Dashing Druid (Texas Druids) (18 page)

He received shrugs and resigned nods.

“One more thing.
Chic’s the only one going over to the Station, and he’ll be in town just long enough to pick up supplies. Any man I catch sneaking into the saloons is fired.”

Rusty and
Alabama
grumbled again, but
Del
’s glare shut them up. “You’ll be no good to me or yourselves if you’re drunk in the saddle when we cross the Red.
Do like I say or lose your jobs and your pay.”

He glanced around once more. “All right, go ahead and load up on grub. You’ll need it. Chic,
keep the coffee
brewing so we stay awake.”

The cook jammed his hands in the pockets of his stained flour-sack apron and drew himself up to his full five-and-a-half feet. “I always do.
Don’t need nobody
remindin
’ me.”

Del
laughed gruffly. “Sorry. I know that, so don’t start
pawin
’ the sod.”

Tye smothered a grin. By now he knew even the trail boss liked to keep on the cook’s good side, but he hadn’t figured anything Del Crawford said would ever strike him funny.

Lil drew his gaze as she sauntered toward the chow line with Jack. Tye yearned to drag her away from the other man and make her admit she was
his
. But she wasn’t, he conceded against his will.

* * *

Three nights later, Tye was circling the herd, humming softly, when the shriek of a panther ripped through the darkness. Cattle stirred at the sound. A longhorn bawled as Tye ambled past on his grulla. He recognized the deep throated call. It came from Jefe, their lead steer. His name meant chief or leader in Spanish. Luis had named the big, tawny brute that for his bossy ways. Imperturbable as a rule, even Jefe was nervous tonight.

The panther had screamed a couple times earlier, but he’d sounded farther away. He was getting too close for comfort now. Along with the other night guards, Tye attempted to calm the cattle, not an easy task when he was on edge himself.

Glancing at the stars, he judged it nearly time to head for his bedroll. Three nights of double guard duty had left him dog tired, but the panther’s presence overrode his need for sleep.

He stiffened in his saddle when another blood-curdling cry rang out, sounding dangerously close. Dozens of cattle scrambled to their feet, almost ready to run.

“Stop your racket, ye devil,” Tye muttered. Figuring he was closer to the troublemaker than anyone else, he made a quick decision. Not giving himself time to reconsider, he swung the grulla toward where he thought the shriek had come from, certain the panther wouldn’t attack him. He’d seen the creatures down along the Nueces and back in
Colorado
. They must roam all over the West. Lions, some miners called them. Despite their fearsome cry, they usually ran off when a man approached.

He’d drawn near to a rocky outcrop when a long, shadowy shape detached itself from the rocks and took off running with a snarl. Startled for a second, Tye kneed his horse after the predator to make sure it kept going. Oddly, the cat appeared to limp, but it still outran them for a good ways. Then it stumbled to a halt, whirled around and shrieked.

The grulla stopped so short, Tye nearly catapulted over its head. Before he could regain his balance, the horse neighed in terror and reared. Losing his grip, Tye tumbled from the saddle and hit the ground hard, knocking the breath out of him. He lay there for a few seconds, fighting to breathe while the horse galloped off. Then he started to sit up . . . and froze.

Not ten feet away, he saw the dark form of the panther. Ears laid back, fangs bared and eyes glittering in the moonlight, the cat crouched, ready to spring. Tye grabbed for his gun, but stopped, remembering the nearby herd. A gunshot might start a stampede. Reaching for his knife instead, he barely had time to draw it from his boot before the panther was on him.

The snarling brute instantly went for his throat. Tye clamped his free hand around the beast’s own throat to hold it off. As he did, razor-sharp claws raked his shoulders. Hissing in pain, he attempted to plunge his knife into the cat’s heart, but oaken ribs deflected the blow. All he did was make the demon madder.

Growling, the panther tried to twist free of his hold on its neck. A hind foot clawed his right thigh; front talons flayed his chest. Crying out, Tye shifted his grip and desperately forced the animal’s head back. Then, using every once of strength he had, he thrust his blade into the furry throat and straight up into the brain.

The snarls ceased. A shudder passed through the cat’s body, it went limp and flopped over. Panting, Tye lay there beside it for a long moment before slowly rolling to his knees, groaning with pain. Hoofbeats matched the pounding of his heart. He looked up and saw a rider approach, outlined against the starry sky.

“
Who’s
dat
?” the man called out as he drew up.

“It’s me, Devlin,” Tye gasped, recognizing Dewey Sherman’s drawl and his lean, dark form.

The cowboy skinned out of his saddle. “I heard some
hollerin
’ and figured I
bes
’ come see.” Spotting the dead cat, he paused and stared. “You tangle
wid
dat
painter?”

“Aye, unfortunately.”

“Tore up, is yuh?” Dewey asked, squatting to lay a hand on Tye’s shoulder. He jerked it back when Tye flinched. “Lordy! You
sho
is.”

“A bit,” Tye said, voice shaking slightly. “Would ye get my knife? It’s stuck in his throat.” Luis had given him the bone-handled knife, and he didn’t want to lose it.

“
Sho
’, I’ll get it.” Dewey extracted the knife and ran his hand over the cat. “He’s a big ’un.
Fine pelt.
Make a nice . . . .” He paused and bent low, examining. “
Dis
ol
’ boy’s been hunted some. He’s got a broke off arrow in his flank.”

“Aye?
I thought he limped when I was chasing him.” Tye felt a twinge of pity for the animal he’d been forced to kill.

Dewey wiped the bloody knife on the grass and handed it back to him. “
Betcha
Mistah
Crawford’s gonna be glad yuh downed
dis
varment
. Wounded cat cain’t ketch game too good, so I ’
spect
he’s been
stealin
’ beeves to feed
hisself
.”

Tucking the knife back in his boot with some difficulty, Tye realized Dewey was right. He’d only done what needed to be done.

“C’mon, let’s get yuh back to camp.”

Tye gritted his teeth and stifled a groan as Dewey hooked an arm under his and pulled him to his feet.

* * *

Lil downed a bitter swallow of Arbuckle’s and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, dreading the long hours ahead. Neil stood nearby, also trying to wake up with coffee. Rusty and
Alabama
slowly crawled out of their bedrolls while her father pulled on his boots. Determined to do his share, he insisted on riding the last half of the night with them. But he wasn’t getting any younger; going without sleep was harder on him than on her and the others. She hoped he wouldn’t drop from exhaustion.

Her head came up at the sound of a horse rapidly approaching. Seconds later, Dewey Sherman pulled up in the circle of firelight. Tye was mounted behind him.

“Chic! Wake up!” Dewey called urgently, keeping his voice low so as not to spook the herd. “Tye kilt
hisself
a painter an’ he took some
clawin
’.”

Lil gasped and dropped her cup. She hardly heard the men’s shocked exclamations as Dewey’s horse pivoted and she got a good look at Tye. His shirt hung in red tatters; bloody rents marked his right pant leg. Seeing him sway as if ready to fall off the horse, she ran to him, injured feelings forgotten. She didn’t give a thought to her father. Tye was hurt; nothing else mattered.

He looked down at her, face pale and filmed with sweat. Gripping Dewey’s offered arm, he clenched his jaw and slid clumsily off the horse, grunting when his feet hit the ground. Luis Medina, awake and quick to react, moved to steady him.

“Easy,
amigo
,” the
vaquero
said, clutching his arm.

Lil slipped her arm around Tye’s waist from the other side. “Lean on me,” she said, immediately conscious of his hard body pressed along the length of hers.

“Gladly, colleen.”
Incredibly, he managed a smile, but his voice sounded raspy, and fine tremors passed through him as he draped his arm across her shoulders. The scent of blood and wild animal clung to him.

Chic was up and cracking orders. “Rusty, fetch my medicine box and that jug I keep under the seat.” As he spoke, he upended his wreck pan near the fire. “Set him down here where I can see
good
,” he said. While they did as directed, he grabbed a smaller pan and went to fill it from the water barrel lashed to the side of the chuck wagon.

Once Tye was seated on the washtub, Lil bent to unbutton his shredded shirt. He worked the tails free, and Luis got his
gunbelt
off, but when the
vaquero
drew a knife and crouched to cut open his pant leg, Tye caught his wrist and glanced up at Lil.

She frowned impatiently. “I won’t faint at the sight of your leg, if that’s what you think.” In truth, she
was
flustered by the thought but wasn’t about to let him know that.

Tye raised his eyebrows, Luis’ black mustache quirked and several drovers laughed. Then Lil heard her pa clear his throat. She glanced up and found him glaring at her across the fire, fists on his hips. He opened his mouth to speak, but she glared back mutinously, and after a moment, he clamped his jaws shut. He didn’t say a word as Luis slit Tye’s pant leg from knee to hip.

The
vaquero
stepped back, leaving Lil to help Tye out of his shirt. He inhaled sharply as she gently peeled the material from his scored shoulders and chest, causing her to swallow hard. Four more nasty gashes ran down his muscular thigh. Curly, blood-matted dark hair clung to his skin on leg and chest.

Lil didn’t realize she was staring in horror until he spoke.

“Don’t let a few wee scratches bother ye, colleen.”

“Wee scratches!
Maybe you’d better take a look at yourself.”

He gave her another crooked smile. “I’d rather look at
you,
love,” he whispered.

Her cheeks caught fire. How could he tease her when he had to be hurting like hell?

“Move over and let me at ’
im
,” Chic barked, giving Lil a start.

She backed off a few steps, allowing him room to work. Tye didn’t make a sound while the cook washed the blood from his chest, although his lips compressed into a thin line and his arm muscles bulged as he leaned hard on the rounded edge of the washtub.

Frowning, Chic clicked his tongue. “Reckon I’ll have to do some
sewin
’. But first . . . .” He reached for the whiskey jug Rusty had brought out and uncorked it. “Here, yuh better have some.”

“Thanks, I can use it.” Hoisting the jug, Tye took several hefty swallows before Chic snatched it away.

“Don’t drink it all, boy. I need some to clean out them cuts, ’less yuh want ’em to go putrid.”

Tye gasped from the strong drink and stared at him, obviously realizing what he was in for. Then he cocked an eyebrow. “’Tis a shameful waste o’ good whiskey, but do what ye must.”

A couple of the men chuckled at his show of bravado, but Lil felt sick at the thought of raw spirits touching his torn flesh. Giving no thought to her father or anyone else, she crouched beside Tye and laid a hand on his arm. Their eyes met in silent communication until Chic handed him a rawhide strip.

“Here, bite on that.
Can’t have yuh
yellin
’ up a stampede.”

Tye eyed the bite marks of former users. “Get on with it,” he said curtly, then clamped his teeth over the strip. He set himself but jerked violently and gave a strangled cry when Chic began to dribble whiskey over his wounds.

Lil clutched his arm with both hands, biting down hard on her lip as he squeezed his eyes shut and growled behind the gag. A fresh film of sweat broke out on his face and he swayed precariously. Luis Medina rushed forward to grab his other arm and steady him.

Once he’d doused all the gashes, Chic did the same to a needle and thread. “Keep
chawin
’ on that rawhide,” he said. “I’ll be quick as I can.”