It had been a long time since there was much traffic up to Strawberry. The trail was heavily grown over with encroaching brush on both sides and brush growing up in the middle of the trail between the ruts left by the occasional wagon. This brush probably saved his life as whoever was trying to kill him couldn't get a clear shot, as he rolled out of sight and into the bushes.
Now he had cover but no weapon. His side was numb, but he knew it wasn't going to stay that way. If he was going to find a place to make his stand, it had to be quickly before the pain that was on its way put him down. He raised his head up and frantically searched for a place with better cover. This part of the trail was fairly flat as it followed the river down toward the valley. He was on the river side of the trail and he decided his best chance was to keep on rolling until he got to the water. The stream was full of big rocks and washed up deadfalls; there would be some cover down there.
But he needed his rifle too. He cursed the poverty that had forced him to sell his side arm to buy the oak and plane for the coffin. He'd been sending his wages home for his mother to buy medicine and had no extra. When he got word she was doing so poorly, he had taken the railroad to Stockton. Passage for him and Gal had eaten the last of his money. He bet Tom Barkley's real sons all had side arms when they got ambushed.
He hated to put Gal in the way of whoever was trying to kill him. But he figured if the man was killing him for what he had, that would be Gal, and it would be a pretty stupid dry-gulcher to kill the horse he was killing the man to get.
He knew he had been shot in the back from the way he fell, forward out of the saddle. He reckoned that put the shooter behind and above him. Probably up in the rocks 100 yards back up the trail. He figured 100 yards because most folks couldn't hit the broadside of a barn if it was further away than that. If he called Gal, it could give away his position. But the shooter would be there soon in any case. He wasn't getting up without help and the only help he had was Gal. The man probably figured he had killed him of course, the stupid way he had fallen off his horse.
He whistled softly and when Gal walked over obediently he grabbed the stirrup and clucked her on. He didn't particularly care where she went; he just wanted her to move him away a bit. Give the shooter more ground to cover searching for him. Give him more time to defend himself.
After a minute with Gal walking along the side of the trail, he called to her to stop. His stomach was really speaking to him now. He could see the blood all over the front of his shirt and knew the bullet had gone clean through. Using what he feared was the last of his strength since he could feel himself getting dizzy from the shock of the bullet, he used his arms as much as his legs to heave himself up. He grabbed the rifle in the scabbard and after a couple of tries, managed to pull it out. Smacking Gal on the rump as the rifle came free, he allowed himself to keep moving forward and down. As he fell forward, he rolled to his back and brought the rifle up. Whoever had shot at him must be just about at his feet by this time. He hadn't even hit the ground when the sight of his rifle came to bear on a man not 20 feet away from him, the man's rifle already raised and aimed.
Heath fired twice. Moving and wounded as he was, he didn't want to take any chances. He heard the other man's rifle fire at the same time, but his fall saved him and he felt the passage of the bullet above his head as he hit the ground.
He lay still, too winded and dizzy to move. He listened as if his life depended upon it and heard nothing. Twenty feet away, surely if the man was moving, he would hear something?
He loosened his grip on the old rifle and moved his hand over to his stomach. Somewhere in all that pain was a hole with his life dribbling out of it. He needed to get that stopped. He figured if his life was gushing out he was done for anyway, but a dribble he might be able to handle.
Unfortunately, the hole wasn't hard to find. What he suspected was probably a pretty small hole going in was a bigger one coming out. He moaned softly as he bent his knee enough to reach in his boot for his knife. The hole in his back if he was lucky, would stop bleeding on its own. Not much he could do about it at any rate. No way he could reach it. This big front hole though, was going to need some sort of plug. He gently felt around the hole again, trying to figure how big it was. No way he was going to want to do this twice. He guessed a piece of cloth about six inches square should do it if he gave it a good poke in. He carefully cut away a section of the tail of his shirt, trying to cut the right size piece so he didn't totally ruin the shirt. If he didn't die, he was going to need this shirt. Once he had the cloth cut, he laid in on his leg in easy reach and put his head back to rest for a minute.
The sky was absolutely clear and a light, rich blue. The trees above him were casting moving shadows as a light breeze shook their limbs. It was all conifers up this high, and their shade was deep once you got into them, but here along the trail it was just an occasional limb reaching out to block the bright sky. He closed his eyes for a moment. Sure did hurt. He wondered if he just took a nap would the bleeding stop on its own? Maybe it had stopped already? Suddenly remembering the shooter, he listened carefully again, still no noise from that direction. He thought he had killed him with two shots to the chest. But of course the shooter had thought he'd killed his man too. Only difference was he knew he always hit where he aimed.
Sighing, he started unbuttoning his shirt. Wishing never made anything happening. Doing made things happen and he needed to be doing.
Took a long time to undo all those little buttons one at a time, but finally he had his shirt open. He tried to raise his head and to see what he was doing, but when he tightened his stomach muscles and started to sit up, he got so dizzy he knew he would pass out. Not a good idea. He couldn't pass out until he got that bleeding stopped or he wouldn't be waking up. He reached down, picked up the piece of cloth he had and folded it over twice. He was going to need to get it right in there. He doubted he'd have much time for pressing on that hole before he passed out. If he wanted to come to, he had to make sure he got that cloth stuck right in there.
He took a couple of shallow breaths and pushed them out his mouth. This was going to really hurt. Then, as gently as he could, barely touching his stomach, he dragged the folded cloth over until it covered the hole. He took as deep a breath as the pain would allow and pushed it out of his mouth hard as he used the first two fingers of his right hand to push that piece of cloth down into the hole as hard as he could.