It was beginning to get dark when Bart went back outside. "Wait, I'll go with ya," Bret offered.
"I'm just goin' out to bring the horses in. You don't hafta come."
"Guard dog," Bret answered, much as Bart had answered Molly the day before.
"Suit yourself."
Bret carried the shotgun that Bart had taken earlier in the day and walked outside with his brother. The horses ran to the other end of the corral, anticipating being bedded down for the night, and Bart ran after them. "Hey, wait for me," Bret called, but Bart was already moving the animals back to Bret's end when the shot rang out.
The older brother saw a small flash of light and turned towards it, firing instinctively. He heard a crashing sound in the trees and turned to tell Bart he'd hit somebody just as three of the horses rushed past him, frightened by the gunfire. In the rapidly waning daylight it was impossible to see clearly and he couldn't immediately find his brother. Then what he saw sent a chill up his spine – Noble was pawing at something stretched out on the ground, and he knew it was Bart. Wanting to rush to the prone figure but not daring to take the chance of the man that fired the shot getting away, he yelled "MOLLY!" at the top of his lungs and turned towards the trees. He forced himself to run into the stand of Acacia trees as the girl came out of the house. "Hancock's down!" he shouted at her, and pointed as he pushed himself forward.
He needn't have worried about the shooter getting away. A solid gray gelding was tethered to one of the Acacia trees, and about three feet away from the horse lay the body of the shooter – vast and still. Bret approached carefully; as careful as he could be, considering the state of anxiety he was in regarding his brother's welfare, but the man on the ground was going nowhere. He fit the description Molly had given them of Nance Tesson – two or three inches taller than Bret and considerably heavier. A rifle lay on the ground where it had been dropped; Bret bent over to pick it up and moved it several feet away and out of reach. The man was sprawled on his back, unseeing eyes staring up at the dark sky, and Bret spotted the large bloodstain on the front of the man's shirt. If that was Nance Tesson, the consortium had just lost one of its members.
He turned back downhill and ran for the corral. It was too dark now to see most anything, and he was almost on top of Molly and Noble before he spotted Bart. Stretched out flat on his back, in almost the same position as Tesson, the girl was just pulling her fingers away from the pulse in his neck. "He's alive," she blurted out as Bret arrived and dropped to his knees. "I can't find a wound."
Bret couldn't either, and finally ran his fingers along Bart's scalp, through the thick, dark brown hair and felt rather than saw the bullet wound. His head was sticky and warm with blood, and Bret almost cried with relief. "He's gonna have one hell of a headache," he told Molly as he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to press against Bart's still bleeding scalp. Bret wanted to get his brother off the ground but knew he couldn't lift him with his own damaged shoulder; this was one time Bret had to wait for Bart to regain consciousness and help get himself inside. "Molly, you stay here with him and I'll get the horses in. See if you can get him to wake up."
"Did you get the shooter, Joe?" the girl asked.
"I did," Bret answered. "Big man, rode a gray gelding. Nance Tesson?"
"Rode?"
"Rode."
"Sounds like him. Dead?"
"Yes, ma'am. Nobody else out there. Here, keep pressure on this," and he placed her fingers on the handkerchief. Bret got back up on his feet and grabbed Noble's mane, then led him away from the scene on the ground and into the barn. By the time he'd gotten the gelding back in his stall the other three horses had wandered in, and they were soon bedded down for the night. Bret hurried back out to his brother, who seemed to be coming around.
"What? What happened?" Bart asked. And the next thing out of his mouth was, "Oooh. Ow," as he grabbed for his head and found Molly's fingers and Bret's handkerchief. Next he found the sticky blood and tried to sit up. "Please tell me . . . "
"Yep. You had it right. Nance Tesson. He won't be a problem anymore. Here, let's get you up, alright? Lean on me. Molly, can you get on his other side and help him? Just hold him up a little bit."
With Bret and Molly's help, Bart struggled to his feet. He had the handkerchief in his hand and it was full of blood, and his head felt like someone had hit him with a hammer. The last time it hurt this bad Jed Hightower and Dickie Smithfield were behind it, and they'd chased him all the way to Sioux Falls. He leaned heavily on Bret's right side and held onto Molly for balance.
It was slow going back to the house but eventually they arrived. Bart was wobbly climbing the porch steps and they sat him down as soon as they got inside. Finally there was enough light to see the crease Nance's shot had made in Bart's scalp. Molly heated water and brought it to the table, then carefully washed off the dried blood. "I'd really like to wipe this off with some whiskey," she told Bret, "just to be safe."
"Do what you think is best," Bart told her after seeing the look on his brother's face.
"Lucky he wasn't a better shot," Bret remarked as Bart winced and grimaced.
"Ow, ow, ow," became Bart's mantra as he waited for Molly to finish. "That's gonna leave a scar, I can feel it."
"Better a scar than a hole," Molly advised, and Bret nodded in agreement.
"I can't bring the body in, but I'm goin' out to get the horse," Bret explained, and went back out into the darkness. When he got to the spot where the gelding and corpse had been, both were gone. He searched the area for several minutes, looking for any trace of the would-be assassin, and could only find the unsmoked butt of a cigar. Bret pocketed the remains and went back to the house.
Molly had started a small fire and helped Bart to the settee, where she settled him with a blanket and a cup of coffee. "Oh, no," Bret told his brother, "you're sleepin' in the bed tonight. I'll take the settee."
"You get the horse in alright?" Bart asked, not arguing about who was going to sleep where.
"I would have if he'd been there."
"If he'd . . . gone? Both of 'em?"
"Yep. This is all I found," and Bret produced what was left of the cigar. "Somebody was keepin' track of him."
Bart took a good look at the cigar butt. "Not cheap, by any means. Could one man have gotten the body outta here?"
Molly entered the main room from the spare bedroom. "If it was Nance Tesson, no. Nance was too big for one man to carry by himself. That means they already know his efforts failed."
"Is there anyone you could go stay with in Yuma? Someplace you'd be safe for a while?" Bret asked her.
"And leave you two here to fight my battle for me? No, sir, I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm not going anywhere. Not until this is over and done with. I'm riding into town tomorrow to talk to Delgado. Which one of you is going with me?"
"We have to take supplies up to Jason tomorrow. But that can be done after the trip into town. Why don't you two go see the deputy and when you come back I'll load the wagon and ride on up to the pastures?" Bart proposed.
"I'll agree to that if you agree to take the bed tonight," Bret replied. "Course you know I'll be wakin' you up every couple hours, don't you?"
"No arguments," his brother answered. "Mustn't have been as good a shot as he thought."
"Obviously not, thank God." Bret turned to Molly. "Sure you don't wanna sit this one out? It could get even uglier than it already is."
"I'm sure." Molly stared out into the darkness for a minute before speaking again. "I can't believe Nance is dead." She sighed, a long, drawn out, resigned sound. "At least we've got one less to worry about." She didn't look happy, but she didn't sound mournful, either.
"He wasn't the dangerous one. I give that honor to the esteemed marshal." Bart closed his eyes. "I don't care what time it is, I gotta lie down."
Bret guided Bart into the bedroom and got him settled. "I'll see you in a couple hours."
"Thanks, Pappy," Bart mumbled as he closed his eyes and let himself drift off.
"I see what you mean," Molly told Bret when he returned to the front room. "About taking care of each other."
"It's the way we survive." Bret changed subjects, wanting more information on the man they were going to see tomorrow. "Tell me about Hernandez."
"Not much to tell. Delgado is two or three years older than me. Good in school, the kind of boy you want for a friend. Patient and kind, he cares about everybody. Almost everybody. Always wanted to be a lawman, and he should have been made sheriff when ours got killed. Mayor Haven thought he was too young; gave the excuse we needed a Federal marshal to handle the dealings with the Fort and the army. Hancock says he's on our side, and I believe that. He'd never let the consortium get away with some of the things that have happened in this valley since Conrad took over. You'll like him."
"Sounds like you do, too."
Molly nodded; the smallest of smiles appeared. "I do. I always have. Delgado is a good deputy, a good man. The kind of man you can always trust to do the right thing. Like you and Jamie."
'Maybe not so much like us,' thought Bret. 'But it sounds like we're on the same side this time.'