He checked his cinch one more time and gave Gal a small rub on her shoulder with his knuckles as he walked back past her. She looked good; the time turned out up in Strawberry and the week here in the doctor's pasture had done her a world of good. He could tell by looking at her that the doctor had been feeding her oats and maybe corn; she looked to have put on a few pounds. He suspected if the doctor hadn't been real careful, she'd been eating her corn and the doctor's gelding's corn both. Gal liked her grain and anybody else's if she could sneak in there and get it.
The doctor had treated them both real well. He didn't mind giving him his five dollars, just wished he'd had a bit more to go with it. Still, the doctor said it was plenty and he suspected he'd treated him well there again, not charging near as much as he might have. His wife, having washed his clothes for him and mended his shirt as best she could with a chunk of it missing, would know he only had six dollars.
He knocked at the door, stood on the back porch and held his hat with his two hands. Mrs. Morton opened the door and smiled at him. "Told you, Heath, you don't need to knock, just come on in."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, although he could never just walk into her house and they both knew it. "I'm leaving, wanted to say good-bye and thank you both again."
Doctor Morton had stood up from the table where he was drinking his last cup of breakfast coffee. "You know you're welcome to stay, Heath. Give that wound a chance to truly heal."
"Thanks, Doc. I sure appreciate your hospitality, but I'm good to ride." He glanced at the doctor and then kept his eyes more or less on the floor. "I'm beholden to you. I know you saved my life." It came hard to him. As much as these folks had been kind to him, it was hard for him to owe them so much and be unable to do anything to repay the debt.
He'd had men save his life before. He knew he would be dead if Jimmy Wilson hadn't pulled him down behind that rock at Chickamauga. The bullet had gone right through his shirt as it was. An inch or two more to the left, right where it would have gone if Jimmy hadn't yanked him down behind that rock, and he would have died there. But that was different. He saved Jimmy's life that same afternoon when he picked that sharpshooter out of the tree, the sharpshooter who killed old Whiskey Amos. There had been a lot of life saving and not saving in the war. You got your life saved and figured it was all even, 'cause if you were alive there was a chance that the man who saved you would get saved by you someday. It all sort of worked out, the saving in the war. Even in the mine it had a way of seeming okay. Someone dug you out and that meant there were more to dig when he needed saved.
This was different. He was riding away. Would probably never see this man again. No way he could ever pay what he owed to this man. He kept his head ducked, embarrassed to look the man in the eye, knowing how he was doing him wrong.
"Glad to help you, Heath. That's why I'm a doctor. Wish you would stay a bit longer. You're far from healed yet."
"Needs must do." He gave the doctor a half smile, thought it must be a very fine thing to be able to save a man's life by what you knew.
The doctor extended his hand to him and they shook. Then, there being nothing more to say, he nodded to Mrs. Morton and walked out the door.
The step up to Gal's saddle was a long one for the pain in his side, but nothing he couldn't manage. The doctor and his wife stood on their back porch to watch him leave. He touched his hat to them, put Gal into her easy jog and headed west back through town.
The doctor told him he'd be tired for a few weeks while his body made up the blood he'd lost on the side of the trail. Told him to drink plenty of liquids and eat a lot of meat. He figured with only a dollar, he'd be drinking plenty of water and eating a lot of rabbit. Still, he liked rabbit and water, didn't really mind. So he stopped at the general store and he bought Gal some oats and himself some coffee and stuck his remaining 4 bits in his pocket.
He considered his Uncle Matt as he rode out of town. He guessed he should ride up and see if there was enough left to bury. Didn't seem right, to just leave him there, the back shooting, child beating drunk that he was. He guessed he should bury him if the scavengers had left enough of him on the side of the trail. Then he wondered just how he would do that, having no shovel? He considered taking him into Strawberry for his Aunt Martha to bury, but couldn't see that working out in any useful way. Probably just end up with him getting shot again. Still, he couldn't see how he could leave him on the side of the trail.
The week at the doctor's brought spring fully to the mountains. The green grass was mostly tall enough now to hide all the dead grass from the previous year. The hillsides were bright with the new growth. He could see the early flowers blooming on some of the trees folks had planted in the little yards on the edge of town.
He wondered about the dogwood he had planted. He wondered if it had lived. He hoped Miss Rachel might take it a bit of water. Wasn't that long a walk from Mama's well to where she was buried. Still, it might be too far for Miss Rachel to carry a bucket of water. He hadn't asked. He hoped, when she visited the grave and saw the little dogwood, she might think of it.
In the end, he rode the extra eight miles up the Strawberry Road where he had been ambushed. He had no trouble finding the place. Not likely to forget it. The old pine stump was still there with the deadfall all around it. He rode up to his Uncle Matt and could see a few bits of bone and cloth. His boots were both there and his rifle. Not much burying needed. Heath gathered up what he could find. Walked a big circle around the boots and picked up a couple of other bones as he found them, he wrapped everything in his uncle's hat. It all fit in his hat and his boots. He carried his load down to the stream and buried the whole mess under a pile of rocks.
He stood looked at the pile with his hat in his hands for a minute and wondered if he should say some words. He decided, on the whole, he had nothing to say about his Uncle Matt that he wanted to share with the Lord. Better for all concerned for the Lord to just judge him on what he knew. Heath wasn't going to be asking the Lord to do the old man any favors.
He picked up his uncle's rifle where it had fallen near his body. The metal parts were already showed rust from the time outside. It wasn't a very good rifle. Probably why he missed. He never had cared for his tools. He supposed the rifle belonged to his Aunt Martha now. In the end, he walked down and put the rifle barrel down in the rocks over his uncle's grave. Let it be his marker.
Satisfied, he called Gal over, tightened her cinch and put the bridle back on her. He would normally have pulled her saddle while he messed about, but he'd found it a heavy load to lift that morning and figured he would let Gal tote it today instead of him. They weren't riding far and she'd been eating some better than him the last two weeks.
He turned her head back down the mountain and, paying more attention then he had the last time he rode this way, heeled her into a jog.
He was in no hurry to get to Stockton. Didn't know quite what he would do when he got there. Couldn't do any ranch work with a hole in his side. Couldn't eat if he didn't work. He rode Gal down the mountain trail and then about half a mile off to the north of the Stockton Road. He didn't want anyone dropping in on his camp tonight. He was afraid he might sleep deep because of being tired and weak. Didn't want to get surprised, especially having no handgun.
Down at the lower elevation there was a lot more spring grass. He removed Gal's tack, turned her out to graze and gathered wood for a small fire in amongst some big boulders. Fifteen minutes after turning Gal out, he had a nice rabbit, shot and cleaned. He had the rabbit roasted and eaten in another half hour but left Gal grazing until it was getting on toward dark.
Calling her over, he fed her some of the oats he'd gotten in Pinecrest. While Gal lipped around in the short grass for any single oat she might have missed, he brushed her back, checked her legs and feet and tacked her up again.
He rode back over toward the road a little ways to a stream and watered Gal and himself. He washed in the cold mountain water as best he could. He took time to remove the bandage around his middle and put the ointment the doctor had given him on the wound. Then he wrapped it in the clean bandage Mrs. Morton had rolled up for him. He used a bit of his soap to wash out the used bandage and then draped it over his shoulder to dry as he rode Gal across the stream and up into the hills. In the early darkness, he found a stand of pine trees and decided it looked a good spot.
He untacked Gal and tied her up, didn't want to take a chance on someone sneaking off with her in the dark, him sleeping too soundly and not hearing. Then he moved back about 300 yards to the north of his campsite and hid his rifle wrapped in his slicker.
He hated not having a second gun. He liked to have one hid and one handy. With only the one firearm, he decided he would hide the one and rely on his knife if someone came into his camp. He didn't like it though, it reduced a man's options. But he knew he wouldn't sleep at all if he didn't have a place to fall back to from his camp. A man needed a place to retreat to if he got into more trouble then he could handle alone.
He laid a fire for the morning and got out his coffee makings so they would be handy. He found a nice soft place in the pine needles, spread out his ground cloth and tipped up his saddle. He pulled his saddlebags in close, took off his boots and lay down. It was his first night sleeping out in almost two weeks. The ground was hard against the healing wound in his back, but he figured he was so tired he wouldn't mind in a few minutes.
Come morning there was a layer of ice on his blanket where his breath had frozen in the night. He moved slowly under the blanket, stiff with the cold and tightness where the bullet had gone in his side. After a minute stretching a bit under the blanket, he sighed to himself and sat up. Boy howdy, it was a cool morning. He could still see the last of the stars just beginning to fade with the coming light. He was close enough to the mountains that the light was a bit late coming. Looked like being a good clear day, sure been a clear night, as cold as it was in his bedroll. He reached over, put a match to the fire he'd laid last night and watched the dry pine needles catch his kindling. Pine didn't last long, but it made a good cheery fire. He shoved the coffee water in close to the heat and shook his boots out before pulling them on.
His coffee water heating and his boots on, he stood up and stretched carefully. Didn't take much stretching, or much moving at all to make that doctor's handiwork start hurting. He guessed he'd had such a big hole, there just hadn't been enough skin left to cover it up proper. Made the skin he had left stretch a bit. He knew about stretching new skin to cover old wounds. His back had reminded of that every time he grew a inch for the past five years. He figured he was about done growing so that at least wouldn't be a problem with this stomach hole. It would fill in just fine in a little while and he could wait it out. He'd spend a week up here in the hills, eat rabbit and drink water, and then head down to Stockton.
He put a little of his canteen water in his cup and did a quick shave while he waited on his coffee. Working by feel in the dark, he was glad that even if he missed a bit, being so fair-haired, it wouldn't show too much. Long experience had taught him the places he was most likely to miss and he thought he had it pretty clean. He rubbed his hand over his freshly shaven face and wondered who he thought was going to see him. Still, it was Sunday and on Sundays he shaved fresh and washed. His mama would expect him to do that even if no one but the Lord saw him.
He rinsed out his cup and poured himself his first cup of the day. Taking the hot coffee, he walked over to Gal and poured her out a bit more of the oats on the ground. Then, he leaned up against her while she ate, he watched the sun come up from behind the mountains. The white snow on the peaks caught the color before sun showed and glowed red for a few minutes before the sun came into sight. Was a beautiful sunrise.
He drank a second cup as the last of the sun rose up behind the peaks. Looking off to the west, he could see the Central Valley stretching off to the horizon already bright beyond the shadow of the Sierra Nevadas. He allowed his mind to touch on Stockton and the Central Valley for just a moment the same way he might let his tongue touch a sore tooth. He didn't want to spend too much time thinking on it. He couldn't leave it be, but he didn't want to spend too much time thinking on it.
Kicking the dirt over his fire, he picked up his bedroll and shook out the pine needles before rolling his ground cloth around his blanket. He quickly saddled Gal and poured the last of the coffee into his cup. The last cup was always his favorite, more of the grounds mixing into the coffee and giving it some chew. He worked on his last cup as he wandered up into the rocks to retrieve his rifle and slicker with Gal following about twenty feet behind him.
He rode back down into the meadow near the stream and allowed Gal a couple of hours grazing while he cleaned his rifle and re-wrapped his side with the bandage he'd washed out the night before. The wound looked pretty good. It was still seeping a bit on the lower end and where the doctor had pulled out the stitches the day he left, but he thought the man had done a good job.
He washed out the spare bandage and hung it over his saddle to dry. Then, figured since he was doing a wash anyway, he took off his shirt and washed that out too. He considered changing into his good shirt but decided, no reason to get carried away, he'd just save his good shirt and shied away in his own mind from what he might be saving it for. His mama had always told him he should have a good shirt for 'best'. And he left it at.
A week of rabbit roasted, rabbit baked in the coals and rabbit stewed with wild onions and the few early greens he fought Gal for in her grazing area, and he was about done with rabbit. The wound on his side had a good strong growth of skin over it. He could pick up his saddle now with ease and figured it was time to head down to the valley. Besides, he only had enough coffee left for two more pots. He was going to need more coffee.