Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (3 page)

When she returned to the road, the man was lying in the same spot. She set the hat full of water on the ground and placed the wet towel on his face. He pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“Stay still a moment.” Her voice was as stern as if she were speaking to an errant child.

His hand fell away from his side and blood oozed from a wound. She suddenly realized he had been shot! And more than one time if the wound in his thigh was a bullet hole. Oh, the poor man! If she could get him into the wagon and get him home, Cousin Brita would know what to do for him.

“Can you drink?”

He didn’t answer and Mara looked at him helplessly. He was such a big man that she could not possibly get him into the wagon without his helping. One thing she had to do was wrap something about his thigh and his middle to help staunch the flow of blood. She hurried back to the trunk.

Her hands were bloody and the skirt of her travel dress was soiled by the time she had finished the bandaging. An old petticoat was wrapped securely about his middle, holding a towel against the wound, and a wool scarf was tied about his thigh. She dampened the towel once again and wiped her hands.

“You’ve got to help me get you up. I’ll bring the wagon up so all you’ll have to do is take a few steps to reach it.”

She led the horse forward until the back of the wagon was even with him.

“Listen to me, man. I can’t do it by myself.”

Knowing she had to shock him into helping her, she took the hat by the brim and threw the remaining water in his face. It seemed not to faze him. Mara got behind him and placed her hands beneath his arms and lifted. It was useless. All she could manage was to raise his massive shoulders no matter how hard she tried.

Mara looked down at his dark head. Despite the dirt and twigs in his hair, she could see that it was fine and black as coal. He was a working man in the prime of life. His arms and shoulders bulged with muscles, but he was not using any of them now, and she was wearing herself out. It made her angry, and her Irish temper flared.

“Help me, you damn, stupid dolt!” she shouted. “What kind of man are you to sit there like a stubborn jackass and not try to help yourself?” She gave him a rebellious glance and wished she could remember some of the swear words the stage driver had used. Suddenly she did. “Hell and damnation!” The words came easily and she enjoyed the thought of what Miss Fillamore would have said about that. “Get on your feet, you ugly, worthless hunk of buzzard bait,” she commanded. “Get in that wagon, or—or—by granny, I’ll put a rope around you and drag you along behind it!”

She looked at his poor feet and almost cried for the agony it would cause him when he stood on them, but she hardened her heart against his pain and knelt down until her face was even with his.

“You are gutless!” she shouted. “You’re a gutless man. Do you hear me? You’re going to die out here because you don’t have the guts to help me and you’ll be on my conscience for the rest of my life, damn you!”

His response was only a flicker of dark lashes. She was almost sure he couldn’t even see her now, but he could hear. His swollen lips parted and his tongue came out to lick the water she had thrown in his face.

“Help . . . me.”

“I’m trying to. Can’t you see that I’m trying to do just that?” she pleaded. “Mister, I want to help you, but I can’t lift you. Please try to get on your feet. I’ll help as much as I can.”

Slowly he began to roll over onto his knees, supporting himself with one hand on the ground. His head hung down as if it weighed a ton. The hand he had used to cover the wound in his side was pressed close against him.

“Oh, my Lord! Oh, sweet Jesus!” The words came from Mara’s mouth in a rush when she saw the injury to that hand. His thumb was cut to the bone.

The man managed to get his feet under him while making little grunting sounds. Mara got in front of him, speaking words of encouragement, and lifted with all her strength regardless of having to come in contact with his bloody body. When he was standing, her head came to beneath his chin, reaffirming her earlier guess that he was a big, tall man.

“Take a few steps,” she urged. “Good! Good! A few more and you can sit down on the back of the wagon.” He backed to the wagon and sat down heavily. She climbed up into the wagon, took a quilt from her trunk and spread it over the rough boards. “Move back just a little and you can lie down.”

The moans of pain that came from him when he moved were like those of an animal caught in a trap and in terrible agony. The sounds cut into her, filling her heart with pity. She realized he was using all the strength he possessed to obey her. He managed to move back, and she eased him down onto the quilt. His knees came to the edge of the wagon bed and his feet hung down to within a foot of the ground, but Mara decided there was nothing she could do about that. She could, however, put something under his wounded thigh to support it. Once again she went to the trunk. He mumbled when she lifted his leg to place a folded skirt beneath it, and she leaned over to hear what he was saying.

“Sheffield . . . Station. Please . . . lady.”

“There, there. Lie still and don’t worry. Everything will be all right now.”

Mara climbed up on the wagon seat and urged the horse on down the road. She looked back at the man lying on her quilt. His head rolled from side to side, and he was holding his wound now with his good hand. Oh, dear, she thought, the rough ride could kill him and he would die without anyone knowing his name or what had happened to him.

Her joy in coming home had turned to anxiety for the man who lay in the back of the wagon. She had done what she could. It was as simple as that. She drove at a gait that was easy for the horse pulling the rumbling wagon, trying to avoid the jarring holes and ruts in the road. She watched an eagle soar through the sky until it sailed into the distance and she could no longer see it. The ride was cruel on her bottom and back, making her aware of the agony the man must be suffering.

They crossed another grassy summit, and below it yawned a valley, long and narrow, with the faint, white line of a trail running through it. On a rise overlooking the fields below was the McCall homestead. The late afternoon sun glinted on the glass windows of the house just as it had done the day Mara had left. Tears came to her eyes and she blinked rapidly to clear them. When she could see again, she saw that more buildings had been added to the compound: unpainted log buildings, and a railed fence where horses were penned. Oh, it had changed so much! The house was not nearly as large or as grand as she remembered it, but the peaked roof and wraparound porch were dearly familiar. She didn’t remember the trees being so thick or so big.

The trail rounded a bend and the house was lost from sight for a short while.
Home! Home!
The word kept repeating itself in Mara’s mind. She had no doubt of the welcome she would receive. The letter she had sent was probably still waiting for Cousin Aubrey in Laramie or he would have been at Sheffield Station to meet her. How surprised everyone would be to see her! She placed her straw hat on her head, giggling at having to hold the reins between her knees while she shoved the hat pin through the crown to hold it. Her dress was bloodstained and her shoes were muddy. She hated to arrive home in such an untidy state, but there was no help for it.

Mara resisted putting the horse to a faster pace because of the injured man, but she had no control over her heart. It was beating faster. She could hardly wait to call out to Cousin Brita that she was home.

A column of blue smoke curled lazily from the cobblestone chimney until, catching the wind high up, it was swept away. Mara could smell it now. It smelled of pine and reminded her of the pine chips her mother used in the trunk to keep the bedding smelling fresh. Her eyes, shining with happiness, were glued to the homestead. The only activity was centered around the long low building at the back. Several horses were tied to a rail fence that penned more horses.

Suddenly Mara realized that a sea of waving grass covered the land her father had plowed and planted. That thought was swept away immediately as her attention was drawn to the house. The shape of it was the same, yet somehow it was different. She was soon near enough to see bare ground in front where there used to be flowers and green bushes. The picket fence and the swinging gate were no longer there. Each turn of the wagon wheels brought new revelations, each more dismal than the one before. A front window was boarded up with flat weathered plank, and the front door was folded back and propped open with a wash tub. Firewood was piled on the veranda where the porch swing used to hang. Several large logs lay on the porch, an ax head buried in one of them. The beautiful latticework was gone from around the bottom of the veranda, and the cornices and fancy fretwork no longer decorated the eaves of the porch.

Mara watched with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as a dog raced out from beneath the porch to nip at the heels of the horse as it pulled the wagon up the rutted drive to the front of the house.

Mara was stunned with disbelief.

A man in a black coat came from inside the house and stood on the veranda as she approached. While he waited, he smoothed his gray hair back with the palms of his hands. Mara stopped the horse and stared at him.

“What ye be doin’ here, miss?” he demanded in a deep Irish brogue.

Mara was so astonished she was unable to speak. Her eyes widened, her breath quickened, and for an instant his face was a blur. The man looked so much like her father it was uncanny, yet she had never seen her father look so disreputable. A rough stubble of whiskers covered the man’s face, the front of his shirt was dirty, his face was bloated, and his eyes were watery. He leaned against the porch post, rubbing a trembling hand across his mouth. He was an older, unkempt version of the man who had come to Denver five years before. He was Cousin Aubrey, and he didn’t even know who she was.

“Who be ye?” he asked again, squinting his eyes to get a better look at her.

His harsh voice jarred Mara out of her stunned state of mind. She was tired, dirty and frightened. She had a dying man in the back of the wagon. Her temper ignited and flared. “I am Mara Shannon McCall and I live here!”

TWO

“Who did ye say ye be?”

Mara stared at Aubrey for a full minute while her mind accepted the fact that this was reality and not the homecoming she had dreamed about during the long journey from Denver. A small dart of panic shot through her but was overridden by a hot flush of anger.

“You heard me. I am Mara Shannon McCall, Cousin Aubrey. I’ve come home!” She wrapped the reins around the brake and climbed down from the wagon seat.

“Ah, Jesus! Ah, Godamighty! Sure ’n ’tis Mara Shannon, herself. Why’d ye go ’n come here fer?”

“Because I wanted to!” she retorted sharply. Anger and disappointment were keeping tears from her eyes.

“Cullen . . . ain’t goin’ ter like it none a’tall.”

“Cullen? What’s he got to do with it?” Mara pushed at the straw hat that had slipped to one side of her head and looked beyond Aubrey to the boy who came out onto the veranda.

“Who is she, Pa?” He had the McCalls’ dark hair and eyes and he was not much taller than Mara.

“ ’Tis Mara Shannon.”

“Cousin Mara? Now ain’t that a corker! Ma’ll be plumb—”

“Hush yer blatherin’,” his father said crossly. “Go tell Cullen.”

“He rode off a while ago,” he snapped back at his father, and then smiled at Mara. “So you’re Cousin Mara. I’m Trellis.”

“One of the twins?”

“Yup.”

“Is your mother here? There’s an injured man in the wagon, and we’ll need help getting him into the house.”

“Ma’s not . . . well. She can’t move about.” The boy went down the steps and looked over the side of the wagon. “Hellfire! What happened to
him?
”

“I don’t know. He’s in terrible pain—”

“Not now. He’s dead to the world.”

“Dead? Oh, he can’t be!” Mara went quickly to the end of the wagon.

“I don’t mean dead, dead. He’s unconscious.”

“Oh, thank heavens! He was so courageous. I found him on the road, and he helped me as much as he could while I was getting him into the wagon.”

Aubrey walked down the steps, stared at the unconscious man, and froze. His face turned a bright red and his arms flopped against his sides. He looked like a crowing rooster.

“The devil take ye! Ye’ll not be bringin’ the likes a him in
my
house. Get rid a him!”

“But, Pa,” Trellis protested, “ya can’t—”

“I can,” Aubrey roared. “Get him gone.”

“Be reasonable, Pa. We’ve got to help him!”

“Reasonable, ye say! Ye be traitor to yer own pa? Ye got nothin’ to say here. Nothin’ a’tall!”

“But I do! I’ve got plenty to say.” Mara spoke up firmly, her face flaming with anger. “I think you’re forgetting that this is
my
house. The man is injured and needs help. Trellis, where is your mother?”

“Ma’s sick. She can’t get up no more. I been doin’ what I can.”

“I’m sorry about Cousin Brita. But we can’t let this man lie out here and die!”

“And why not?” Aubrey demanded.

“Pa, ya know why not,” Trellis said patiently. “I’ll go get someone to help get him into the house.”

“He’ll not be comin’ in!” Aubrey shouted.

“He is a human being and he will go into the house where I can look after him.” Mara didn’t know where her courage came from, but she was grateful for it.

“So that’s the way it be, eh?”

“Yes! That’s the way it is! I may have been away for a long time, but I’m back now and I have a say here. You’d better understand that right now!”

“Ye ungrateful snippet—”

“Aubrey! Trellis! Who’s here?” The woman’s voice came from deep inside the house.

“I’ll go tell her.” Trellis turned to Mara. “And I’ll get someone to help get, ah, him into the house.”

Mara was reluctant to leave the injured man alone with Aubrey. He stood glaring, first at her, and then at the man in the wagon. She could see the hatred in his eyes. It was a strange and unexpected situation she found herself in. There was no time to grieve over her unfriendly welcome. She would see this man into
her
house and do what she could for him. If he died, at least her conscience would be clear.