamed me. In front of everyone, he shamed me. I hate him. I'm glad he's dead."
He spat on the ground.
"Rowdy Yates got exactly what was coming to him."
Favor closed the last few paces and swung with the butt of his revolver.
Rowdy staggered back, eyes streaming. He clutched at his cheek where the handle of the pistol had struck him, blinking rapidly to try to clear his vision.
He swung wildly, missed. He felt something collide with his knee and went down.
Harris tried to crawl backward, one hand still covering the swelling cut on his cheek, then managed to stagger to his feet and Favor punched him in the face with his left hand.
Rowdy felt his nose crack and the world went blurry.
He fell again, and dimly realized that there was something wet running down his chin and neck.
He lay there, gasping in the sand and reeling.
Favor inspected his hand and found that the knuckles were bleeding. He didn't feel it yet, but he mused that it would hurt tomorrow.
After a blind eternity of pain and fear, Harris' vision had cleared somewhat and he saw his gun a few feet away.
Gritting his teeth, he reached out for the weapon.
Favor stomped on his hand.
Rowdy keened and held his shattered fingers with the other hand, and started to sit up again.
Favor kicked Harris hard in the shoulder. His head hit the ground, and he tried to roll away weakly but Favor brought his foot down on the man's ribs.
Harris curled against the pain, clutching his side. He wheezed, coughing slightly and tried to suck in air.
Favor stomped on him again, and then again.
His hands came up in front of him to try to fend off the blows, but Favor would not relent.
Rowdy twisted his head around with difficulty and looked up at Harris, his eyes wild. He tried to kick himself along the ground, away from his attackers.
They let him get a few feet.
Favor sauntered over to Harris, still trying to crawl away.
He reached down and caught Harris by his shirt, hauled him upright again, and looked him in the eye.
Favor holstered his gun and drew the knife from his belt, slow and exacting, and held it in front of Harris' battered face.
The blade shined, sharp and cold in the moonlight.
Through torn lips, Harris begged, "Don't, please..."
Favor smiled softly and shook his head slightly.
Conversationally, he spoke. "Oh, by the way—Rowdy ain't dead. But you are."
He shoved the blade deep into Harris' belly.
Harris let out a strange gurgling wail and his legs collapsed under him. Favor let him fall face-down into the dirt.
The man was crying and screaming, writhing with the pain of it and trying to turn himself onto his back.
Favor looked down at the bloody mess in front of him for a few moments, wiped his hands on his chaps, and pivoted on his heel toward his horse.
He took a few steps, then slowed, stopped, and turned back slowly to regard the man convulsing on the ground, calculating.
He drew his revolver from its holster once again. He pulled back the hammer, took careful aim, and squeezed the trigger.
He cocked it again, aimed, shot.
Three, four, five, six, click, click, click.
Favor stood there for an age, breathing hard, then finally lowered the weapon.
Machine-like, he ejected the spent cartridges and let them fall to the sand below, then carefully reloaded the weapon. He holstered it, and returned to his horse.
He patted the jumpy animal's neck and spoke soothingly to it, then pulled himself up into the saddle.
He rode out.
The sun had started to set.
Rowdy lay in the cooling sand looking up at the red twilit clouds above. His hands were wrapped around the knife in his side. He was panting and trying not to give in to the lethal temptation of sleep.
The voices of Cam and Harris floated over to him.
"What do we do with him, then?"
"Do? He ain't going nowhere. Just leave him. Buzzards'll take care of him in a day or two."
"Well, ain't you even gonna get your knife?"
Harris glanced over at Rowdy.
"Nah, he can keep it."
The men laughed.
Harris yelled, "Still a little daylight left. Let's get them steers moving, boys!"
Hooves beat the ground and the sound of the rustlers whooping and whistling to the stolen cattle drifted back to Rowdy.
He was alone.
Favor tied his horse at the remuda and padded softly over to Rowdy's bedroll next to the fire. He knelt down beside him.
He pulled the wilted firewheel flower from his pocket and laid it next to the sleeping ramrod's form.
There he stayed, motionless, watching as Rowdy took long, deep breaths.