Matt reined in and stiffened, squinting through the swirling dirt at Remy riding his galloping horse. Remy pulled hard on the reins and the mare reared again. He turned her tossing head, and as the gusts died suddenly and the air cleared, he kicked his heels to her sides and she cantered back to Matt and Chester. The men and horses were covered in prairie dust.
"She ran away," said Remy. "The wind spooked her."
"That's what I figured," said Matt.
"I have no gun, or food in my saddlebags, and the wound started bleeding again when I wrestled this blamed horse. I'm hurting now near bad as when you dug out the bullet. I'd be a fool to try and escape."
"Alright, Remy," Matt said. "Can you still ride?"
"With some whiskey in my belly."
"The flask is most empty," said Chester. "Jest take a l'il."
Remy swallowed a mouthful, then removed his sling, unbuttoned his jacket and took it off and shrugged out of his vest. The shoulder of his shirt was wet with fresh blood, and he took the shirt off, leaving his undershirt on over the bandannas wrapping his shoulder.
"You'll catch yer death a cold, Remy," said Chester.
"I'm hot. Must've been the tussle with my horse."
Some two hours passed, and Remy's horse stopped in her tracks as he reined in, hunching over the mare's neck. "I must lie down," he mumbled. "Can't go on. Maybe you should dig my grave, Marshal. I haven't long to live."
"It can't be all that bad, Trace," said Matt. "You just calmed your horse in that dust storm like a cowpuncher."
"Now you want to be friendly, calling me by my first name after the cruelties you inflicted?" Remy swayed in the saddle.
Matt swiftly dismounted, caught him as he fell and lowered him to the ground. Chester leaned close, and the lawman and his partner looked at the prisoner's face, flushed and coated with a sweaty sheen. His eyes were bloodshot from the dust storm and glassy bright. Matt touched his palm to Remy's face. "He's fevered."
"Shoulder's afire. My whole body hurts."
Matt unbuttoned Remy's undershirt and pulled the flannel away from the bandannas wrapping his shoulder. The blood-caked dressing was stiff with dirt. The marshal removed the bandaging. Oozing pus, the wound was raw, the skin around it red and swollen. Remy's skin and the wound were visibly dirty. "Sepsis," said Matt.
"We got no more clean cloths, Mr. Dillon. One for washin' our plates n' sech is soiled."
"We'll scrub 'em in the pond yonder."
They gave the prisoner water, laid him on his bedroll near the pond's rim and spread a blanket over him, which he promptly threw off. Chester took the soap tin from his saddlebag and they scrubbed the bandannas and cloths and the sling, Remy's undershirt, shirt, vest and jacket. Chester spread the wet things on a blanket while Matt gathered tinder for a fire to dry them.
When the marshal soaped a clean cloth soaked in heated water and touched it to the prisoner's wound, Remy cried out and Matt pulled the cloth back. "Any more whiskey in that flask, Chester?"
"Jest enough ta pour a l'il in the wound an' give 'im a swaller or two." Chester gave the patient a drink of spirits. Matt cleansed the wound while Remy writhed and wept and Chester wiped his face with another wet cloth. Matt washed Remy from shoulders to waist, then nodded to Chester.
"This here's gonna hurt." Remy hollered as Chester splashed whiskey in the wound.
The prisoner cried some more and Matt patted him. "Hard part's over, Trace."
"You've killed me," Trace wailed.
Matt folded a cloth over the wound, with Chester's help wrapped the bandannas round the patient's shoulder and slipped his arm in the sling. "He's bleedin' again," said Chester.
"That's your fault, Dillon," Remy snuffled.
"I see somethin', gives me an idea for treatin' 'is sepsis." Chester limped away and returned in a few minutes with a piece of dripping honeycomb.
"Honey?" said Matt.
"Doc says it cleans the blood." Chester held the honeycomb over Remy's mouth. "Chaw this 'ere like a tabaccy plug 'til ya suck all the sweet, then spit the wad."
Remy opened his mouth wide. Chester dropped the comb in and licked honey off his fingers. Remy slurped and chewed, his eyes listing half-shut and the tension fading from his sharply carved face.
"That hunk a comb's all I dast took without rilin' them bees."
Matt and Chester rigged another pallet and collected Remy's dried clothing. "I don't want those on," said the patient around his cheek full of honeyed wax. "I am hot."
"Just your undershirt," said Matt. "So the ropes don't chafe when we tie you in place."
Buck towed the pallet a short spell, and Remy called out that he was cold. "Ague's set in, Mr. Dillon. He's shakin' like a branch of leaves in a stiff wind."
Matt and Chester dismounted, dressed Remy and buttoned him into his jacket. "You're keepin' all this on when you get hot again," the marshal warned. "Might help to sweat out the infection."
"I am hot," Remy quavered some ten minutes later.
"Sorry, Remy," said Matt.
"He's cryin', Mr. Dillon."
"Give him some water, Chester. The clothes stay on. His jacket, too."
"Yessir." Chester gave Remy a drink and bathed his face, neck and head.
"Please," Remy fretted, tossing under the ropes binding him to the pallet. "I am so hot."
"Reckon you'll git cold again soon enough. Yer clothes won't feel no warmer 'n a thin sheet then."
"You're out to kill me. You and Dillon. Why don't you shoot me through the heart and have an end to it instead of torturing me to death," Remy gasped.
"If Mr. Dillon was fixin' ta kill you, he woulda shot you dead when you drawed yer gun on 'im," Chester soothed.
"He kept me alive to torment me," Remy fretted. "It pleasures him and you, too. You are his henchman."
Chester heaved a sigh. "Well if you cain't see we're helpin' you, thar's nothin' more I kin say."
He mounted his horse to the sound of Remy's tears. "My land, Mr. Dillon, ain't never nursed sech a whiny priz'ner all ma days. Like an infant with the colic."
"We just have to take it and tend 'im, Chester. It's more than the pain and fever. Remy might be a touch lunatic."
"Gracious, I figgered 'im afflicted with a speck of madness, too."
Remy cried himself into a deep sleep. He slept until sundown when they made camp. His eyes opened but failed to focus, darting from side to side as he babbled. "So hot . . . the sun . . . harvesttime is like summer in this desert."
Matt put the canteen to his mouth and he guzzled. "Where are ya, Trace?" the marshal asked.
"Grand Canyon," Trace said casually.
"My goodness," Chester softly drawled.
"Why did you bring us here, Marshal? All that climbing . . . hard on Chester . . . ."
"Oh ah'm right 'nough," said Chester.
Remy's thin body jerked and he froze still, his dark-green eyes distended. "Matt, please help me," he whispered. He reached out a clutching hand, his breathing quick and shallow. Matt took the damp hot hand, and Remy gripped his fingers. "The Hualapai want to kill me. Save me."
"Who?" said Chester.
"Indian tribe in Arizona Territory," Matt said. "They won't hurt you, Trace. They've been peaceful since Cherum Peak, five years since."
"Yeah, them Hualapai is jest curious 'bout ya, Trace," said Chester.
"You're wrong," Trace blurted. "They shot an arrow through my shoulder. They are going to torch me. Get me to the Colorado, Matt. Hurry." His mouth gaped as he fought to breathe.
"Fever's too high," said Matt. He picked Remy up, splashed into the nearby creek, plunged him in the cold water under the surface and swiftly lifted him out spitting water. Matt lowered Remy to the creek bed and held his head above the rippling current.
The large eyes cleared and the man gazed up at Matt, his curling hair floating round his sharp-featured face. "It's not the Colorado River but it's fresh cold water," said the marshal.
Remy frowned. "What?"
"You were delirious."
"Get me out of this water. It's cold." Matt helped him stand and walk back to his bedroll. "I will catch pneumonia on account of you."
Matt put a blanket over him. "The fire will dry your clothes soon enough. And your skin will dry 'em. The water cooled you some but you're still fevered."
Remy's eyes looked like depthless green wells as he regarded Matt. "I've no strength left, Marshal," he said, his voice faint yet steady. "Dying doesn't scare me now. I am tired."
Chester limped to the patient with a bowl of stew. "Yer hungry, aintcha?" Remy nodded. "Beef 'n spuds'll keep ya breathin' a spell longer leastways."
When the sun rose their third morning on the trail to Dodge, they couldn't wake Remy. His mouth was parted, his fever-red face slack. He didn't stir or moan. "He'd be corpse-white iffen he was dead," said Chester.
"He's breathing," said Matt, "but he needs a lot of water and we can't get any into him unless he wakes up."
After a breakfast of cold biscuits and coffee, they broke camp and secured Remy's motionless form to the pallet. "We'll reach Dodge by nightfall," said Matt. "Doc'll know what to do for him."
"Yeah. If anyone kin save 'is life it's Doc."
They checked the patient every two hours or so, mopped his face, neck and head with a wet cloth and squeezed a bit of water from the cloth in his mouth. His breathing was raspy and labored and the fever was high again. "Looks like he's not gonna make it, Mr. Dillon."
"Maybe not."
