Dorothy Garlock (24 page)

The girl would be safe with Horn. Case thought about it carefully. It was clear that she was smitten. She could hardly keep her eyes off the man. A man as well educated and as affluent as Horn must have known a vast number of women back East who wouldn’t have cared about his Indian blood. He might think Miss Spurlock backwoodsy even though she was a pretty woman. Case frowned. In this country any white woman who took up with a breed would have a tough row to hoe. He may have made a mistake throwing them together, but what else could he have done?

Taking his time, he let the big horse work his way through the junipers. A wild turkey gobbled and scurried into the underbrush. Case drew cool air deep into his lungs, air touched with a faint scent of sage and—something else. Smoke! He kicked his horse into a run and didn’t pull up until he was at the edge of the timber and had a clear view of the Spurlock ranch. The bastards had fired the house and were working on the barn and the outbuildings!

Case pulled his rifle from the boot. Damn! He hadn’t expected them to show up until dark. His eyes quickly scanned the scene for a sight of Ben. Thank God the boy was gone. The only thing that moved beside the raiders were the chickens who ran, flew low, ran again, and squawked until used for target practice.

Case dismounted and led his horse back into the trees, then squatted behind a boulder. The inside of the house was in flames, as were the barn and sheds. There was nothing he could do about that now. He scanned the faces of the men. He knew them all as the most unsavory of the lot he had tried to whip into a decent ranch crew. Case picked his target and looked down the barrel of his rifle. He set his sight on Shorty Banes, lowered it and fired. The bullet hit exactly where he wanted it to hit—the toe of Shorty’s left foot. The raiders, all except Shorty, dived for cover behind their horses. He fell to the ground holding his foot and screaming with pain.

“I could’ve killed ya, ya bastard,” Case yelled. “That was fer what ya did to Horn.”

“That you, Malone? Ya ruined my foot!”

“I shoulda ruined that thing atween yore legs! That’s where yore brains are.”

“Ya gawddamned Injun lover! I’ll git ya fer this!” Shorty got to his feet and tried to hop toward his horse.

“Stay where ya are or the next one goes in yore head! Hear? Listen ta me, ya yellow-bellied, worthless scum! Nobody but a bunch of lowdown sons of bitches’d burn out a woman ’n a kid! There’s not a man among ya that’s got the guts ta come out ’n face me!”

There was a moment’s silence. “It’s Clayhill’s orders,” one of the men yelled.

“’N yore followin’ ’em like a pack of dogs after a bitch in heat,” Case shouted. “This land ’n Horn’s was bought ’n paid for, all fittin’ ’n proper. Clayhill’s buckin’ the United States government on this, ’n anybody who backs him is a party to it. The soldiers from Fort Collins’ll be down here like a shot when they hear ’bout it.”

“Sheeit! Tell that ta the fellers behind the barn, Malone.” There was a chorus of loud guffaws. “Clayhill’s got em in his pocket. Ya better clear out ’n take that red ass with ya. The old man’ll hunt ya down ’n have yore hide.”

“Horn ain’t nothin’ but a gawddamn breed, Malone. Why’re ya stickin’ yore neck out fer him?”

“If’n shit was brains, Malone, you’d rule the world!”

“Ya plannin’ on gettin’ ya some of that ass when the Injun gets done with it, Malone?”

“Ain’t no Texas man I ever heared of that’d take on a white woman after she’s been humped by a Injun.”

The men were getting braver with their taunts.

“Ah . . . he ain’t wantin’ no red ass’s leavin’s. He’s gettin’ his from that uppity whore what thinks her shit don’t stink.” Coarse, loud laughter followed the remark.

Fury tore through Case, shutting off his breath. He took a deep breath and forced himself to be calm. He coolly took aim on the foot of a man hiding behind his horse and fired.

“Eeeoow!” The screech was loud and long. The horse jumped and ran when the man fell to the ground. “It warn’t me what said it!”

“’Scuse me,” Case said politely. “Maybe it was that other shithead standin’ behind the roan.” He fired again. The bullet found its mark and the man yelled.

“Gaawwd! It warn’t me! I ain’t said nothin’!”

“Then Shorty must be doin’ all the talkin’. The rest of ya crow bait mount up. If’n I see one a ya again, start grabbin’ iron, ’cause that’s what I’ll be doin’. Ride out—west, where I can see ya.” One of the men went to help Shorty, and Case called out, “Leave Banes. Better yet, stand ’im up ’n spread his legs. I wanna see if I kin geld ’im with this rifle. I’m athinkin’ the sight’s off a hair.”

“Good Gawdamighty!” Shorty yelled. “Don’t leave me with the bastard!” He crawled on his hands and knees toward his horse.

Case fired and Shorty’s hat flew off his head. “By God, this sight
is
off. I wasn’t aimin’ to ruin a good hat!”

The men mounted and took off at a surging run, leaving Shorty Banes silhouetted against the flames of the burning buildings. Black smoke drifted up from the smoldering haystack beside the shed and disappeared into the darkening sky.

“Git to walkin’, Shorty, less ya want a bullet in the other foot.” Tired of the game, Case wanted to end it.

“Gawddamnit, Malone! I cain’t walk!” Shorty whined.

“Then crawl, ya bastard!” Case put a bullet into the ground in front of him. “Move, or I’ll kill ya where ya stand ’n leave ya fer the buzzards!”

Shorty began to crawl toward the west and Case lowered the rifle and watched him. It was more than the sonofabitch deserved, he thought. But he’d never killed a man who wasn’t shooting back.

Case had watched Shorty crawl the length of a good lariat when a sound behind him caught his ears. His hand dropped to the butt of his gun and he turned, listening. Each rock, each tree, each shrub was studied with particular care, making allowance for the gloom, contours, distances. He sat hunched, the side of his arm resting against the boulder. After several minutes he moved away from the rock. At that instant, he heard the click of metal just as he was struck by a wicked blow on the shoulder. He heard the other shot as it struck him and searing pain tore through his side. He grabbed wildly for his gun as he tumbled backward. It took all his will to lie still and wait. He held his fire until he saw the shadowy shape of a man come from behind the bushes and approach him. He lifted the gun and aimed instinctively. The sharp, splitting crack that sliced the silence was his own shot. The bullet went into the man’s head from beneath his chin and he was dead before he fell.

Through the heaving, roaring blackness, Case fought to stay conscious. Who else was out there? Was the bushwhacker a Clayhill rider? Eleven men rode out from the Spurlock ranch, and they hadn’t had time to circle around. Whoever he was, the bastard had got his, but he’d caught it good himself. Case felt the wetness of blood against his skin. His hand clung to the one real thing in his tilting world, his gun. His eyes seemed very heavy and he blinked them slowly. He knew he was going to pass out. His last thought was of Mary. Mary, his only love . . . he’d come, like he said. He’d not die and leave her.

Case fought his way back to consciousness and lay very still, trying to locate where he was. He was lying on his back in the open. The black of the sky above him was broken by flickering lightning and thunder rolled in the distance. Memory returned. Memory of shots that came out of the darkness. He’d let himself be bushwhacked! Pain racked him. He couldn’t focus his eyes clearly, but someone was leaning over him. He tried to lift the gun, but it was too heavy. He waited for the inevitable.

“Gawd, Mr. Malone. Ya ain’t dead?”

“I don’t think so. Is that you, Ben?”

“No. It’s Frank. Frank Gerhart.”

“If ya come back to finish me off, git on with it.”

“I ain’t with ’em, Mr. Malone. Mr. Clayhill fired me. I went back to the ranch to get my tack ’n was aheadin’ for town. I saw what was agoin’ on ’n stayed up there in the rocks. I thought it was over till I heard the shots over here.”

“Who was the backshooter?” Case gasped.

“’Twas Shatto. Ya killed ’im.”

“He wasn’t with the bunch that fired the house.”

“The old man might a sent him out on his own.”

“A backshooter’s lower’n a snake’s belly!” Case gritted. His mind told him he must move, but his muscles refused to obey.

“Where’d ya git it, Mr. Malone?”

“The shoulder ’n side. F—etch my horse and get a blanket before I sh—ake myself t’death.” His head throbbed and his shoulder and side tortured him with every beat of his heart. Icy chills racked him.

Frank wrapped the blanket around him. “I’ll help ya anyway I kin, but I ain’t no good a’tall at takin’ out bullets.”

“Young Ben Spurlock headed for town about sundown. He’s drivin’ a team ’n got a cow tied on behind the wagon, so he’s not making much time. Tell him where I am ’n to come back with the wagon. If you miss him, go on to Mrs. Gregg’s and tell her what happened.”

“I’ll do it, Mr. Malone. I’ll get help fer ya. Is there somethin’ else I can do afore I go?”

“Leave me a canteen. I got a powerful thirst.”

The water ran out the side of his mouth, but some of it went down his throat, giving him some relief from the thirst. After he finished drinking, he lay wrapped in the blanket and drifted in and out of sleep. When he was awake he tried to keep the thought from his mind that the young drover might ride off and leave him there to die alone. He dozed and woke up thinking he had to get to Mary. She would be expecting him. He struggled to get to his feet, but his weakness was too great and he fell back. His head seemed to explode and he sank down into a pit of blackness.

What was happening to him? The pain in his shoulder was agonizing, and his side burned like fire. He was moving. The jingle of the harnesses told him he was in the wagon. Frank had come back! He was on his way to Mary. Mary would know what to do. His head throbbed and he shook with chills despite the blankets. His thirst seemed without end, and he remembered from somewhere that thirst usually accompanied a heavy loss of blood. He closed his eyes, wishing the blessed darkness would claim him, and it did.

*  *  *

Josh stood beside Mary and held the lantern while they waited for the wagon. Mary’s heart had felt like a lump of lead in her breast ever since Frank Gerhart had pounded on the kitchen door and told her that Ben Spurlock was coming in with Case and that he was badly wounded. Dread kept Mary rooted to the spot in the yard. She was scarcely aware of the wind pushing the lightly falling rain against her face. Finally, she heard the wagon coming, and Josh walked out to the edge of the yard and held the lantern to guide Ben to the door.

When Mary saw Case she put her hand to her throat. “God in heaven!” she exclaimed. “What—” Her words died when she saw his shirt was soaked with blood and his face was white beneath the tan. He was unconscious, but rolling his head from side to side. A hoarse croak came repeatedly from his lips. Mary pulled herself together and began issuing crisp orders. “Get a board to carry him on. Meta! Get my bed ready!”

Case was taken to her room and lifted gently out of the rain-soaked blankets and onto the bed where Mary and Meta went to work removing his blood-soaked clothes. Josh came in with a basin of hot water and a stack of bandages.

“I . . . can’t do it, Meta,” Mary wailed. “The bullets went through him, but there are pieces of cloth in there that have got to come out and I . . . can’t. Oh, God! For the first time in my life I can’t do what I know has got to be done.”

“You don’t have to, love.” Meta pushed Mary down into a chair. “Sit right there. Me ’n Josh’ll do it.”

Mary sat beside the bed and stroked Case’s forehead and the dark, silver-streaked hair at his temples. She leaned over, kissed his lean cheek, and whispered in his ear, “You’ll be all right, darlin’. You’re home with Mary. I’ll take care of you. Lie still. They’ll finish soon. Oh, Case, darlin’, how could I have ever thought I could send you home and never see you again!”

Josh and Meta worked together, first washing and digging out all the foreign matter from the wounds and then washing them with liquid made from boiling cliff rose, a remedy Mary learned about from a Cheyenne woman. The wound in his shoulder was less serious than the one in his side where the bullet had scraped across the top of his hip bone. The gaping flesh was black and blue and the wounds looked bad. Josh smeared them with a jellylike salve, and he and Meta wrapped Case in bandages.

When they finished they brought hot bricks wrapped in cloth and packed them around his shaking body before covering him with blankets. Mary sat beside him and spooned whiskey into his mouth. She talked to him and her voice seemed to have a soothing effect. His body stopped shaking and his head ceased to roll.

It was well after midnight before Mary laid her head on the pillow beside his and closed her eyes.

Several days went by before Mary was sure that Case would live. After the chills left his body, fever set in. She sponged his body day and night, but his fever soared. In his delirium he told of being sunk into a black pit where demons, laughing with glee, played on his body with torches and hot pitchforks. He called repeatedly for Mary. She bathed him, fed him, crooned to him; held his head to her breast and begged him to live. She left his bedside only to take care of her bodily functions.

One morning she noticed small beads of perspiration forming on his temples. Almost afraid to believe the fever was breaking, she wiped his damp forehead with a dry cloth and waited. Soon the forehead was damp again, and she buried her face in the pillow beside his head and gave herself up to a storm of weeping.

When Case opened his eyes, he was looking into Mary’s face. His brain was too numbed to know where he was. Fog drifted before his eyes and his body felt suspended in a vacuum. He felt no pain and moved his arm, thinking he might be dead. If he was, he decided, Mary was with him, so it was all right.

“You big, dumb galoot! You scared me to death!” Mary’s scolding voice was trembling, but she was smiling, too.