I’d been shot. Shot by somebody lying up on those bluffs and not more than a hundred yards off, I figured. How long ago I did not know. I lay perfectly still. It might have been minutes, it might have been a half hour to an hour. I tried to think how long it would have taken those rain clouds to get from the horizon to me, but my skull throbbed heavily and my mouth was dry.
He might be still up there, waiting to see if I was alive. He probably hadn’t come any closer because of Ol’ Brindle. He must have seen him right away, and the chances were the big steer was still not far off. If I got up and started to move, I might get shot. If not that, Ol’ Brindle might charge me, and in my shape I’d play hell getting away from him. And I still didn’t even know how badly I was hurt.
Now the rain was falling faster. I lay very still, only half aware, only half conscious. Again I must have faded out, for when my eyes opened again I was soaked to the skin and the rain was pouring down upon me. With an effort, I pushed myself up from the ground. My skull was bursting and my side hurt, but I raised myself enough to see all around and I saw nothing but muddy ground, a trickle of water in the once dry creek bed, and the wet trees and dripping leaves.
Under the big cottonwoods the rain was a little less. I pulled myself to one and sat with my back against the trunk and looked around. Nearby, another cottonwood had fallen, and under it lay a great trough of bark that had fallen from the underside. Another piece of loosened bark, all of six or seven feet long, lay atop the trunk.
My hat was gone, back near the creek bed, I supposed. My fingers touched my wet hair. There was something of a cut on my scalp, but I did not think it was from a bullet. More likely my head had hit something when I fell from my horse, and I was suffering from concussion.
The only wound I could find was on my hip where I’d been creased just below my belt. When hit, my body must have jerked and my horse swerved, so I fell, hitting my head when landing. That I’d lost blood there was no doubt, for the dark stain of it covered my pants on that side. Often a flesh wound would bleed more profusely than something really serious. Desperately, I wanted a drink, and the few drops I could catch in my opened mouth helped not at all. Yet it was too far to the creek and I wanted only to rest and be still. This was the second time somebody had tried to kill me. Tory Benton? Somehow, I doubted that. This must be the same man who had fired at me before, and who was now stalking me to kill.
He might return.
Obviously, he was a man who liked to make sure of his work. He had fired from cover, from ambush, no doubt. He had also shown the ability to hit what he shot at. Yet in each case I’d lucked out through no effort of my own. How many times could I be lucky?
The rain fell steadily. Somewhere off to the south, thunder rumbled. Occasionally, there was a flash of lightning. I could hear the creek now. It was running a fair head of water. My hand reached to feel for my pistol. It was there. My belt, I remembered, had only two empty loops. My horse was gone.
This place where I now was couldn’t be more than a mile, maybe a mile and a half from our line-cabin. I’d guessed the big steer that led this bunch had been a half mile off, but after reaching the bottom I’d worked along it a ways, rounding up stock, and then I’d tried to get them out of the creek bottom … not more than a mile and a half. Yet I was in no shape for walking, and wasn’t wishful of being caught in the open by a man with a rifle. And he might still be around.
Crawling to that dead cottonwood tree, I got those two lengths of bark. I lay down in one and pulled the other over me and I just lay there. After a while, I went to sleep.
Those two slabs of bark kept me off the ground and covered me, just like in a hollow tree. Only I remember one of the last thoughts I had before I dropped off was that it was mighty like a coffin. When that thought came to me, I almost got up and out, but I simply was too weak, too tired, and my head ached too much. If anybody came looking for me now, I was helpless. A man had only to walk up and shoot me full of holes. Fitfully, I slept. I awakened, slept again, and awakened. When I tried to turn over, water leaked in from the sides where the two slabs of bark met, so turning over was an ordeal. Finally, after an endless night of rain, day came. A day of rain. My eyes opened to a dripping world. My head throbbed heavily and my side was sore, my muscles cramped. For a long time I simply lay still, listening to the rain on the bark, hearing the running of the creek. To hear it now one would never believe that yesterday it had lain dry and empty. The line-cabin … I must get back to the line-cabin. Pushing off the top slab of bark, I struggled to sit up, made it, and rolled over to my knees on the muddy ground. I pushed myself up, got to my feet, tottered, and fell against the trunk of a tree. For a moment I clung there, trying to get the cramps from my legs. I felt for my pistol … It was in place. A drink. I desperately needed a drink. Tottering on my injured leg, I got to the creek, lay down on the sand and drank. I drank and drank. Getting up, I saw my hat. It lay on the rain-heavy branches of a clump of mesquite near the stream. I retrieved it and shook some water from it, then put it on.
Clinging to a branch of a tree, I looked carefully around. The clouds were lowering and gray; the trees and the brush dripped with water. All was dark and gloomy, yet I saw no movement, no stir of life. No wild animal would be about on such a day, and probably no man.
I’d lost blood, and was therefore weak, yet I would get no better here. And the nearest chance was the line-cabin. It was near, but terribly far in my present condition. Most of all, I dreaded the thought of that open plain I must cross for most of the distance to it. Once I stepped out on that plain, I was a target for any rifleman who might lie in comfortable shelter and take his own time to make the shot good.
Still clinging to the branch, I reached down and picked a length of dead branch long enough for a staff from the ground. Taking a deep breath, I started toward the bank. Only then did I realize what faced me. The banks I must climb to get away from the creek bed were in all places steep, and the few places that offered a route a man might take were slippery with mud. When I had gone some fifty-odd feet, I paused to gasp for breath, to ease the pain of my hip and stiffened leg, and to study what lay before me. There was no way I was going to get up that bank by walking. I must get down and crawl. Onward I limped. At the foot of the bank I dug in with my stick and hobbled up a step, then two. Trying a third, my foot slipped under me and I came down hard in the mud, gasping with the agony of a suddenly wrenched leg. After a long time of lying in the mud, I pushed myself up, but it was no use. I sank down again and crawled on my hands and knees.
At last I topped out on the edge of the plain. A little scattered brush, and then the open grassland, level as a floor. Beyond it loomed the low hills, and just over those hills, the line-cabin. A dry place, a warm fire, hot food … a cup of coffee. At that moment, no paradise I could imagine needed any more than that.
For a time I stood still, muddy and wet, looking carefully around. But again I saw nothing. No horseman, no cattle, no Brindle. No doubt Ol’ Brindle was in some snug thicket, laying out the rain. At least, I hoped he was. A step with my good left leg, then hitching my right forward with the aid of the staff, and then the good leg again. It was slow, and it was painful. My leg not only hurt, but the wound at my hip was bleeding again. The ache in my skull had subsided to a dull, heavy pounding to which I had grown accustomed. Twice I fell. Each time I struggled up. Several times I stood still for a long time trying to wish myself across the plain. But wishing did no good, so I plodded on. At last I reached the trail up the hill, and this was not steep. At the crest I looked down at the line cabin. Two horses were in the corral … No cattle in the corral beyond. No smoke from the cabin. Where then was Fuentes?