Part Nine
"I've killed him," Jarrod breathed again, his eyes fixed on Nick lying limp and still on the blood-soaked mattress.
Heath leapt to his feet and started rummaging through drawers. Finally he found a stack of clean towels and brought them to the bed.
"Listen to me, Jarrod, he's not dead. If he's still bleeding, he's not dead."
Jarrod caught a swift, steadying breath and nodded, taking the towel Heath thrust into his hands.
"That bandage isn't doing him any good. I'm gonna take it off, and when I do, you press down with that towel until I can get some fresh bandages and something to clean him up with." Heath looked at him for a moment, his face nearly as pale as Nick's and the dried blood still streaked down his neck. "Understand?"
Again Jarrod nodded. Nick was here because of him, and he wasn't going to let him die. Not now.
"All right." Heath took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Now." He tugged at the sodden bandage, but it didn't move. "I don't want to risk pulling that off. I'll have to cut it away."
He took Jarrod's hands and pressed them and the towel to the wound just under Nick's rib cage. Then he went into the doctor's office. Jarrod could hear the bang and rattle of cabinet doors and drawers, and a moment later, Heath came back with scissors and bandages and a large bottle of carbolic. He cut the bandage and then, after soaking it with water, he managed to get the blood-stiffened dressing off. The wound was red and angry, and three of the black stitches had burst. Jarrod used a fresh towel to try to stop the steady bleeding, lifting it for only a moment while Heath swabbed Nick's abdomen with antiseptic.
"I don't think a bandage is going to help much at this point. Not till that bleeding slows some."
"We need the doctor," Jarrod said. "Hyatt said he'd gone somewhere out of town."
"There was a fire," Heath said, remembering.
"There was no fire. It was a trick. Where'd he go?"
"Can't remember the place the kid said."
Jarrod frowned. "The kid?"
"Mexican kid from the store."
"Get him," Jarrod said, pressing harder on the towel he held and watching as it swiftly turned red. "Find out where. Go for the doc. Nick's—" Jarrod swallowed hard. "He needs the doctor."
From somewhere behind him, he heard a low laugh, and he forced down the sudden fury that blazed through him. He didn't even turn. Nick was what was important, not that—
"Shut up, Hyatt," Heath spat.
He went over to the corner where Hyatt still huddled and pulled him to his feet by the shackles on his wrists.
"Don't," Hyatt begged, holding up his hands in front of his face. "Don't."
"You're not worth the lead it'd take to blow your brains out." Heath turned to Jarrod. "I'm taking him over to the jail. Then I'll find that boy and go for the doc. You see to Nick."
"I will." Jarrod tossed the second sodden towel to the floor and pressed a third to Nick's middle. "Hurry."
"Quick as I can."
Heath shoved Hyatt out of the room in front of him.
Watching Nick's face for any sign of consciousness, Jarrod pressed harder on the towel, pressed until his hands ached.
"I'm sorry," he said again and again. "I'm sorry, Nick. I'm so sorry."
He needed to pray, he knew he ought to, there was nowhere else to turn, but somewhere deep inside he knew he had no right. If hatred was the same as murder, if the desire was the same as the act, he had murdered. No less than Cass Hyatt had done, he had murdered. Why should God hear him now? But somewhere beyond what he had done, somewhere beyond judgement, there was mercy. There had to be.
Still keeping pressure on the wound, Jarrod laid his head against Nick's shoulder, burned himself by the fever that burned through him.
"Please, God, don't let go of him." He pressed closer, and hot tears slipped from his closed eyes. "Don't let go of me."
OOOOO
Heath found the keys in the sheriff's desk drawer and swiftly locked Hyatt in the cell he had broken out of. The bunk in the other one was occupied by a still, blanket-covered form.
"He'll hang," Heath murmured, half to himself and half to the young deputy lying there dead. "He'll hang."
"Wait!" Hyatt cried when Heath strode past him and back toward the sheriff's office. "You can't just leave me. Take these handcuffs off. I have to have food and water. I need to have the doc look at me. Your brother nearly killed me. You can't just—"
Heath slammed the door behind him, locked it, and put the key back into the sheriff's desk drawer. Then he went back out into the street. The dry goods store was dark, but it was the only place he knew to start looking for the Mexican kid who'd come to the doctor's office earlier that night.
He hurried over to the store and pounded on the door. After a moment, there was a faint light.
"Who is there?"
Heath recognized the Spanish accent of the boy he was looking for.
"Heath Barkley. You were at the doctor's office earlier. I have to talk to you."
The door opened just enough for the boy to peer out. "I remember you. What is it you want?"
"Where'd the doc go? You said there was a fire. Where?"
The boy blinked at him sleepily. "At the Macon ranch. It was very bad, the man said."
The man was Hyatt, no doubt.
"There wasn't a fire," Heath told him. "That was just to get the doctor and his wife out of the way. My brother's dying. I need to get them back here."
"Come in." The boy stepped back to let him in. "I sleep in the back. I will get dressed."
"No time for that. Just tell me where the doc went."
"It is a long ride, señor. You are not fit to go."
Heath caught sight of himself in the mirror on the counter. He still had blood down the side of his face, blood on his hands, and his head was pounding something fierce. Still—
"I don't have time to waste."
"And if you cannot find him because you do not know your way? If you fall from your horse because you can no longer hold up your head? What then?"
Heath hesitated.
"You should go back to your brother. I will bring the doctor as quick as I can. I am a fast rider, you will see."
Heath licked his dry lips. "All right then. As fast as you can."
OOOOO
"How is he?" Heath asked when he came back into the doctor's back room.
Jarrod could only shake his head. "The bleeding's slowed a little, but I can't get it to stop. He needs the doctor. I thought you were going for him."
"The boy knows where he went. I figured it'd be quicker if I sent him."
Heath pushed aside the remains of the broken chair that had been at the bedside and brought in another from the doctor's office. "You'd better use this."
Jarrod's whole body ached as Heath pulled him to his feet and then helped him into the chair, his battered wrists ached, his ankles ached from the chafing shackles that bound them still, but he kept pressure on the wound under Nick's rib cage. "You'd better find some more towels."
Heath looked down at the pile of blood-soaked towels there on the floor and pressed his lips together. Then he nodded and went into the other room. He came back with what looked to be fancy table linens and bedclothes.
"I don't guess the doctor's wife'll be any too happy about us borrowing these, but I couldn't find anything else."
Jarrod merely nodded, replacing the towel that could absorb no more liquid with a lace-trimmed satin pillowcase. "How far? To that ranch, I mean."
"Doc said it was fifteen miles. It might be a while before the boy can get out there and get him back."
"We don't have a while!"
"I know that," Heath said quietly."If— if something happens—"
"Don't."
"If something happens to him—"
"Don't say it. Please, God, don't say it."
"Jarrod, if something happens to Nick—"
They both froze, listening. Coming from outside, there was the sound of a horse and buggy.
