Chapter 13 – What a Fool Believes

"That's their farm," Art Decker pointed the little spread out to Bill Collins. "And he's still breathin'."

"Alright, the herds up ahead. Richie's got 'em settled in that valley about a mile southeast of here. You do whatever it is you're gonna do and meet us when you're done." With that, Collins wheeled the black gelding away and headed for the valley.

Decker rode down the hill to the little cabin and slid down off his horse. To be honest, he was surprised that the rancher was still alive. He knocked on the door and heard footsteps; when the door flew open, Jean DuPont was standing in front of him. "Hello, Art."

"Hey, Jean, I need your help. I got an injured man here that needs takin' care of."

"What's wrong with him? He ain't contagious, is he?" Jean peered out warily.

"Injured, not sick. Gunshot wound to the shoulder."

"One of your so-called 'friends'?"

Decker slid the man off his horse and carried him inside. "No, he ain't one of my friends. He's an innocent bystander. You got someplace I can put him?"

"That bedroom on the right. You sure this ain't no outlaw?"

"I promise. He don't know who I am and I don't know who he is."

The woman hurried in to see what kind of shape the man was in, and wasn't pleased by what she found. "Surprised he didn't bleed to death. How long you been ridin' like that?"

"Long enough. Just do what you can for him, would ya?"

"I will. If he ain't one of your friends, what are you tryin' to save his life for?"

"I don't know, Jean. I been askin' that myself. I just couldn't go off and leave him." He pulled some money out of his pocket. "Look, here's ten dollars. In case you need medicine or somethin', alright?"

"Are you leavin'?" she asked, as she looked up from the bed.

"Yeah, I gotta go. We're all square now, okay? Just tell him you and Clay found him somewhere. I picked him up in Bryce Canyon, so anywhere between. And don't tell him nothin' about me." He leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head. "Thanks, Sis. Take good care of him."

"You sure you don't know this man?"

"Well, I sorta do. We stole his horses."

"Get outta here, Art. That's more than I wanted to know."

She watched him turn around and leave, then shifted her attention to the man lying in bed. Clay wouldn't be happy knowing that Art had been here, but what was she supposed to do with the man he'd brought that needed help? Art insisted he wasn't one of the gang and he certainly required medical attention. A bullet had passed right through his shoulder and he'd lost God only knows how much blood. The wound didn't look infected . . . yet, but it was only a matter of time.

She set about cleaning and bandaging the shoulder, then she washed his face. He was a handsome man, around forty, with dark brown hair streaked with silver. He was no farmer, that was for sure; she could tell by the manicured hands and the quality of the clothing he wore. He had no wallet or identification of any kind, except for a gold wedding ring. She'd just have to wait until he woke up to find out who he was.

The front door opened and closed again. "Clay?" she called.

"Yeah, it's me. I saw your brother riding away. What did he want?" His question was answered as soon as he walked into the room. "One of his?"

She shook her head. "He says not. Got no identification on him. Art said he was an innocent bystander. He left me money for medicine. Help me get some water down him, would you?"

Clay walked to the head of the bed and lifted the stranger up so that Jean could pour some water down his throat. His eyelids struggled to open but he was unsuccessful, and he lapsed back into unconsciousness. "Guess we just have to wait until he's ready. When was he shot?"

"Art didn't say. Told me they stole this man's horses. That's all he did say, except he didn't know why but he couldn't leave the man to die."

Clay looked at his wife. "Do you believe him?"

Jean cocked her head sideways. "I do, Clay. For some reason I do."

XXXXXXXX

"What in the hell took you so long to catch up?" Richie demanded.

"I . . . uh, we . . ." Art Decker tried to explain.

"My horse threw a shoe," Collins interrupted. "We had to stop in Granbury and get it fixed."

"Oh, why didn't you say so." Richie walked back to the campfire and sat down.

"What was that for?" Art pulled Collins aside and demanded.

"That was to keep both of our asses out of the fire," Collins said flatly. "He'd have had both our heads if you told him what you did. Richie don't ever need to know anything about it."

"Alright. Thanks."

"I didn't do it for you. I did it for me."

"Thanks anyway."

"When you two ladies are done chattin', come over and we'll go over the plan," Richie yelled out.

XXXXXXXX

"I'll lay odds they ain't gonna sell all those ponies in Fort Worth," Bret was thinking out loud.

"You think they got an order for the cross-breeds elsewhere?" Dave Parker asked.

"I do. That's the only thing that would make takin' all of 'em a good idea."

"Auction starts tomorrow. That means they're around here somewhere, just waitin'."

"Bret."

"Yes, Beau."

"If Bart's alive, where is he?"

The answer came back without hesitation. "With the rustlers."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just know he ain't dead." Bret turned and stalked away from his cousin.

Parker looked at Beau. "You think he's dead, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

"You know what that would do to this family, don't you?"

"Yes, Dave, I know. But why would the rustlers keep him alive? And even if he wasn't hit, why would they take him with them? Just so they could kill him later?"

"Maybe they're holdin' him for ransom?"

Beau snorted. "Do you really believe that?"

Dave shook his head. "No, I guess not."

"Then you have to come to the same conclusion I came to . . . Cousin Bart is dead."

'Dear God, I hope not,' Dave Parker thought.