No one stirred. Morgan heard the faint shuffle of slippered feet, the rush of breath from a hundred throats, the creaking of corsets as women shifted for a better view of him. He heard the steady beat of Athena’s heart and felt her warmth along his side. But Ulysses’s voice had become a drone, a meaningless jumble of words that had no power to describe what had happened on that terrible day in the Colorado mountains.
It had been sunny, an unusually warm late spring afternoon. But Morgan scarcely felt the sun and balmy breezes, nor noticed the riot of wildflowers growing fat and lush on the hillsides and in the meadows.
All he could see was Aaron Holt—not the hearty, stubborn man he had left in such anger, but a wasted, hollow-eyed invalid who was more of a stranger to Morgan now than he had ever been. He lay against a boulder at the heart of his claim, stinking in soiled clothes and lying in his own waste.
Morgan knew that he was dying.
“They tried to jump my claim,” Aaron Holt said, his voice like a rusty hinge. “The thieving bastards. I fought ’em. Didn’t…” He coughed, and the motion jarred his gangrenous leg.
It was a miracle that he could speak at all. Morgan could smell the poison, the swift rotting of flesh. The smell of death—lingering, painful death.
“They were scared enough not to come back,” Aaron whispered. “But… they left me with a memento.” He gestured at his seeping left leg, deep bronze and purple with infection, no longer recognizable as living tissue. The original wound had been lost in the swelling.
Aaron was skeletal from lack of food, half-delirious with fever. The first thing Morgan had done was bring him water and try to make him eat the jerky and day-old bread he’d brought, but his father had pushed it aside untouched.
“I’ll find a doctor,” Morgan said, half-afraid that Aaron Holt would not be alive when he returned. But his father laughed, a sound more dreadful than weeping, until tears ran down his cheeks.
“I’m dying,” he said. “Can’t eat, can’t sleep. My leg is rotting. No doctor can save me now.” He shook his head at Morgan’s mute denial. “I wouldn’t go to town… when there was some chance for me. Now all I can do is—” He stopped, and he looked at Morgan with such desperation that Morgan’s eyes filled with tears. “I know I haven’t… been much of a father to you, boy. I know you hate me. I reckon you don’t owe me any favors. But now I’ve got to ask you one.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out again with a rattling wheeze. “I hurt, boy. Can’t take it no more. Don’t have the strength to end it myself. You got to do it for me.”
Morgan heard the words, but it took him several minutes to understand. End it. His father wanted him to end his misery, and there was only one way to do that.
“I’ve… got a gun, hidden under those rocks,” Aaron said. “All it takes… is one bullet, boy.”
“No.” Morgan stepped back, stumbled on a stone, caught his balance again. “I won’t do it.”
“You got to. You got to, boy. I’ll be dying another week, and I can’t…” He coughed again and sank back against the boulder. “I’m beggin’ you. Please—”
After that Aaron Holt was quiet for a time, exhausted by his efforts to talk. Morgan tried to make him drink, but his father refused every attempt to help. That evening, Morgan made a fire and covered his father with all the blankets he could find. During the long night, Aaron dreamed. He wept and shouted and screamed in agony, and Morgan could smell the rot spread, inch by inch, eating Aaron’s body from within.
By dawn, Aaron could barely move. It was as if he had used up all the life left within him… all but the pain. Every breath he took was a struggle. He screamed when Morgan touched his leg to adjust it under the blankets.
There was no hope for Aaron Holt. Morgan knew it. He had become familiar with death in the past several years of searching. He had seen it take many forms, but none so horrible as this.