When he opened his eyes, the sky was a dark blue. The trees on the western side of the trail had cast their shadows all the way across to the mountains on the other side of the little valley. It was late. He must have been lying there six or seven hours. He was so dry that he had to try twice before he could make a little whistle to call Gal. He lay there a long time before she came. He had been afraid it wasn't loud enough for her to hear him. Finally, he heard her walking over. She didn't exactly come running when he called, but she always came. Not bad for a horse.
Heath knew he was going to need to find a warm place to lie up until he was healed enough to ride. He was afraid to move. Afraid the bleeding would start again. Afraid that if he tried to stand, he might fall and again the bleeding would start. It was hard for him to think, he hurt so much, and he was so cold, but he had to think or he would die. The decisions he made now, when he could barely keep his eyes open, would determine if he was alive in the morning. He had to have shelter for the night. It was spring, but spring up this high in the Sierras could be awful cold, especially at night and he didn't know if he could take much more cold. If he started shivering, he could start bleeding again.
He knew there was no way he could get up on Gal. He didn't know if he could get up at all and hesitated to try. If he moved at all, he feared the big hole in his stomach might start leaking blood or worse. He hadn't been able to see the wound and he feared the awful stomach wounds he had seen in the war, men with their intestines laying in their laps, screaming in agony for someone to shoot them. He figured if he had that kind of wound, he would be dead. But what if his insides were just there, waiting for him to move and then they would all come out the awful hole?
He tried talking to himself. What was the worst that could happen if he moved? His guts came out and he died. If he stayed here, he froze and he died. Which was better? He decided if he did nothing, he was dead for sure. If the wound was the kind of awful gut splitter he had seen in the war, he was a dead man already and didn't know it. He had to get up and move. He had to just take his chance and die now if he was going to die. Not lie on the ground and wait for the cold to take him.
Putting his right hand over the cloth he had stuck in the hole, he tried to roll over on his right side. The hole seemed to be more on the left than the right, so it sounded like a good idea to roll to his right side. Only trouble was, once he got himself on that side he needed his left arm to try and push himself upright. He carefully reached over with this left arm almost screaming as the movement disturbed the wound. Once he had his left hand on the ground, he found he didn't have the strength left to push himself upright. He wrapped his left hand around his rifle where he had let it fall next to him. Good rifle. Good horse. You knew who your friends were when you were down. A brother would have been nice, but a rifle and a horse would have to do.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Riding down the trail like he was the only cowboy in California. Like no one ever got bushwhacked in the mountains. He let the anger build at himself, at the shooter for being a spineless back shooter; at his father for loving his Barkley children and hating his Strawberry bastard; at his mother for dying and finally, at himself for his weakness. When he had a good head of hatred and anger built up, he pushed hard with his left arm and managed to get a knee under himself. Using the rifle as a lever, he managed to get both knees under him. From there it was a hold of Gal's stirrup again and by some miracle of rage and necessity, he was standing and leaning against the little black mare, his rifle still gripped in his left hand.
He stood with his head buried against her shoulder for a long moment, just trying to keep from falling over. So dizzy. He held tight to his wad of cloth in the wound while he vomited a little of the water he had drunk in the morning. Wasn't much in his stomach, was probably why he hadn't been ill before. That reminded him of his canteen.
He leaned his rifle against his leg. No way he could bend down and pick it up if he dropped it. He very carefully reached up with his trusty left hand and lifted the strap from off the horn of his saddle. Holding the canteen against his chest in the crook of his right arm, he worked the cork out and took a small swallow, rinsing his mouth and spitting it to the side before swallowing the next sip. It tasted like heaven. He thought it tasted so good it was probably worth the trouble of standing up.
Returning the cork to the canteen, he hung it around his neck and looked about as far as he could see without moving. He was maybe 30 feet above the river. Might as well have been a thousand; there was no way he could get down the steep bank to the river. Carefully rolling his body against Gal, he looked off behind the man who had shot him. Nothing that way but woods.
Reaching forward very slowly, he caught hold of one of the two trailing reins. Good old horse, much to wise to step on the reins and jerk the bit in her mouth. Good old Gal, he gently rubbed her shoulder with his knuckles.
He knew this section of the Stanislaus. There had been a lot of panning all through here in the hey day of Strawberry, miners thinking to strike it rich on the gold flowing down the river. Many of them had built little shelters to sleep under at night. If he could just get back on Gal, he could find a building that would do him for a few days. Going to need about a week for this to heal up good enough for him to ride, if the fever didn't kill him first. Still, if he'd gotten this far, maybe he wasn't dying right now.
He was glad Gal was a little horse but even so, there was no way he was climbing up on her back the way he felt. He pushed against her a little with his shoulder, so she sidestepped and he could see further down the trail. Maybe if he had something to stand on, he could get up on her. Like a set of stairs he thought, a nice set of porch stairs would surely be fine.
He didn't see any porch stairs, but there was a washed up pile of deadfall pine about twenty feet up the trail. Not brilliant, but it was all he saw. The shooter had picked a place with minimum cover; there just wasn't anything around.
Thinking about the shooter again, he glanced back over his shoulder. He thought he could see the man lying in some brush further up the trail, but he wasn't sure. Didn't know in his current condition if he even cared.
He returned his attention to the pine logs. They would have to do to get him on Gal. Any cowboy who could stand up should be able to mount up. What kind of cowboy couldn't get on a little horse like Gal?
He took a step forward, kept his shoulder hard against the horse as he gave her a small click with his tongue and hung on to the rein to keep her from walking too fast. He sure hoped she didn't decide to make any sudden moves. Took them a long time to get to those pine logs, but they got there. He celebrated by having another little swallow of water. Then he hooked the canteen back over the saddle horn. Once he was sure it was secure, he started working on getting his rifle back in the scabbard. That took a couple of tries. The open end of the scabbard seemed a long way up in the air, but he got her done.
He spent a few minutes fussing with Gal and got her just where he wanted her. He needed to catch the off rein, which was another ordeal, but he was rolling along now and got that done too.
He didn't figure he was going to fall off this log and get back up again. He had one chance to make this happen or he'd be trying to start a fire with that pine tree, and it would be a long, cold camp this close to the river with no shelter but a wet pile of old half rotten logs. That was, if he didn't kill himself falling off the log.
He carefully knotted the reins so there was no danger he'd need to try and pick those up again. He got his foot up on the log okay, but didn't seem to be able to get any further. Couldn't seem to get enough push to get his weight up on that leg. He stood for a moment trying to catch his breath without actually breathing and rested his head on the saddle. Mama used to say, "Needs must do," when he would come home from the mine and find her exhausted, chopping fire wood. "Needs must do," when she would mend his too short britches one more time. "Needs must do," when they would have boiled potatoes for supper because he had failed to shoot even a squirrel for dinner.
Clamping his teeth tight, he grunted silently to himself, "Needs must do," and swung his weight up on to the log. Not pausing to catch his breath, he continued the swing with his leg over the back of the saddle and he was astride. Mama had been right again. If it needs doing, ain't anyone going to do it for you, just got to get her done.
He sat for a minute or two, his chin almost touching his chest and his back hunched forward as he waited for the dizziness to pass. He sure didn't want to take a chance on falling off, now that he had gotten himself up here. Finally, the pain back to a bearable level, he looked up from his new vantage point to consider his best plan.
He'd planned to just find a hut of some sort and bed down for a week. Now though, that he thought on it from Gal's back, which was always a good vantage point, he decided he would just press on to Pinecrest. It was only another couple of hour's ride from here and he knew they had a doctor there. His mama had gotten her medicine in Pinecrest. Every time Mr. Finch went for supplies and mail, he brought medicine from Pinecrest.
He figured he had six dollars left from the sale of his handgun. That should keep Gal for a week and leave enough to pay the doctor. He could sleep in the livery with Gal while he got healed up enough to ride again.
Pinecrest was down in the valley and would be a lot warmer then up here in the mountains. Right now, being warmer seemed more important to him then lying down. Since he was in the saddle, he might as well ride, "needs must do." He smiled a little as he turned Gal back toward where he thought the shooter was lying, curious if he knew the person causing him all this trouble.
He just wasn't surprised to see his Uncle Matt lying there dead. He'd never seen Uncle Matt, but he had caused him some sort of pain. Well, he thought, no more pain from that old man. He sat on Gal and looked on him for a moment. He knew he didn't have the wherewithal to get down and bury him. Guessed if the old man had wanted burying, he should have stayed home and died in bed.
Turning Gal, he headed back down the trail toward Pinecrest. He was a cowboy; any cowboy worth his salt could sit a horse for a few hours on a nice warm evening. He hunched forward a bit more to try and ease the pain in his gut. He wanted to close his eyes and let Gal keep to the track, but he was afraid he would pass out and fall out of the saddle. He wondered if the hole in his belly was leaking again, but his hand was stuck there against the wound by the dried blood, so he'd best leave it all be. He could stick anything out for a couple of hours.
The trail down from Strawberry to the Sonora Road was steep and slow going. It was nearly dark by the time he reached the road and turned back east toward Pinecrest. This was a good road, used by the Stockton Stage as far as Pinecrest, the last stop on their eastbound route. Gal was able to stretch out into her easy, long walk and they were in the town by full dark.