Stranger Than Fiction
Some folks say truth is stranger than fiction and with what happened here this past week, I'd be likely to believe them. We'd been seeing signs of Kiowa for days, not a large party, more like a scouting attempt; probably as curious about us as we are about them, or so I thought at the time. But then things turned rough. Pete came up on a settler's wagon – burned and the people, a man, a woman and two kids, the same. I don't know what happened to change things and I don't care much for the reason, my only concerns are getting this herd through without losing any of my men. My name is Gil Favor, trail boss. Welcome to my world.
When the men returned from burial duty, they were pretty shaken. Hardened and tough as they are, seeing kids, little kids, murdered tore them up pretty good and each handled it in his own way, most retreating deeply into themselves. Even Mushy, usually talkative to the point of exasperation, remained silent. Depression spread through the ranks like a bad cold. Soon few were worth any work at all. It had to stop. Favor called a meeting.
"Pete, I want you to take one man. Scout maybe twenty miles ahead. Find us a clear trail through those Indians – a safe trail. If you can find out what the hell happened to trigger the Kiowa into this killing, all fine and good. If not...just find us safe passage. Got it?"
The scout nodded. "I got it, Boss. I'll take Quince along, if he's willing."
Quince did not look willing. Hemming and hawing, kicking at the ground, he finally looked up, avoiding Nolan as he spoke. "You know them Kiowa, Pete, know 'em as good as anybody, I'd wager, probably even like 'em. I don't. I can't say that I wouldn't do somethin' I'd regret later...if we got close to 'em. I can't say I wouldn't wanna shoot 'em on sight. I'm sorry, Pete. It's best I don't go. Pick somebody else."
Nolan sighed. Of all the men he figured Jim Quince least likely to go off half-cocked. Usually he was the most solid, thoughtful and mature drover in the bunch, except when he'd had a bit too much to drink. Now Pete was stymied. He glanced at Favor who stood waiting, arms crossed, impatient expression on his face.
"I'll go it alone, Boss. There's no need for..." Nolan never finished.
Favor exploded. "I said choose a man! If I'd wanted you to go alone I would've said so! Choose someone or I'll choose! Make it fast! We're wasting time!"
Without thinking Pete chose. "Rowdy," he said, a little too loudly, looking surprised at his own selection. "Rowdy," he repeated with less surprise and more conviction.
Everyone turned to stare at Yates, even Favor, all shocked by the choice. After all, wasn't Rowdy the least stable and most volatile among the twenty- five or so men? Granted, he was the ramrod and the men respected and liked the young man, but stable was never mentioned in his resume, but hair- trigger, irascible and angry, were.
Yates stood, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, all eyes upon him, as shocked by Nolan's choice as everyone else, "Me? Me?" he managed to blurt out. "Me?"
"You heard the man, Rowdy." Favor was galvanized into action. "Hey Soos, saddle their mounts. Wish, get some grub together, enough for several days." When nobody moved, Favor yelled. "Move it!" The men scattered like so many flustered hens.
***
"The boss sounded pretty worried, Pete. It ain't like him to take on so with goodbyes. Usually it's just 'don't waste time' or 'see you wear out that saddle leather.' When he said 'be careful,' well, that got me to thinkin' ..." Nolan stopped Yates with a shake of the head. "Too much thinkin' won't help, Rowdy. Just gets a man to frettin' and out here, we can't be bothered with things we can't change. Keep your eyes open and your mind on the trail. We'll be okay." Pete turned in the saddle and grinned. As he hoped it would, his sense of self-confidence eased Rowdy's worries. Yates returned the smile, tentatively.
There was little enough time to dwell on the obscure. Not five miles ahead, Pete swung off his mount and crouched to check out some tracks. "Kiowa, small party, maybe three or four...scouts."
Rowdy nodded and from his perch high up on the horse's back, he scanned the surrounding low rolling hills with Pete's field glasses, "Nothing."
"The tracks lead off northwest. Reckon we'll follow; see what they're up to. If we find 'em all bunched up in one spot we'll be safe to head wide around with the herd." Pete climbed back into the saddle and urged his mount into a lope. He didn't want to risk overriding his quarry. Rowdy followed, silent but observant, twisting in the saddle to keep an eye on where they'd been as well as where they were headed, the field glasses dangling from a leather strap about his neck, one hand uneasily resting on the Henry in its scabbard.
Mile followed mile, more than twenty before Pete reined in. "Tracks cross here and mix up... large party a Kiowa. Don't see any sign they brought along their women and kids." Nolan leaned back in the saddle, stretching out the tired muscles in his back and shoulders. "I believe these are the ones who killed those settlers," he offered rather matter-of-factly. "We gotta be on our toes, now more than ever. These tracks ain't but an hour or so old."
Rowdy rode up close, looking down at the mishmash of overlapping prints, wondering how Nolan could tell so much from such confusion and marveling at the scout's knowledge. Never again would he doubt Pete's abilities, not that he had done so much in the past, this outing just served to reinforce the ramrod's respect for Nolan's skills. The pair continued to range north and west, stopping only long enough to rest the horses and eat some cold rations. Back on the trail, Pete stopped abruptly, signaling Rowdy to do the same. Nolan dismounted. When Yates attempted to follow, Pete prevented it. "Stay on this side of the rise. Stay mounted. I wanta take a look."
Down on his belly, Nolan crept forward, even removing his hat to give a lower profile, his slim form hugging the ground as he moved almost imperceptivity, inch by inch, toward the crest of the rise. Below and slightly beyond lay an entire Kiowa raiding party, painted for war. In his mind, Pete swore. Backing off the rise as slowly as he'd advanced, he was almost to the point of being able to stand when Rowdy shouted a warning. Kiowa were coming, riding full out, riding the two men down.
Pete's horse bolted at the shrill cries of the advancing warriors, gone before Nolan even got his wits about him. Rowdy's horse reared and squealed, panicked. It took all Yates' skill to keep from being bucked off as the big dun also bolted. Pete was left alone to face the advancing braves. Pulling his pistol from the holster, he flattened closer into the ground and aimed. He never got the chance to fire. Rowdy was back. Cutting directly across the Indians' path, he drove hard toward Pete, spurring and shouting. Nolan got to his feet, holstered the weapon and extended his right arm. As Yates flew past, he grabbed the outstretched hand. Nolan whipped up behind him and the pair sped off leaving the Kiowa somewhat dumbfounded at the white men's riding skill. Most Indians thought little of whites, often not even bothering to lift a scalp, unless the individual had proven himself a worthy adversary.
Pete hung on with one hand, fumbling his Colt from the holster with the other. Winging shots at the fast approaching Kiowa was nigh on to useless and Pete knew it, but he figured dodging lead at least gave the Indians pause, if scant.
Scant was right on the money. Behind the fleeing pair, braves urged their mounts on to full speed, dodging bullets be damned. Out of ammo anyhow, Pete slid the pistol away, praying he didn't drop it as Rowdy spurred their own horse on, but the animal was tiring fast and if something didn't happen soon, they'd be overrun.
Making matters worse, arrows began zinging past, making a frightening whoosh the closer they came. Pete felt a white-hot pain in his elbow and for a brief moment stars danced behind his eyes until he regained normal vision. Attempting to move his arm was useless; it hung at his side, an arrowhead embedded in the joint. Missiles continued to fly as Kiowa now rode a course not only behind, but parallel to their position.
Rowdy was hit in the hip, through thick bull-hide chaps and trousers, but he kept spurring the straining horse.
Pete was hit again, pierced completely through, the arrow punching through his left lung, exiting out the front and going on into Rowdy's back where it stuck. For all intents and purposes, the pair was now pinned together.
Nolan hung on, but it was getting harder and harder to do so. Losing blood fast he was growing weak. The war cries around him grew dim and distant and he fainted, falling from the horse and dragging Rowdy along with him.
As they hit the ground they separated, the arrow dislodging from Rowdy's back. Still conscious, though bleeding profusely, Yates attempted to gain his feet while drawing his pistol. Clubbed from behind, he hit the ground and stayed there. Blows rained down upon his head and body while the Kiowa refrained from beating Pete, perhaps believing someone with an arrow completely through the body must be dead or close and certainly no threat.
Grabbing a handful of Nolan's dark curly hair and jerking Pete's head up and back, a brave, scalping knife poised to make the first cut, stopped in mid-motion. Shouting and gesturing, he finally got the attention of his comrades who, intent upon wrecking vengeance on Rowdy, paused impatiently in their work.
Pete opened his eyes and found himself appraised by half a dozen painted warriors. Although his Kiowa was rusty, he got the point of their conversation, though it was more an argument. The scalper recognized him as an old friend to the tribe. It was the Indian's contention to leave both men as they were. If they lived fine, if not....However, he had no intention of scalping or killing either man.
This opinion was not popular. Most of the others involved, though they believed their comrade's story about Pete being a friend and all, thought it even more fitting to kill both and take their scalps since Nolan was a man in the tribe's eyes, making counting coup on his body and that of his friend's, both honorable and a good idea.
The scalper, being of higher standing within the tribe, had the last word. Pete and Rowdy were left as they were which was small consolation what with Rowdy beaten senseless and Pete bleeding heavily. At least they'd die with their hair on.
If the braves couldn't scalp or kill the two, they'd rob them. Pete felt his gun belt roughly jerked from his wounded body and it cost him plenty to keep still. Kiowa valued bravery and the ability to withstand pain. If he was to die here and now, he'd die with honor. Hands searched through his pockets, finding little of value aside from tobacco, a small amount of paper money and a knife in a leather sheath. The paper money, useless to the Indians, was scattered to the four winds, the rest shared.
Turning his head, Pete watched as Rowdy was treated in the same cavalier manner. At least they'd stopped beating on him, but the young man was a bloodied mess. Nolan doubted whether his own mother would know him and he felt sick and guilty, realizing if he'd not chosen the boy to come along, he'd be safe back with the herd right now and not in a fix he wasn't likely to get out of breathing. 'Boss shoulda let me come alone,' were his last thoughts before he passed out.
Rowdy came back to his senses in a world gone upside down. His head swam and when he attempted to open his eyes needles of pain arced through his eyeballs like shards of broken glass. Rolling over onto his belly, he wretched endlessly, at first bringing up what was left of lunch and then nothing, nothing and more nothing. Exhausted and in agony he curled up into a tight ball and rocked. He wasn't certain how long he'd been conscious before he remembered Pete.
Hazarding the chance that his stomach wouldn't betray him again, he opened his eyes a bare crack. When that didn't result in anything worse than lightening bolts of pain which gradually lessened, he opened them all the way. Nolan lay on his side. The arrow which had pinned the two of them together extended completely through the slender body, chest high with the business end protruding a good twelve inches from Pete's breast and sunk nearly to the fletching in his back. The disgusting sight made Rowdy's stomach lurch, but closing his eyes, he willed it to settle down. Another arrow stuck out from Nolan's left elbow. The scout wasn't moving and through his blurred vision Rowdy couldn't tell if he was breathing. He had to get closer.
When he attempted to crawl the few yards to Pete's side, Rowdy felt the true extent of his own injuries. His back was on fire and he realized the arrow had penetrated deeply and his hip....Up on his knees, Rowdy grabbed the arrow shaft and yanked hard. Pain like he'd never felt before shot through him and he cried out, but his efforts were useless. The arrow remained stuck tight, probably into the bone. Reaching into the top of his boot, Rowdy fished out a small folding knife. In their haste the Kiowa had not checked there. Fumbling out the blade, he sawed at the wooden arrow shaft several inches away from his hip, leaving enough to grab onto when someone, obviously not he, could remove the head. His body broke out into a cold sweat and he felt nauseous, but he didn't quit until the shaft parted. Tossing away the arrow, he wiped his bloody hands across his shirtfront, closed the knife, but kept it available. He hoped he'd be needing it.
When Pete woke he found a battered, bloody Rowdy swaying unsteadily above him, a knife in one hand. "I thought I'd be able to pull that arrow shaft outta your chest before you came around. I cut the point off and a good foot of the shaft. Think you can stand it?" Rowdy folded the knife blade away and pushed the folder back into his pocket.
It took a moment for the words to sink in and make any sense at all to Pete. 'Rowdy wants to pull the arrow out of my chest....' "No! Don't! ...I'll bleed to death. Saw it happen once...to a Cheyenne. Leave it be, Rowdy. It'll have to wait."
"Well, I tried to get the arrow outta your arm, but couldn't, so I cut that shaft off; left enough to grab on to; did the same with the one in my hip."
Rain began to fall, just mist at first and then a slow steady drizzle. "Just what we need, but it might work for us. Keep the Indians from trailin' us." Rowdy wiped a sleeve back across his eyes in a vain attempt to clear his vision.
Pete tried to push himself up to a sitting position using his good arm. With Rowdy's help he succeeded. "Doubt they'll be back. Had they wanted us dead, they'd a finished the job. We gotta find shelter. Stay warm. Pray for help. This rain gets worse it'll wash our tracks away. If the boss comes lookin' for us...he'll have a hell of a time. As things stand, he won't start lookin' for a while. We gotta make do."
Rowdy offered good news. "Right before we fell, I'm sure I saw some buildings, maybe a ranch, not too far over that rise there." He pointed to the northwest. "Bet it wasn't a mile."
"A mile..." Pete figured in the condition they were in it might as well be a hundred, but he didn't voice that opinion to Rowdy. It would have been counter-productive. Besides, if Yates was right and there was shelter, it was their only chance.
Just speaking and trying to support his hurting body in an upright position sapped Pete's strength. It would be so easy to give in to the weakness, lay back and sleep, but Nolan realized to sleep now was to die and he wasn't ready for that. There was fight left yet in the tough cowboy. Besides, he couldn't leave Rowdy alone. It wouldn't be right. He had to see this through to the end. He stopped just short of thinking 'if it kills me.'
The pair supported each other's faltering steps, sharing what strength remained and when legs gave out, they crawled and in the end they dragged their hurting, exhausted bodies along inches at time until that very long mile was covered. Rowdy was right and the ranch was exactly where he'd said. Deserted by the owners at the Kiowa threat, it offered little help to the sorely wounded men save the shelter of four walls.
Too sick and hurt to do more than crawl into the nearest barn, Pete and Rowdy collapsed onto the hay. How long they lay there, bleeding from their wounds, shivering and feverish, was anyone's guess.
***
"It's been two days, Boss. You gotta send a couple men out to search for 'em! You can't..."
Favor raised his hand for silence. "This is not a democracy, Wish. I don't gotta do nothin', but in this case you're right. But I won't send anybody else. I'm goin' myself and I'll take Scarlet and Clay. Forrester's our best chance of tracking 'em."
"Uh, I hate to argue, Boss, but Scarlet ain't your man. I am. What if Rowdy or Pete or maybe both of 'em are hurt; what could Scarlet do or you? I'm volunteerin', Boss. Take me."
"Oh, right, Wishbone, I know how much you hate to argue." Favor raised his face to the heavens and put on a pious expression. "Better write this down in your book, God, Gil Favor is agreeing with G.W. Wishbone twice in one day – twice in five minutes! Get your gear, Wish and let's go. Heaven help the drovers what with Mushy cookin'. Probably won't have a man left by the time we get back."
***
Rowdy woke with his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and fever chills wracking his body. With a groan he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up onto his knees. Beside him, Pete lay curled into a fetal position, head tucked down onto his chest, his stiff, useless left arm rigid at his side. Several times a minute shivers coursed through the body and at Rowdy's touch against his shoulder, Nolan whimpered in pain. The arrow shaft with its turkey feather fletching and painted red stripe indicating tribe still protruded from Nolan's back, the sight again making Rowdy queasy. Somehow he'd hoped the whole incident had been a bad dream from which he'd wake, but no.
"Pete? Pete, can ya hear me?" Rowdy shook the scout gently and this time Pete woke, but slowly, eyes glassy with fever, mouth almost too dry to speak, like Rowdy's, from blood loss and now fever.
"Hey, kid. We made it, huh?" Nolan attempted a grin, but fell short, but Rowdy noticed the effort and responded with a grin of his own.
"We made it. I'm gonna try for the house. It ain't far. Maybe there's water or food. Maybe the folks came back."
Pete shivered, speaking with difficulty. "If you get there, stay. It's gotta be warmer than here."
Rowdy opened his mouth to argue, but it didn't matter. Pete was unconscious. Piling hay up around the scout's body for warmth, Rowdy dragged himself up against the stall slats. Putting weight on the wounded leg was impossible and he couldn't straighten up for the stiffening torn muscles in his back. His head felt too heavy to stay upright on his shoulders. Pushing away from the stall support, he doddered like an old man bent with age and infirmity and his hair, stiff with drying blood, stuck up in every direction like wet feathers. Slowly he gimped his way to the barn door and out.
Inside the cabin was a shambles. The owners had definitely been in a hurry to leave. Food set out on the table for the meal lay cold and flyblown and Rowdy's heart sank in disappointment. As much pain as he was in, as much upset as his stomach had been, he was still and all hungry and knew if he was to survive, he and Pete, they needed food and more than food, water.
Limping to the sink, Rowdy gave the pump a try. Muscles screamed in protest and he felt fresh warm blood run down his back beneath his shirt as the wound opened. Using both hands he worked the pump handle. Water gushed from the spout. Bringing the liquid to his mouth in cupped hands, he drank as much as he dared. Quickly he placed an empty pitcher in the sink to catch the flow. How to get it back to Pete without spilling it all would be a challenge.
There seemed to be no food left save what was spoiled on the table so Rowdy gave up looking. On a bed in the corner was an old woolen blanket, just one and it probably not worth the taking when the people left. Rowdy draped it across his shoulders like a shawl, took the pitcher from the sink and limped toward the door. Feeling suddenly light-headed he sank down onto one of the kitchen stools. Pushing dishes and food off and onto the floor, he rested his head down on one arm. "Just for a minute...just a minute and then I'll go," he murmured.
By the time he woke darkness had fallen and the moon had risen, full and bright and Rowdy felt a jolt of guilty panic. Was Pete alright? Why had he slept so long?
The hundred yards or so to the barn was traversed in record time for a man as bad off as Rowdy. Water sloshed and spilled over the top of the pitcher, but all things considered, the loss was slight.
Pete was as Rowdy had left him and it was difficult to get Nolan's head raised enough to put the water to his lips. Not until Pete came to and realized what Yates was trying to do did Rowdy succeed.
Pete drank slowly even though he was thirstier than he ever remembered being. "Thanks, kid...thanks," he whispered. "Thought maybe there was a pretty girl got left behind by her folks when you didn't come back."
Rowdy put aside the pitcher and pulled the moth-eaten blanket from his shoulders. Looking sheepish he wrapped the wool around Pete, carefully tucking it in around the shivering body. "Fell asleep...maybe I passed out. I ain't sure. Sorry."
"No need to apologize. I knew you wouldn't listen to me...you'd come back, if you could." Pete found it difficult to think straight, let alone speak in any sort of coherent way. He knew he was losing ground quickly. If they weren't found soon, he wouldn't make it. Somehow the thought didn't bother him as much as it had earlier. If Rowdy lived he'd be okay with dying.
Morning light streamed in through the barn's cracks and fissures, stirring to life the few bedraggled hens the coyotes hadn't eaten. Cackling and scratching, they got down to the business of being chickens – they laid eggs. Not large and only two, more the size of quail eggs than chicken, nevertheless, Rowdy felt he'd found gold.
Crawling on hands and knees, too weak and in too much pain to stand, he searched the hay for more, but without success. Carefully, he inched his way back to Pete. One egg he propped in the hay, the other he opened with his pocket knife, tapping a ring around the narrow end. Flicking off the circle of shell, he put the egg to his lips, tipped his head back and swallowed the contents. Yolk and white slid down his throat, delicious ambrosia.
Picking up the second egg, he repeated the procedure, opening out the top to reveal the contents. Lifting Pete's head, he put the egg to his lips. "It's good, Pete, real good. You'll like it," he coaxed.
"Generally take my egg in a nice cold beer," Pete quipped, bringing much needed levity to the dire situation and causing Rowdy to grin.
"No beer. Water'll have ta do."
Rowdy lay next to Nolan, the two sharing the scrap of blanket and their own meager body heat. The day was ending and no help had come. Fevers were worse; the water was gone and Rowdy too weak to attempt a second trip to the house.
"I'm sorry I got you into this, Rowdy. If I hadn't a picked you outta the bunch..." Pete's voice trailed off.
"If you hadn't a picked me, it woulda been somebody else and you'd still be here. How fair is that? Ain't your fault, Pete. Ain't your fault at all. Was those Kiowa."
"No, was white men started it. I heard the Kiowa talkin'. White men butchered Kiowa women and kids...no reason. Was white men started it, Rowdy. We just got in the way is all. Our bad luck."
***
Wishbone shook his head. "Rain washed out all their tracks. We got nothin' to go on, Boss."
"Clay'll find something up ahead. He's like Pete...he can smell out a track. It's a sorta sixth sense some people got. He'll find something." Favor lit a quirly, drawing the acrid smoke into his lungs. Patience was not one of the trail boss's usual virtues, but today was different. Maybe he knew something no one else did. Maybe his own sixth sense had kicked in.
Sitting his horse, smoking and thinking, Favor seemed the virtue's model which left Wishbone confused. "It just ain't natural," he muttered to himself, glancing anxiously over at his boss, but Favor hadn't heard, his attention focused on Clay Forrester, riding in fast. Gil ground the cigarette out against the saddle horn.
"What've you got, Clay?" Favor spurred his horse forward to meet the returning scout. Wishbone followed.
"Found two arrows, which by itself says nothin', but these are different. Look here." Clay held out his find, indicating where both had been cut, sawn through. All that remained were partial shafts and the fletching. "Whoever sawed these off is carryin' the points yet. I'd say Rowdy or Pete, might be both are wounded."
"Wounded, but alive." Favor replied.
"Alive then, but now, who can be sure. It's been nearly three days, Boss." Forrester tossed the arrows away. "But there is good news."
Now Favor's unnatural patience snapped and he remembered clearly why Forrester annoyed him on a semi-regular basis. The man never got to the point, preferring to draw things out to some sort of dramatic tension- building climax. As an actor, Clay would've risen to the top like cream. As a drover or scout his attributes were detrimental to his health. Favor seethed. "Well spit it out then! We ain't playin' twenty questions here! Men's lives are at stake!"
"I saw a couple buildings," Clay pointed back over his shoulder, "that way, no more than a mile. If Pete and Rowdy weren't too bad off, they coulda made it. That's a course if they saw 'em. You'd have to be up high, like on horseback. They'd be on foot. No Indian in his right mind would leave horses behind."
"While you two are jawin', those boys might be dying. Talk, talk, talk," Wishbone kicked the rangy bay into a trot, heading off in the direction Forrester pointed out.
Favor soon overtook the cook, stopping to lean down out of the saddle to pluck something from a sage clump. He showed it to Wishbone and Forrester as the two caught up. It was a single dollar bill. "I'd say we're heading in the right direction." Favor jammed the bill into his breast pocket and spurred his mount into a run.
Inside the barn it was clammy cold, damp and cave-like, no place for wounded men, hardly better than being exposed to the outdoors, yet there they were. Favor knelt near the men, afraid to touch either, afraid he'd find no breath, no heartbeat, afraid he was too late.
Wishbone had no such fears. Crouching down he felt for a pulse at Rowdy's wrist and then Pete's. Pulling the ragged blanket off, he exposed their wounded bodies to the lantern light provided by Clay. At the sight of the arrow through Pete's body and the men's overall sickening condition, Forrester turned his head away. Favor swore solidly.
Wishbone examined the injuries, categorizing each one aloud as he did so. "They're both breathin' but that's about it," he reported. "First we get 'em into the house and then work from there." When neither Favor nor Forrester moved, Wishbone snapped, "Well let's get goin' here!"
Between Clay and Wishbone, they carried Rowdy into the house, laying him on the larger of the two beds. Favor handled the slighter Pete alone, careful to lay him on his side, using whatever was at hand to keep him from turning onto his back or belly.
A fire in the stove soon provided warmth and hot water, though it was a good thing Wishbone brought most of what he needed along. The absent home- owners seemed to have taken anything and everything of worth when they left, one step ahead of the Kiowa, including clean sheets – if ever they owned any and blankets.
Clay was no good at all with the wounded men. Attempting to assist Wishbone with his bloody work turned Forrester pale and weak-kneed, something he couldn't help but which had Wish seeing red. "Do us both a favor and go on outside! I heard some chickens in the barn. See if you can find some eggs. And kill one of them birds while you're at it sos I can get some broth started. These boys'll need something hot and nourishing in their stomachs here pretty soon."
Clay was grateful to be relieved of duty and more than happy to pass over the nursing chores to the better suited Gil Favor. Favor's steady hands were a blessing to the overtaxed Wishbone. Working quickly, the pair succeeded in removing the arrowhead from Rowdy's hip and the one from Pete's elbow, though neither task was easy. Favor, using a shoeing pincher Clay found in the barn and plain brute strength, extracted the arrowheads which were, in both cases, embedded in bone. It was a blessing to all concerned that the patients were unconscious at the time. Removing the arrow shaft from Pete's body was physically easier, but led to problems with the punctured lung.
Nolan woke to searing pain in his chest and an inability to catch a breath. He panicked, fighting the hands which meant only to help.
"Put your hand down over that hole in his chest till I can get a bandage on it!" Working frantically, Wishbone folded a clean towel into fourths, lifted Favor's hand from the wound and pressed the bandage down, sealing the puncture that kept Pete from a full breath. When he realized he wasn't going to suffocate, Nolan quite fighting.
"Easy now, son, just take it easy," Wish soothed as he worked to bandage the wounds.
Nolan's vision was fuzzy at best, but he made out the two faces hovering over him. He could breathe, but the agony in his chest and arm had not let up. Reaching out he grabbed for Wishbone's sleeve, holding on dearly. "I hurt," he confided, pain lines etched into his forehead and around his mouth. "I hurt."
Bent over a low bed for long hours put an ache into a tall man's back; Favor stood up and stretched, worried. If Pete actually admitted to being in pain, it must have been excruciating. "What can we do for him...and for Rowdy? You got anything to give 'em?"
Without turning his head Wishbone replied, "Nothin', not even a drop a..."
"Look what I found in the barn! Fella who owns this place musta kept a hideout bottle!" Clay burst through the cabin door, a jug of some sort of home brewed white lightening in his hand. "I tasted it! Isn't half bad...could use a bit of aging – could use a lot of aging, but..."
"Give it here, then!" Favor held out a water glass, waiting while Clay uncorked the jug, smelled the bouquet for good effect and poured out half a glass of amber liquid. Even from an arm's length away, Gil's nose wrinkled at the smell. It needed more than aging, but if it was strong enough to ease pain....Favor took a sip, rolled the liquid around inside his mouth a minute before swallowing. Without comment he passed the glass to Wishbone, who followed the same routine.
Wish nodded. "It'll do." While Favor held Pete's head, Wishbone put the glass to Nolan's lips. "Take small sips, Pete. Don't want 'cha to choke. Just small sips now."
Pete managed to swallow the fiery liquor which singed his throat on the way down like burning fuel oil. It stayed warm all the way to his belly and spread out to his extremities. Soon even his fingertips were numb. Several more swallows and his eyes closed and his head grew heavy in Gil's hand. Favor rested Pete's head back onto the bed. Looking across at Wishbone and then up at Forrester, he did something he hadn't done in many days, something at which he wasn't very proficient – he smiled. "Rowdy next."
***
"We can't move either of 'em, not yet, not for a while even if we had the means. Pete's bad, real bad." Wishbone, exhausted by two days without sleep, let depression creep into his words.
Sitting across the kitchen table from the cook, Favor warmed his hands around the tin coffee cup. For some reason he couldn't seem to get warm, though the temperature had climbed back up to where it should be for the time of year and the rain had moved off leaving the air clean and sweet. "You tryin' to tell me Pete's not gonna make it?"
Wishbone shook his head. "What I'm tryin' to say is what I said – Pete's real bad. I never said he wasn't gonna make it." He paused, looking over his shoulder at the slim cowboy on the bed, pale, weak, shivering from fever and an infection. "I ain't no doctor and I sure ain't kin to God...he could die, Boss," he finally admitted, to himself and to Favor.
Favor swallowed hard before speaking. "I never shoulda sent him out. It's my fault, all this and for what? It accomplished nothing aside from nearly killin' two of my best men. By the time we found 'em, the army'd already taken care of the Kiowa, wiped 'em out almost to a man. I sent Pete and Rowdy on a fool's errand and me the fool."
Wishbone said nothing. There was nothing to say since he'd argued the point with his boss twice before this and gotten absolutely no where. Guilt was a burden a man carried alone.
Behind them on the bed, Pete called plaintively for Rowdy as he'd been doing for the past day. No amount of reassurance that Yates was alive affected the scout's need to see the young man for himself. Nothing quieted him, yet something had to. When he called, he also moved about, attempting to rise from the bed, opening his wounds and sapping his strength. Wishbone was on his feet and at the bedside in yet another futile attempt to calm Nolan's fears.
"Rowdy's dead and it's my doin'! I shoulda gone alone! I shoulda gone alone!" Pete agonized.
"The two a you make me sick!" Wishbone looked up from Pete's bed to Gil Favor standing alongside. "Two of a kind you are and no talkin' you outta something once you got your minds set! YOU, Gil Favor, you're guilty 'cause you sent Pete out and Pete's guilty 'cause he took Rowdy along! Who IS to blame, here, Mr. Favor, you? Pete? Me, because I didn't volunteer ta go? WHO? Why not just blame God? Ain't he the one responsible for all things? HUH? You two make me sick."
Turning back to Pete, Wish hushed him in a now gentle whisper.
"Move, Wishbone." Favor shoved the cook, not with any sort of malice, just to let him know he meant business. "Get outta the way a minute."
Wish rose from the bed, feathers ruffled, but curious. He stepped aside, thinking Gil wanted to sit down next to Pete. He didn't. Instead he threw off the covers and lifted the scout into his arms, as tenderly as a father lifting an ill child.
"What the hell you doin'? You can't...!" Wishbone shut his mouth and moved back, allowing Favor to walk past with his burden.
Long strides took him into the next room where Yates lay, Clay Forrester seated on a chair at the bedside in case the wounded man required anything. Forrester jumped up so fast he tipped the chair backwards. "Boss...what the heck's goin' on?"
Gil ignored him, instead speaking to his ramrod. "Rowdy...Rowdy, you hear me?"
Rowdy opened his eyes and looked up, surprised to say the least to see Favor with Pete in his arms, Nolan's head up against Gil's shoulder.
"I hear ya, Boss," Yates tried to sit up. "What's goin' on? Pete?" Clay was quick to assist and quick to set the toppled chair upright.
"That's it, Rowdy, talk to him. Let 'im know you're okay. Words don't matter...just let him hear your voice," Favor urged. Yates spoke and although the voice was weak and strained, it was still recognizably Rowdy's.
Favor settled onto the chair, praying the stool didn't collapse under the double burden, angling his body so Pete would have no trouble seeing the young ramrod for himself. At the sound of Yates' familiar voice Nolan opened his eyes and upon seeing Rowdy, alive if not yet well, his expression brightened and a smile appeared on the wan face. When the scout spoke it was with renewed vitality. "We made it, Rowdy," he affirmed.
Yates grinned. "Yeah, sure looks that way, Pete."
Gil Favor said nothing. For once he didn't trust his voice.
END
*In 1864 just outside Doniphan, Nebraska, the Martin brothers were attacked by Sioux as they worked the fields with their father. Escaping together on the back of a single horse they were wounded several times by arrows, one pinning them together, back to front. Beaten and left to die, though not scalped because of their age, the brothers managed to crawl back to their own barn where their parents found them a day later. Both boys survived, one living well into his 70s.
Some folks say truth is stranger than fiction and with what happened here this past week, I'd be likely to believe them. We'd been seeing signs of Kiowa for days, not a large party, more like a scouting attempt; probably as curious about us as we are about them, or so I thought at the time. But then things turned rough. Pete came up on a settler's wagon – burned and the people, a man, a woman and two kids, the same. I don't know what happened to change things and I don't care much for the reason, my only concerns are getting this herd through without losing any of my men. My name is Gil Favor, trail boss. Welcome to my world.
When the men returned from burial duty, they were pretty shaken. Hardened and tough as they are, seeing kids, little kids, murdered tore them up pretty good and each handled it in his own way, most retreating deeply into themselves. Even Mushy, usually talkative to the point of exasperation, remained silent. Depression spread through the ranks like a bad cold. Soon few were worth any work at all. It had to stop. Favor called a meeting.
"Pete, I want you to take one man. Scout maybe twenty miles ahead. Find us a clear trail through those Indians – a safe trail. If you can find out what the hell happened to trigger the Kiowa into this killing, all fine and good. If not...just find us safe passage. Got it?"
The scout nodded. "I got it, Boss. I'll take Quince along, if he's willing."
Quince did not look willing. Hemming and hawing, kicking at the ground, he finally looked up, avoiding Nolan as he spoke. "You know them Kiowa, Pete, know 'em as good as anybody, I'd wager, probably even like 'em. I don't. I can't say that I wouldn't do somethin' I'd regret later...if we got close to 'em. I can't say I wouldn't wanna shoot 'em on sight. I'm sorry, Pete. It's best I don't go. Pick somebody else."
Nolan sighed. Of all the men he figured Jim Quince least likely to go off half-cocked. Usually he was the most solid, thoughtful and mature drover in the bunch, except when he'd had a bit too much to drink. Now Pete was stymied. He glanced at Favor who stood waiting, arms crossed, impatient expression on his face.
"I'll go it alone, Boss. There's no need for..." Nolan never finished.
Favor exploded. "I said choose a man! If I'd wanted you to go alone I would've said so! Choose someone or I'll choose! Make it fast! We're wasting time!"
Without thinking Pete chose. "Rowdy," he said, a little too loudly, looking surprised at his own selection. "Rowdy," he repeated with less surprise and more conviction.
Everyone turned to stare at Yates, even Favor, all shocked by the choice. After all, wasn't Rowdy the least stable and most volatile among the twenty- five or so men? Granted, he was the ramrod and the men respected and liked the young man, but stable was never mentioned in his resume, but hair- trigger, irascible and angry, were.
Yates stood, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, all eyes upon him, as shocked by Nolan's choice as everyone else, "Me? Me?" he managed to blurt out. "Me?"
"You heard the man, Rowdy." Favor was galvanized into action. "Hey Soos, saddle their mounts. Wish, get some grub together, enough for several days." When nobody moved, Favor yelled. "Move it!" The men scattered like so many flustered hens.
***
"The boss sounded pretty worried, Pete. It ain't like him to take on so with goodbyes. Usually it's just 'don't waste time' or 'see you wear out that saddle leather.' When he said 'be careful,' well, that got me to thinkin' ..." Nolan stopped Yates with a shake of the head. "Too much thinkin' won't help, Rowdy. Just gets a man to frettin' and out here, we can't be bothered with things we can't change. Keep your eyes open and your mind on the trail. We'll be okay." Pete turned in the saddle and grinned. As he hoped it would, his sense of self-confidence eased Rowdy's worries. Yates returned the smile, tentatively.
There was little enough time to dwell on the obscure. Not five miles ahead, Pete swung off his mount and crouched to check out some tracks. "Kiowa, small party, maybe three or four...scouts."
Rowdy nodded and from his perch high up on the horse's back, he scanned the surrounding low rolling hills with Pete's field glasses, "Nothing."
"The tracks lead off northwest. Reckon we'll follow; see what they're up to. If we find 'em all bunched up in one spot we'll be safe to head wide around with the herd." Pete climbed back into the saddle and urged his mount into a lope. He didn't want to risk overriding his quarry. Rowdy followed, silent but observant, twisting in the saddle to keep an eye on where they'd been as well as where they were headed, the field glasses dangling from a leather strap about his neck, one hand uneasily resting on the Henry in its scabbard.
Mile followed mile, more than twenty before Pete reined in. "Tracks cross here and mix up... large party a Kiowa. Don't see any sign they brought along their women and kids." Nolan leaned back in the saddle, stretching out the tired muscles in his back and shoulders. "I believe these are the ones who killed those settlers," he offered rather matter-of-factly. "We gotta be on our toes, now more than ever. These tracks ain't but an hour or so old."
Rowdy rode up close, looking down at the mishmash of overlapping prints, wondering how Nolan could tell so much from such confusion and marveling at the scout's knowledge. Never again would he doubt Pete's abilities, not that he had done so much in the past, this outing just served to reinforce the ramrod's respect for Nolan's skills. The pair continued to range north and west, stopping only long enough to rest the horses and eat some cold rations. Back on the trail, Pete stopped abruptly, signaling Rowdy to do the same. Nolan dismounted. When Yates attempted to follow, Pete prevented it. "Stay on this side of the rise. Stay mounted. I wanta take a look."
Down on his belly, Nolan crept forward, even removing his hat to give a lower profile, his slim form hugging the ground as he moved almost imperceptivity, inch by inch, toward the crest of the rise. Below and slightly beyond lay an entire Kiowa raiding party, painted for war. In his mind, Pete swore. Backing off the rise as slowly as he'd advanced, he was almost to the point of being able to stand when Rowdy shouted a warning. Kiowa were coming, riding full out, riding the two men down.
Pete's horse bolted at the shrill cries of the advancing warriors, gone before Nolan even got his wits about him. Rowdy's horse reared and squealed, panicked. It took all Yates' skill to keep from being bucked off as the big dun also bolted. Pete was left alone to face the advancing braves. Pulling his pistol from the holster, he flattened closer into the ground and aimed. He never got the chance to fire. Rowdy was back. Cutting directly across the Indians' path, he drove hard toward Pete, spurring and shouting. Nolan got to his feet, holstered the weapon and extended his right arm. As Yates flew past, he grabbed the outstretched hand. Nolan whipped up behind him and the pair sped off leaving the Kiowa somewhat dumbfounded at the white men's riding skill. Most Indians thought little of whites, often not even bothering to lift a scalp, unless the individual had proven himself a worthy adversary.
Pete hung on with one hand, fumbling his Colt from the holster with the other. Winging shots at the fast approaching Kiowa was nigh on to useless and Pete knew it, but he figured dodging lead at least gave the Indians pause, if scant.
Scant was right on the money. Behind the fleeing pair, braves urged their mounts on to full speed, dodging bullets be damned. Out of ammo anyhow, Pete slid the pistol away, praying he didn't drop it as Rowdy spurred their own horse on, but the animal was tiring fast and if something didn't happen soon, they'd be overrun.
Making matters worse, arrows began zinging past, making a frightening whoosh the closer they came. Pete felt a white-hot pain in his elbow and for a brief moment stars danced behind his eyes until he regained normal vision. Attempting to move his arm was useless; it hung at his side, an arrowhead embedded in the joint. Missiles continued to fly as Kiowa now rode a course not only behind, but parallel to their position.
Rowdy was hit in the hip, through thick bull-hide chaps and trousers, but he kept spurring the straining horse.
Pete was hit again, pierced completely through, the arrow punching through his left lung, exiting out the front and going on into Rowdy's back where it stuck. For all intents and purposes, the pair was now pinned together.
Nolan hung on, but it was getting harder and harder to do so. Losing blood fast he was growing weak. The war cries around him grew dim and distant and he fainted, falling from the horse and dragging Rowdy along with him.
As they hit the ground they separated, the arrow dislodging from Rowdy's back. Still conscious, though bleeding profusely, Yates attempted to gain his feet while drawing his pistol. Clubbed from behind, he hit the ground and stayed there. Blows rained down upon his head and body while the Kiowa refrained from beating Pete, perhaps believing someone with an arrow completely through the body must be dead or close and certainly no threat.
Grabbing a handful of Nolan's dark curly hair and jerking Pete's head up and back, a brave, scalping knife poised to make the first cut, stopped in mid-motion. Shouting and gesturing, he finally got the attention of his comrades who, intent upon wrecking vengeance on Rowdy, paused impatiently in their work.
Pete opened his eyes and found himself appraised by half a dozen painted warriors. Although his Kiowa was rusty, he got the point of their conversation, though it was more an argument. The scalper recognized him as an old friend to the tribe. It was the Indian's contention to leave both men as they were. If they lived fine, if not....However, he had no intention of scalping or killing either man.
This opinion was not popular. Most of the others involved, though they believed their comrade's story about Pete being a friend and all, thought it even more fitting to kill both and take their scalps since Nolan was a man in the tribe's eyes, making counting coup on his body and that of his friend's, both honorable and a good idea.
The scalper, being of higher standing within the tribe, had the last word. Pete and Rowdy were left as they were which was small consolation what with Rowdy beaten senseless and Pete bleeding heavily. At least they'd die with their hair on.
If the braves couldn't scalp or kill the two, they'd rob them. Pete felt his gun belt roughly jerked from his wounded body and it cost him plenty to keep still. Kiowa valued bravery and the ability to withstand pain. If he was to die here and now, he'd die with honor. Hands searched through his pockets, finding little of value aside from tobacco, a small amount of paper money and a knife in a leather sheath. The paper money, useless to the Indians, was scattered to the four winds, the rest shared.
Turning his head, Pete watched as Rowdy was treated in the same cavalier manner. At least they'd stopped beating on him, but the young man was a bloodied mess. Nolan doubted whether his own mother would know him and he felt sick and guilty, realizing if he'd not chosen the boy to come along, he'd be safe back with the herd right now and not in a fix he wasn't likely to get out of breathing. 'Boss shoulda let me come alone,' were his last thoughts before he passed out.
Rowdy came back to his senses in a world gone upside down. His head swam and when he attempted to open his eyes needles of pain arced through his eyeballs like shards of broken glass. Rolling over onto his belly, he wretched endlessly, at first bringing up what was left of lunch and then nothing, nothing and more nothing. Exhausted and in agony he curled up into a tight ball and rocked. He wasn't certain how long he'd been conscious before he remembered Pete.
Hazarding the chance that his stomach wouldn't betray him again, he opened his eyes a bare crack. When that didn't result in anything worse than lightening bolts of pain which gradually lessened, he opened them all the way. Nolan lay on his side. The arrow which had pinned the two of them together extended completely through the slender body, chest high with the business end protruding a good twelve inches from Pete's breast and sunk nearly to the fletching in his back. The disgusting sight made Rowdy's stomach lurch, but closing his eyes, he willed it to settle down. Another arrow stuck out from Nolan's left elbow. The scout wasn't moving and through his blurred vision Rowdy couldn't tell if he was breathing. He had to get closer.
When he attempted to crawl the few yards to Pete's side, Rowdy felt the true extent of his own injuries. His back was on fire and he realized the arrow had penetrated deeply and his hip....Up on his knees, Rowdy grabbed the arrow shaft and yanked hard. Pain like he'd never felt before shot through him and he cried out, but his efforts were useless. The arrow remained stuck tight, probably into the bone. Reaching into the top of his boot, Rowdy fished out a small folding knife. In their haste the Kiowa had not checked there. Fumbling out the blade, he sawed at the wooden arrow shaft several inches away from his hip, leaving enough to grab onto when someone, obviously not he, could remove the head. His body broke out into a cold sweat and he felt nauseous, but he didn't quit until the shaft parted. Tossing away the arrow, he wiped his bloody hands across his shirtfront, closed the knife, but kept it available. He hoped he'd be needing it.
When Pete woke he found a battered, bloody Rowdy swaying unsteadily above him, a knife in one hand. "I thought I'd be able to pull that arrow shaft outta your chest before you came around. I cut the point off and a good foot of the shaft. Think you can stand it?" Rowdy folded the knife blade away and pushed the folder back into his pocket.
It took a moment for the words to sink in and make any sense at all to Pete. 'Rowdy wants to pull the arrow out of my chest....' "No! Don't! ...I'll bleed to death. Saw it happen once...to a Cheyenne. Leave it be, Rowdy. It'll have to wait."
"Well, I tried to get the arrow outta your arm, but couldn't, so I cut that shaft off; left enough to grab on to; did the same with the one in my hip."
Rain began to fall, just mist at first and then a slow steady drizzle. "Just what we need, but it might work for us. Keep the Indians from trailin' us." Rowdy wiped a sleeve back across his eyes in a vain attempt to clear his vision.
Pete tried to push himself up to a sitting position using his good arm. With Rowdy's help he succeeded. "Doubt they'll be back. Had they wanted us dead, they'd a finished the job. We gotta find shelter. Stay warm. Pray for help. This rain gets worse it'll wash our tracks away. If the boss comes lookin' for us...he'll have a hell of a time. As things stand, he won't start lookin' for a while. We gotta make do."
Rowdy offered good news. "Right before we fell, I'm sure I saw some buildings, maybe a ranch, not too far over that rise there." He pointed to the northwest. "Bet it wasn't a mile."
"A mile..." Pete figured in the condition they were in it might as well be a hundred, but he didn't voice that opinion to Rowdy. It would have been counter-productive. Besides, if Yates was right and there was shelter, it was their only chance.
Just speaking and trying to support his hurting body in an upright position sapped Pete's strength. It would be so easy to give in to the weakness, lay back and sleep, but Nolan realized to sleep now was to die and he wasn't ready for that. There was fight left yet in the tough cowboy. Besides, he couldn't leave Rowdy alone. It wouldn't be right. He had to see this through to the end. He stopped just short of thinking 'if it kills me.'
The pair supported each other's faltering steps, sharing what strength remained and when legs gave out, they crawled and in the end they dragged their hurting, exhausted bodies along inches at time until that very long mile was covered. Rowdy was right and the ranch was exactly where he'd said. Deserted by the owners at the Kiowa threat, it offered little help to the sorely wounded men save the shelter of four walls.
Too sick and hurt to do more than crawl into the nearest barn, Pete and Rowdy collapsed onto the hay. How long they lay there, bleeding from their wounds, shivering and feverish, was anyone's guess.
***
"It's been two days, Boss. You gotta send a couple men out to search for 'em! You can't..."
Favor raised his hand for silence. "This is not a democracy, Wish. I don't gotta do nothin', but in this case you're right. But I won't send anybody else. I'm goin' myself and I'll take Scarlet and Clay. Forrester's our best chance of tracking 'em."
"Uh, I hate to argue, Boss, but Scarlet ain't your man. I am. What if Rowdy or Pete or maybe both of 'em are hurt; what could Scarlet do or you? I'm volunteerin', Boss. Take me."
"Oh, right, Wishbone, I know how much you hate to argue." Favor raised his face to the heavens and put on a pious expression. "Better write this down in your book, God, Gil Favor is agreeing with G.W. Wishbone twice in one day – twice in five minutes! Get your gear, Wish and let's go. Heaven help the drovers what with Mushy cookin'. Probably won't have a man left by the time we get back."
***
Rowdy woke with his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and fever chills wracking his body. With a groan he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up onto his knees. Beside him, Pete lay curled into a fetal position, head tucked down onto his chest, his stiff, useless left arm rigid at his side. Several times a minute shivers coursed through the body and at Rowdy's touch against his shoulder, Nolan whimpered in pain. The arrow shaft with its turkey feather fletching and painted red stripe indicating tribe still protruded from Nolan's back, the sight again making Rowdy queasy. Somehow he'd hoped the whole incident had been a bad dream from which he'd wake, but no.
"Pete? Pete, can ya hear me?" Rowdy shook the scout gently and this time Pete woke, but slowly, eyes glassy with fever, mouth almost too dry to speak, like Rowdy's, from blood loss and now fever.
"Hey, kid. We made it, huh?" Nolan attempted a grin, but fell short, but Rowdy noticed the effort and responded with a grin of his own.
"We made it. I'm gonna try for the house. It ain't far. Maybe there's water or food. Maybe the folks came back."
Pete shivered, speaking with difficulty. "If you get there, stay. It's gotta be warmer than here."
Rowdy opened his mouth to argue, but it didn't matter. Pete was unconscious. Piling hay up around the scout's body for warmth, Rowdy dragged himself up against the stall slats. Putting weight on the wounded leg was impossible and he couldn't straighten up for the stiffening torn muscles in his back. His head felt too heavy to stay upright on his shoulders. Pushing away from the stall support, he doddered like an old man bent with age and infirmity and his hair, stiff with drying blood, stuck up in every direction like wet feathers. Slowly he gimped his way to the barn door and out.
Inside the cabin was a shambles. The owners had definitely been in a hurry to leave. Food set out on the table for the meal lay cold and flyblown and Rowdy's heart sank in disappointment. As much pain as he was in, as much upset as his stomach had been, he was still and all hungry and knew if he was to survive, he and Pete, they needed food and more than food, water.
Limping to the sink, Rowdy gave the pump a try. Muscles screamed in protest and he felt fresh warm blood run down his back beneath his shirt as the wound opened. Using both hands he worked the pump handle. Water gushed from the spout. Bringing the liquid to his mouth in cupped hands, he drank as much as he dared. Quickly he placed an empty pitcher in the sink to catch the flow. How to get it back to Pete without spilling it all would be a challenge.
There seemed to be no food left save what was spoiled on the table so Rowdy gave up looking. On a bed in the corner was an old woolen blanket, just one and it probably not worth the taking when the people left. Rowdy draped it across his shoulders like a shawl, took the pitcher from the sink and limped toward the door. Feeling suddenly light-headed he sank down onto one of the kitchen stools. Pushing dishes and food off and onto the floor, he rested his head down on one arm. "Just for a minute...just a minute and then I'll go," he murmured.
By the time he woke darkness had fallen and the moon had risen, full and bright and Rowdy felt a jolt of guilty panic. Was Pete alright? Why had he slept so long?
The hundred yards or so to the barn was traversed in record time for a man as bad off as Rowdy. Water sloshed and spilled over the top of the pitcher, but all things considered, the loss was slight.
Pete was as Rowdy had left him and it was difficult to get Nolan's head raised enough to put the water to his lips. Not until Pete came to and realized what Yates was trying to do did Rowdy succeed.
Pete drank slowly even though he was thirstier than he ever remembered being. "Thanks, kid...thanks," he whispered. "Thought maybe there was a pretty girl got left behind by her folks when you didn't come back."
Rowdy put aside the pitcher and pulled the moth-eaten blanket from his shoulders. Looking sheepish he wrapped the wool around Pete, carefully tucking it in around the shivering body. "Fell asleep...maybe I passed out. I ain't sure. Sorry."
"No need to apologize. I knew you wouldn't listen to me...you'd come back, if you could." Pete found it difficult to think straight, let alone speak in any sort of coherent way. He knew he was losing ground quickly. If they weren't found soon, he wouldn't make it. Somehow the thought didn't bother him as much as it had earlier. If Rowdy lived he'd be okay with dying.
Morning light streamed in through the barn's cracks and fissures, stirring to life the few bedraggled hens the coyotes hadn't eaten. Cackling and scratching, they got down to the business of being chickens – they laid eggs. Not large and only two, more the size of quail eggs than chicken, nevertheless, Rowdy felt he'd found gold.
Crawling on hands and knees, too weak and in too much pain to stand, he searched the hay for more, but without success. Carefully, he inched his way back to Pete. One egg he propped in the hay, the other he opened with his pocket knife, tapping a ring around the narrow end. Flicking off the circle of shell, he put the egg to his lips, tipped his head back and swallowed the contents. Yolk and white slid down his throat, delicious ambrosia.
Picking up the second egg, he repeated the procedure, opening out the top to reveal the contents. Lifting Pete's head, he put the egg to his lips. "It's good, Pete, real good. You'll like it," he coaxed.
"Generally take my egg in a nice cold beer," Pete quipped, bringing much needed levity to the dire situation and causing Rowdy to grin.
"No beer. Water'll have ta do."
Rowdy lay next to Nolan, the two sharing the scrap of blanket and their own meager body heat. The day was ending and no help had come. Fevers were worse; the water was gone and Rowdy too weak to attempt a second trip to the house.
"I'm sorry I got you into this, Rowdy. If I hadn't a picked you outta the bunch..." Pete's voice trailed off.
"If you hadn't a picked me, it woulda been somebody else and you'd still be here. How fair is that? Ain't your fault, Pete. Ain't your fault at all. Was those Kiowa."
"No, was white men started it. I heard the Kiowa talkin'. White men butchered Kiowa women and kids...no reason. Was white men started it, Rowdy. We just got in the way is all. Our bad luck."
***
Wishbone shook his head. "Rain washed out all their tracks. We got nothin' to go on, Boss."
"Clay'll find something up ahead. He's like Pete...he can smell out a track. It's a sorta sixth sense some people got. He'll find something." Favor lit a quirly, drawing the acrid smoke into his lungs. Patience was not one of the trail boss's usual virtues, but today was different. Maybe he knew something no one else did. Maybe his own sixth sense had kicked in.
Sitting his horse, smoking and thinking, Favor seemed the virtue's model which left Wishbone confused. "It just ain't natural," he muttered to himself, glancing anxiously over at his boss, but Favor hadn't heard, his attention focused on Clay Forrester, riding in fast. Gil ground the cigarette out against the saddle horn.
"What've you got, Clay?" Favor spurred his horse forward to meet the returning scout. Wishbone followed.
"Found two arrows, which by itself says nothin', but these are different. Look here." Clay held out his find, indicating where both had been cut, sawn through. All that remained were partial shafts and the fletching. "Whoever sawed these off is carryin' the points yet. I'd say Rowdy or Pete, might be both are wounded."
"Wounded, but alive." Favor replied.
"Alive then, but now, who can be sure. It's been nearly three days, Boss." Forrester tossed the arrows away. "But there is good news."
Now Favor's unnatural patience snapped and he remembered clearly why Forrester annoyed him on a semi-regular basis. The man never got to the point, preferring to draw things out to some sort of dramatic tension- building climax. As an actor, Clay would've risen to the top like cream. As a drover or scout his attributes were detrimental to his health. Favor seethed. "Well spit it out then! We ain't playin' twenty questions here! Men's lives are at stake!"
"I saw a couple buildings," Clay pointed back over his shoulder, "that way, no more than a mile. If Pete and Rowdy weren't too bad off, they coulda made it. That's a course if they saw 'em. You'd have to be up high, like on horseback. They'd be on foot. No Indian in his right mind would leave horses behind."
"While you two are jawin', those boys might be dying. Talk, talk, talk," Wishbone kicked the rangy bay into a trot, heading off in the direction Forrester pointed out.
Favor soon overtook the cook, stopping to lean down out of the saddle to pluck something from a sage clump. He showed it to Wishbone and Forrester as the two caught up. It was a single dollar bill. "I'd say we're heading in the right direction." Favor jammed the bill into his breast pocket and spurred his mount into a run.
Inside the barn it was clammy cold, damp and cave-like, no place for wounded men, hardly better than being exposed to the outdoors, yet there they were. Favor knelt near the men, afraid to touch either, afraid he'd find no breath, no heartbeat, afraid he was too late.
Wishbone had no such fears. Crouching down he felt for a pulse at Rowdy's wrist and then Pete's. Pulling the ragged blanket off, he exposed their wounded bodies to the lantern light provided by Clay. At the sight of the arrow through Pete's body and the men's overall sickening condition, Forrester turned his head away. Favor swore solidly.
Wishbone examined the injuries, categorizing each one aloud as he did so. "They're both breathin' but that's about it," he reported. "First we get 'em into the house and then work from there." When neither Favor nor Forrester moved, Wishbone snapped, "Well let's get goin' here!"
Between Clay and Wishbone, they carried Rowdy into the house, laying him on the larger of the two beds. Favor handled the slighter Pete alone, careful to lay him on his side, using whatever was at hand to keep him from turning onto his back or belly.
A fire in the stove soon provided warmth and hot water, though it was a good thing Wishbone brought most of what he needed along. The absent home- owners seemed to have taken anything and everything of worth when they left, one step ahead of the Kiowa, including clean sheets – if ever they owned any and blankets.
Clay was no good at all with the wounded men. Attempting to assist Wishbone with his bloody work turned Forrester pale and weak-kneed, something he couldn't help but which had Wish seeing red. "Do us both a favor and go on outside! I heard some chickens in the barn. See if you can find some eggs. And kill one of them birds while you're at it sos I can get some broth started. These boys'll need something hot and nourishing in their stomachs here pretty soon."
Clay was grateful to be relieved of duty and more than happy to pass over the nursing chores to the better suited Gil Favor. Favor's steady hands were a blessing to the overtaxed Wishbone. Working quickly, the pair succeeded in removing the arrowhead from Rowdy's hip and the one from Pete's elbow, though neither task was easy. Favor, using a shoeing pincher Clay found in the barn and plain brute strength, extracted the arrowheads which were, in both cases, embedded in bone. It was a blessing to all concerned that the patients were unconscious at the time. Removing the arrow shaft from Pete's body was physically easier, but led to problems with the punctured lung.
Nolan woke to searing pain in his chest and an inability to catch a breath. He panicked, fighting the hands which meant only to help.
"Put your hand down over that hole in his chest till I can get a bandage on it!" Working frantically, Wishbone folded a clean towel into fourths, lifted Favor's hand from the wound and pressed the bandage down, sealing the puncture that kept Pete from a full breath. When he realized he wasn't going to suffocate, Nolan quite fighting.
"Easy now, son, just take it easy," Wish soothed as he worked to bandage the wounds.
Nolan's vision was fuzzy at best, but he made out the two faces hovering over him. He could breathe, but the agony in his chest and arm had not let up. Reaching out he grabbed for Wishbone's sleeve, holding on dearly. "I hurt," he confided, pain lines etched into his forehead and around his mouth. "I hurt."
Bent over a low bed for long hours put an ache into a tall man's back; Favor stood up and stretched, worried. If Pete actually admitted to being in pain, it must have been excruciating. "What can we do for him...and for Rowdy? You got anything to give 'em?"
Without turning his head Wishbone replied, "Nothin', not even a drop a..."
"Look what I found in the barn! Fella who owns this place musta kept a hideout bottle!" Clay burst through the cabin door, a jug of some sort of home brewed white lightening in his hand. "I tasted it! Isn't half bad...could use a bit of aging – could use a lot of aging, but..."
"Give it here, then!" Favor held out a water glass, waiting while Clay uncorked the jug, smelled the bouquet for good effect and poured out half a glass of amber liquid. Even from an arm's length away, Gil's nose wrinkled at the smell. It needed more than aging, but if it was strong enough to ease pain....Favor took a sip, rolled the liquid around inside his mouth a minute before swallowing. Without comment he passed the glass to Wishbone, who followed the same routine.
Wish nodded. "It'll do." While Favor held Pete's head, Wishbone put the glass to Nolan's lips. "Take small sips, Pete. Don't want 'cha to choke. Just small sips now."
Pete managed to swallow the fiery liquor which singed his throat on the way down like burning fuel oil. It stayed warm all the way to his belly and spread out to his extremities. Soon even his fingertips were numb. Several more swallows and his eyes closed and his head grew heavy in Gil's hand. Favor rested Pete's head back onto the bed. Looking across at Wishbone and then up at Forrester, he did something he hadn't done in many days, something at which he wasn't very proficient – he smiled. "Rowdy next."
***
"We can't move either of 'em, not yet, not for a while even if we had the means. Pete's bad, real bad." Wishbone, exhausted by two days without sleep, let depression creep into his words.
Sitting across the kitchen table from the cook, Favor warmed his hands around the tin coffee cup. For some reason he couldn't seem to get warm, though the temperature had climbed back up to where it should be for the time of year and the rain had moved off leaving the air clean and sweet. "You tryin' to tell me Pete's not gonna make it?"
Wishbone shook his head. "What I'm tryin' to say is what I said – Pete's real bad. I never said he wasn't gonna make it." He paused, looking over his shoulder at the slim cowboy on the bed, pale, weak, shivering from fever and an infection. "I ain't no doctor and I sure ain't kin to God...he could die, Boss," he finally admitted, to himself and to Favor.
Favor swallowed hard before speaking. "I never shoulda sent him out. It's my fault, all this and for what? It accomplished nothing aside from nearly killin' two of my best men. By the time we found 'em, the army'd already taken care of the Kiowa, wiped 'em out almost to a man. I sent Pete and Rowdy on a fool's errand and me the fool."
Wishbone said nothing. There was nothing to say since he'd argued the point with his boss twice before this and gotten absolutely no where. Guilt was a burden a man carried alone.
Behind them on the bed, Pete called plaintively for Rowdy as he'd been doing for the past day. No amount of reassurance that Yates was alive affected the scout's need to see the young man for himself. Nothing quieted him, yet something had to. When he called, he also moved about, attempting to rise from the bed, opening his wounds and sapping his strength. Wishbone was on his feet and at the bedside in yet another futile attempt to calm Nolan's fears.
"Rowdy's dead and it's my doin'! I shoulda gone alone! I shoulda gone alone!" Pete agonized.
"The two a you make me sick!" Wishbone looked up from Pete's bed to Gil Favor standing alongside. "Two of a kind you are and no talkin' you outta something once you got your minds set! YOU, Gil Favor, you're guilty 'cause you sent Pete out and Pete's guilty 'cause he took Rowdy along! Who IS to blame, here, Mr. Favor, you? Pete? Me, because I didn't volunteer ta go? WHO? Why not just blame God? Ain't he the one responsible for all things? HUH? You two make me sick."
Turning back to Pete, Wish hushed him in a now gentle whisper.
"Move, Wishbone." Favor shoved the cook, not with any sort of malice, just to let him know he meant business. "Get outta the way a minute."
Wish rose from the bed, feathers ruffled, but curious. He stepped aside, thinking Gil wanted to sit down next to Pete. He didn't. Instead he threw off the covers and lifted the scout into his arms, as tenderly as a father lifting an ill child.
"What the hell you doin'? You can't...!" Wishbone shut his mouth and moved back, allowing Favor to walk past with his burden.
Long strides took him into the next room where Yates lay, Clay Forrester seated on a chair at the bedside in case the wounded man required anything. Forrester jumped up so fast he tipped the chair backwards. "Boss...what the heck's goin' on?"
Gil ignored him, instead speaking to his ramrod. "Rowdy...Rowdy, you hear me?"
Rowdy opened his eyes and looked up, surprised to say the least to see Favor with Pete in his arms, Nolan's head up against Gil's shoulder.
"I hear ya, Boss," Yates tried to sit up. "What's goin' on? Pete?" Clay was quick to assist and quick to set the toppled chair upright.
"That's it, Rowdy, talk to him. Let 'im know you're okay. Words don't matter...just let him hear your voice," Favor urged. Yates spoke and although the voice was weak and strained, it was still recognizably Rowdy's.
Favor settled onto the chair, praying the stool didn't collapse under the double burden, angling his body so Pete would have no trouble seeing the young ramrod for himself. At the sound of Yates' familiar voice Nolan opened his eyes and upon seeing Rowdy, alive if not yet well, his expression brightened and a smile appeared on the wan face. When the scout spoke it was with renewed vitality. "We made it, Rowdy," he affirmed.
Yates grinned. "Yeah, sure looks that way, Pete."
Gil Favor said nothing. For once he didn't trust his voice.
END
*In 1864 just outside Doniphan, Nebraska, the Martin brothers were attacked by Sioux as they worked the fields with their father. Escaping together on the back of a single horse they were wounded several times by arrows, one pinning them together, back to front. Beaten and left to die, though not scalped because of their age, the brothers managed to crawl back to their own barn where their parents found them a day later. Both boys survived, one living well into his 70s.