The detective slithered out of a sweaty saddle and crouched beside the fallen teenager. “Hold on, Julius, do you hear me? We’ll get you back to camp. To that surgeon, Paula Booker.”
“No . . .” The boy was clawing at Noah’s arm. “They’ll just kill you . . . and Marcus . . . the girls . . . he’ll kill you . . .”
“Not that one,” Noah said roughly. “He’s dead. Shot the bastard out of his saddle. Left him for the buzzards.”
“Then they’ll send someone else!”
If they hadn’t already . . .
The unspoken words hung in the air, as hot and terrifying as the coppery smell of Julius’ blood. “Please . . .” Julius was choking out the words, “you can’t afford to take me back. I’ll only slow you down. Just get the girls and run, please. . . .” Marcus tried to hush the frantic boy. Guilt ripped through him. He’d allowed Julius to help—this was his fault. “Please, Julius, do not speak! You have not the strength. Here, can you swallow a little water?” He held his canteen to the boy’s lips.
“Just a sip,” Noah cautioned. “There, that’s enough. Here, help me get him up. No, Julius, we have to go back to camp anyway, to rescue the kids. You’re coming with us, so don’t argue. Marcus, we’ll put him on your horse.” The detective glanced up, met Marcus’ gaze. “He’s right, you know. They will send someone else. And someone after that.”
“What can we do?” Marcus felt helpless, bitterly afraid, furious with himself for bringing his young friend into this.
“We leave Julius with the camp surgeon, that’s what. As soon as we get back to camp, you get the girls and take them back to the livery stable with you. During the confusion, you and I will leave camp with the kids. Take our horses and our gear and ride out. By the time they figure out we’re gone, we’ll be far enough away to catch a train out of the territory.”