“Where’s Bardoul?”
“Stahl killed him, damn the luck! I wanted that job for myself.”
“You might not have done it. He was fast, that one.”
Massey’s eyes glinted as he looked at Deane, and then his lips smiled. “I suppose he was,” he agreed, his eyes calculating, “I suppose he was.”
Massey turned to ride away. “What about the women?” Deane demanded.
“What about them?” Massey looked around.
“I wouldn’t be no party to bad treatment of them. We’ve got the wagons, and that was what we wanted.”
“The women,” Clive Massey said carefully, “are my concern. For the time being they will be left alone, but only for the time being.”
Massey rode on through the rain, and Logan Deane stared after him, and after a minute, he followed.
CHAPTER XI
Night crept down the austere flanks of the Big Horns and stretched tentative shadows toward the trees along the river. The rain did not moderate, driving relentlessly into the lank grass and beating it into a thick carpet tight against the earth. Rain pounded against the black, glistening poncho of Matt Bardoul, stretched flat upon the grass, one arm outflung.
The rain slapped and whipped at his face, worried by the driving wind, yet as darkness came on the wind dropped to a few scattered gusts, and the drive left the rain and it began to fall lightly, easily, almost caressingly upon the wounded man.
The light touch of the rain did what the earlier, driving rain could not do … it brought him out of it.
Matt’s eyes fluttered open upon a world of damp and darkness. Nor did he move, just lying there, tight against the earth, his mind an utter blank. A drop hit his eyeball, and the lid blinked shut. The action seemed to arouse his thoughts, and they stirred.
At first, they came slowly. Where was he? What had happened? He had been shot by Spinner Johns! He was lying in the street! He … ! But no, that was weeks ago. Yet where was he? Why was he wet? What had happened?
Then he remembered … there was something he had to tell Jacquine. Something she had misunderstood. Jacquine … Coyle … the wagon train … Clive Massey …
He had been shot.
He was wounded. What had happened? And where was he? He drew his extended arm back, got the palm under his chest, and pushed up. He rolled on his side and the rain fell upon his face. He opened his mouth and let it wash down his throat, but there was not enough to satisfy his great thirst.
Carefully, he lifted his right hand and moved it toward his head. Something was wrong there. He had been shot in the head. His fingers found a bulge there, and his hand came away sticky with mud and blood. He got his hands both under him, and pushed himself up to his knees, making his brain spin with the effort.
Waiting, while the dizzy spell passed, he took stock. He had been shot, but although wounded, he was alive. The wagon train had gone on. Had they taken it? Or had they just shot him down?
He saw his hat lying there and picked it up, but it would not go down on his head, so he let it rest where it was. Automatically, his hands reached for his pistols. They were gone. They had been stripped from his body.
That told him something. They had believed him dead, then. What happened to his horse? He stared around in the rain soaked darkness but could see nothing but the vagueness where he was. He got to his feet then, and stood swaying, trying to assemble his thoughts. He was weak, too weak to go far. Yet there was no sense in moving an inch until he knew where to move.
Methodically, he recalled his memory of the day. They had left Goose Creek, and they had crossed a small stream that emptied into the Goose. Hence, somewhere, not too far ahead, would be Wolf Creek. Beyond that was the Tongue. It could be no more than six miles away, or perhaps seven. Facing in what his mind told him was the northwest, he started to walk.
A long time later he opened his eyes to find himself lying on his face again. How far he had come, or if he had moved at all, he did not know. Yet he must move. Somewhere ahead of him was the wagon train and Jacquine, helpless in the hands of Clive Massey, or Sun Boyne, or whoever he was. He forced himself to his feet and carefully put his left foot forward, then his right.
That time he must have taken fully twenty steps before he fell. It was weakness, he knew, yet he had to keep going. He rested, then started again. He made six steps, twelve, twenty again, and then eight. Sometimes he only stumbled and did not fall from sheer weakness. Yet it took him a long time to get to the Wolf.
When he got there, he crawled to the rushing waters and took a drink. Heavy rains had swollen them, and the waters were muddy, but it tasted good. He drank, then drank again.
Crawling back near a huge tree, he cowered close to the trunk. There was some loose brush around, and he pulled himself up and wove some of the brush into the thick, low hanging branches. He fumbled with them for a long time, and contrived a partial shelter. Then he hunched the poncho around his ears and with his back against the bole he fell asleep.
When he awakened again the rain had ceased and the sky was gray. He was suddenly wide awake, yet when he moved he found he was very weak, and it was nothing less than a miracle that he was alive at all, to say nothing of the distance he had covered the night before.
Keeping his seat, he took careful stock of the situation. He must not even think of the wagon train nor of Jacquine. If he was their only hope, then he must regain his strength before attempting to face Massey or Deane. To do that he would need rest and food. There was no shelter anywhere nearby, and no food that he could get without effort on his own part. Yet despite the need for food, the less he moved for awhile, the better.
There were berries on some of the undergrowth, and he picked at them off and on for over an hour. Despite their smallness, they made him feel better. The sun lifted, and pointed an accusing finger at him through a rift in the clouds, yet the rift became wider, and the warmth began to dry his clothes. Steam lifted from them, and he leaned his head back, soaking up the growing warmth.
Somehow he fell asleep, and when he awakened it was almost noon. He picked more berries, then crawled to the stream for a drink. All through the day he rested there, alternately sleeping, eating berries and drinking. Finally, night came again, and he slept.
When Matt Bardoul opened his eyes in the morning he was very weak. In moving, he noticed that his clothing on the right side felt stiff. It was only then that he discovered his second wound. He recalled hearing the shot fired, but had felt no pain, and no shock.
Pulling off the poncho, he rolled it up, and then he examined his wound. It had closed up and although slightly inflamed, did not look bad. The bullet had gone through his side just above the hip bone. Searching his pockets, he found a heavy clasp knife he always carried, and with this he cut himself a good sized stick for a cane. Then tucking the poncho over his belt in behind, he got to his feet.
Then he started to walk. When he had made what he believed was a half mile, he rested and took stock. He did not feel badly, although very weak, and he needed food. Yet his best bet was to continue on to the Tongue. The closer he got to the fort, the better his chance was of finding help. Also, the closer he would be to the wagon train.
Once, about mid morning, he found a bit of biscuit dropped by someone in the wagons, and ate that. He fell asleep then close to a bush, and was awakened sometime later by a bawling mingled with angry snarls. Rolling to his knees, knife in hand, he saw four timber wolves attacking a buffalo calf. Nearby, several others were harrying the cow. Getting a firm grip on his club, he lay beside the bush until the wolves had pulled down the calf, and then he got to his feet and yelled.
Instantly, the wolves wheeled to face him. He started toward them, waving his stick. Three of them made off at once, but the fourth stood his ground, only backing a little and snarling. Matt continued toward the wolf, walking steadily, and the animal glanced left and right to reassure itself of an easy retreat. When no more than twenty feet away, Matt lifted the club once more and shouted. The wolf fled.