by Kit Morgan
He looked at her. “Get me inside.”
She did, and once there, helped him down on the cot. That done, she ran to the water pitcher, it was empty. She growled in frustration, ran outside to the pump and filled it. She turned and was about to run back when she heard the distinct sound of horse hooves galloping her way. She spun around and jumped as Othello came racing into the barnyard dragging about twenty feet of rope. She cried out in joy, any fear she had of the stallion squashed by Ryder’s life hanging in the balance. “Whoa, boy … whoa …” she said as she got up and slowly circled his prancing form. He stopped and looked at her, breathing hard. Who knew how fast and far he’d run to escape his captors and come home.
A whistle sounded. Ryder stood in the doorway of the cabin. Othello snorted and trotted right to him. Constance sank to her knees. “Thank you …” she whispered to the Almighty. “Now keep him alive. Please just keep him alive.”
She pushed herself up, grabbed the pitcher and giving Othello a wide berth, circled around to Ryder. He’d already taken the rope in hand, and was examining the horse as best he could.
“It’s been cut,” he said, his voice weak as he held up the rope’s end. “Cutty, it had to be Cutty, the ol coot. I hope he’s still alive …” He looked at her. “Ya think ya can saddle him?”
She nodded. He could ask her to jump off a cliff right now and she’d do it if she knew it would save him. She ran to the barn to get the saddle, blanket and bridle, and with effort, brought them back.
“You can’t ride in that dress … I’ll bridle him …”
She ran into the cabin and as fast as she could and donned his shirt and buckskins. She then helped him saddle Othello. Then came the hard part. “I don’t rightly think I can climb on, Sugar. You’re gonna have to help me.”
She nodded her understanding, and with quite a few grunts on her part, helped push him up onto the horse. She stared at him when she realized he’d mounted up behind the saddle. “What are you doing?”
“You’re gonna have to handle him. I’m not sure how long I’d be able to. … I’m feelin’ mighty poorly, Sugar…”
Tears streamed down her face. It wasn’t that she didn’t think she could do it. It was the fact she didn’t know if they had enough time. She nodded, and without saying a word, mounted Othello in front of him.
Ryder wrapped his arms around her, took the reins that he’d wrapped around the saddle horn before mounting, and gave them to her. “Don’t let him have his head. He’ll fight you, but don’t let him do it unless I …”
“Ryder?”
“…unless I say so.”
“Ryder? Do we have enough time?”
“Stop yappin’ Sugar, and we will.”
She nudged Othello into a walk to make sure Ryder wasn’t going to fall off, then into a cantor. The horse had come back winded and tired, and she wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to keep up the pace. But she’d ridden enough in England to know when a horse was overly tired. Othello was tired, but not to the point of exhaustion. Yet.
“Okay, let him stretch his … legs, Sugar. It ain’ t gonna hurt him.”
She did, and leaned forward as she’d seen Ryder do. Othello took off like a shot.
She felt Ryder grip her waist, and fall against her, his head on her shoulder. He was weak, dying, and she prayed with all her might they found help in time. She didn’t know every thing there was to know about a snake bite, but did know it was only a matter of time before the poison worked it’s way through the victim’s body enough to bring death. Even when they reached help, would Doc Waller or Doc Drake be able to save him? Would Ryder be too far gone? How would they stop the poison from spreading?
They rode and rode hard, and after an hour, Othello began to stumble. “No!” Constance cried. “C’mon, boy! C’mon!” She slowed him down at Ryder’s urging, and let him walk.
“He’s gotta … rest …”
“Ryder, I have to get you to town!”
“We’ll get there … stop.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
She brought the horse to a stop. They were at the stream with the pretty flowers. “What is it?”
“See that … plant down there?” He said and pointed.
“Yes, but what is it? A weed?”
“Yep, but it’ll help.”
She swung a leg over and slid off the horse. She then picked some of the green leaves of the simple weed. “Now what?”
“Chew some up for me,” he rasped.
Without hesitation, she stuffed the leaves in her mouth and chewed. He motioned her to climb back on. She did and he held his hand in front of her mouth. “Put it … on the wound, Sugar.”
She did. “What does this do?”
“It’s plantain, the Indians use it for snake bites. Don’t grow much by our place … but it does Clear Creek.”
“Then we’re close?”
“Getting’ there …” He slumped against her.
“Ryder?”
No answer.
“Ryder!”
Still no answer. But she knew he was conscious -- he was still on the horse. She pulled her shirt out of the buckskin pants, and bit the frayed end. She then tore a strip off, and wrapped it around his hand to keep the plantain against it. That done, she brought his arms around her waist and held them by the wrists with one hand as she took the reins in the other. From here on out, Ryder was in God’s hands.
* * *
“Irene, that was a mighty fine dinner,” Sheriff Hughes said as he patted his stomach. I couldn’t eat another bite if I tried.”
Wilfred smiled. “Ain’t nobody can cook like my Irene. Don’t know what old Mulligan is gonna do if’n she decides to stop cookin’ for the saloon.”
“I have no plans to stop cooking. I like it and besides, if I serve meals at the saloon the men spend their money on that instead of liquor!”
Sheriff Hughes laughed. “So that’s why you do it? Don’t you know you’re taking money out of Mr. Mulligan’s hands?”
“I most certainly am not!” she barked back. “I’m putting money in! He charges more for dinner than he does for drinks!”
Wilfred and the Sheriff burst into laughter at her serious tone. “That’s true!” Wilfred agreed.
“Help!”
“What was that?” Sheriff Hughes asked. He got up and went to the window. “Great Scott!” he cried and ran from the parlor.
“What in tarnation?” Wilfred said as he also went to the window. “Jumpin’ Jehosphat!” He too ran from the parlor, down the stairs, and into the mercantile.
Mrs. Dunnigan didn’t bother looking out the window. She grabbed her trusty hatchet and followed the men.
Once outside on the mercantile’s porch, she saw what was wrong. It was Ryder Jones and his new wife Constance. She was dressed as a man, a wounded Ryder behind her, and looked frantic. “Help him! Please! He’s been bitten by a snake!”
Wilfred and the Sheriff pulled a half-conscious Ryder from the horse, and laid him on the street. “Quick, get Doc Drake!” he yelled at his wife. She gave him a single nod and waddled down the street as fast as she could to the doctor’s house. Within moments, Doc Drake came running back to them.
Constance had dismounted by this time, and knelt next to her husband. “Please, it’s been hours, you have to do something!”
Doc Drake was young, not much older than Ryder if her guess was right, but she’d heard things about him, stories, and prayed they were true. “Help me get him into the house,” he ordered Wilfred and the Sheriff.
The three men picked Ryder up and carried him down the street to a two-story white washed house where the Wallers’ and Drakes’ both resided. They brought him inside to a surprised Grandma and Doc Waller. “Land sakes!” Grandma exclaimed. “What happened to him?”
“Snake bite, Grandma,” Doc Drake explained. They carried him through the kitchen to a small room built onto the house. They used it as a patient room. “Rattler?” he aske
d Constance as she hovered over Ryder.
“Yes,” she said. “It was in the house.” Her voice was even, void of emotion.
“I’m going to have to ask you to step outside,” he told her. “I’ll call if I need you.”
“Do as he says, child,” Grandma added and took her by the arm. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Constance shook her head. “I can’t, I can’t leave him.”
“Let Doc Drake do his work,” said Doc Waller as he pushed his way into the room. He bent to Ryder and examined the wound, then Ryder himself before he rubbed his balding head and sighed.
“What? What is it?” Constance asked, her voice weary. She felt ready to collapse, but didn’t dare give into her exhaustion.
“Go with Grandma, we’ll take care of this.” Doc Waller struggled to stand, he was getting on in years. He looked at his wife, his expression serious. “Bring me the vile that’s in our room. You remember the one.”
Her eyes widened. “Mrs. MacDonald’s …”
“Yes. Bring it now, hurry.”
Grandma grabbed Constance by the arm and pulled her from the room. Once out in the hall, the old woman hurried up the stairs. Constance followed her. “What is going on? Can they save him? Is it too late?”
Grandma Waller went into a bedroom and looked frantically around. “I know it’s gotta be here someplace!”
“What are you looking for?” Constance demanded as she entered. “Is my husband going to be all right?”
“He ain’t gonna be anything if’n we don’t find what I’m lookin’ for!” She pulled open a few dresser drawers, only to slam them shut. She glanced about the room, then stood straight. “Ah ha! Now I remember!” She went to a small table by the bed and picked up a simple jewelry box, opened it, and pulled out a small vile. “This is what we need! Take this to Doc, I’ll get some water.”
Constance didn’t argue, she took the vile, hurried down the stairs into the back room and handed it to Doc Waller.
“What is that?” Doc Drake asked.
Doc Waller opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and snapped it shut. “Get me some water!”
No sooner had he said it, Grandma came running into the room, water glass in hand. He took it from her and gave her a stern look. “You know this is all we have.”
She nodded. “I know. But what else can we do?”
He nodded as well, and poured the contents of the vile into the glass. “Sit him up,” he ordered the Sheriff.
Sheriff Hughes began to do just that when Doc Drake’s hand shot out and grabbed Doc Waller’s arm. “I’ll ask you again. What is that?”
Doc Waller glanced at his wife, then looked to his young counterpart. “You’re not the only one around here that knows somethin’ about miracles. This here is medicine given to us from a woman who … well … she’s a master healer, and we’ve seen what this can do. Duncan Cooke was poisoned a few years back, and this saved him.” He leaned toward Doc Drake, his voice low. “You know as well as I do this boy is too far gone for either one of us to be of any use …”
Doc Drake swallowed, looked at the vile, and nodded his consent. Doc Waller returned the nod, and stirred the contents of the glass with his finger, turning the water a drab olive green color.
Constance had no idea what they were talking about, and didn’t care. All she cared about was saving Ryder, and if the strange medicine the doctor was mixing would do it, then she was going to make sure her husband drank every last drop.
Ryder, still half-conscious, moaned when Doc Waller brought the glass to his lips and coaxed him into drinking. He spit part of it out, his face a horrible grimace, then tried again. “That’s it boy, drink up!” the old doctor urged.
Ryder drained the glass, coughed, then slumped to the pillows.
“That’s it?” Constance screeched. “That’s all you’re going to do?”
“It’s all we can do,” Doc Waller told her. “Except pray that it works.”
* * *
“Constance!” Eloise cried as she rushed into the Doctor’s parlor. “What happened?”
She stopped short as she took in the sight of her sister. “Good Heavens! What ever are you wearing?”
Constance looked at her sister. Her face was covered with dust from the harrowing ride to Clear Creek, her windblown hair was everywhere about her shoulders, and she smelled like a horse. “Ryder …” she said as her eyes drifted to a small table in front of her.
“What about Ryder? What happened? I just left Mr. Jones at the hotel when Mr. Dunnigan saw me and said you were here.”
Constance swallowed hard. “Men came, I think they were the rustlers. They tried to steal the horses, but Othello escaped them and came back.”
Eloise gasped. “Was Ryder shot?”
Constance slowly shook her head. “No … he got bit by a rattle snake.”
Eloise sat beside her on the settee. “Is he all right? He’s not ...” She put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide.
“No,” Constance said, her voice a whisper. “He’s not. But he should be.”
Eloise gasped again. “Dead?”
Constance nodded. She continued to stare at the table. Ryder was very much alive, but from the snippets of talk she’d gathered from the two doctors, not to mention the Sheriff, he shouldn’t be. But he was, and she wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t gotten him here in time. Mrs. MacDonald, the woman who’d saved Duncan Cooke when he’d been poisoned may have been able to concoct some sort of remedy, and taught the old couple to do the same, but according to Doc and Grandma, they used the last of it on Ryder. If that were so, then what if something else happened? How was she going to save him? What if something happened to one of their children once they had some?
“Thank goodness he’s all right!” Eloise said on a half-sob.
Constance finally looked at her. “He’ll be fine, Doc Waller said so. There’s no need to cry.”
“I’m sorry, but when Mr. Dunnigan said something had happened he didn’t say to whom, and I automatically assumed it was you. I’m so relieved it wasn’t. But I’m sorry about Ryder.”
Constance took her sister’s hand. “So am I, but he’ll be fine. We’re going to be here for a few days though. Doc Waller says he needs to rest.”
“You’ll come home with me,” Eloise told her.
Constance shook her head. “I won’t leave him. I’ll stay here, or at the hotel.”
“Then I shall come see you everyday,” Eloise said, tears in her eyes.
Constance smiled. “I’d like that.”
Eloise nodded, and wiped the tears away. “Penelope will want to know. She’ll be relieved everyone is all right.”
“Not everyone.”
“What?”
“Cutty. They took him along with the horses. I haven’t the faintest idea why.”
“That smelly, dirty man?”
“Yes. He saved Ryder. He cut Othello loose, knowing he’d run home. If it weren’t for him, Ryder would be dead.”
“My word!”
“Indeed.”
“What’s happened to the poor fellow?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Jones?”
Constance looked up. Grandma Waller was standing by the staircase just outside the parlor. “There’s a mighty handsome man in my back room that’s askin’ for some sugar.”
Constance blushed, despite the fact she felt like falling over. She’d not sat still until now, and her exhaustion was taking hold. She pushed herself up, and smiled. “I’ll see him,” she said as she brushed past Grandma.
Eloise tried to follow but Grandma stopped her. “Give them some time alone, child. They’ve been through something fierce.”
Eloise nodded, and sat back down. All she could do was wait.
* * *
Constance entered, took one look at Ryder, and stifled a sob. He looked … wonderful.
“Hey there, Sugar. You don’t need to be doin’ none of that.�
�� His voice was weak, even if he did have all his color back.
“How do you feel?” she asked as she brushed tears from her eyes.
“Tired, probably as tired as Othello. Where is he?”
“Oh dear! I quite forgot about him!”
Ryder grinned. “Don’t worry none. If’n I know Wilfred Dunnigan, he took care of him. He’s probably got him down at the livery stable.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, leaned forward, and kissed him. “I thought I lost you.”
“Me? Nah, ya can’t lose me. I ain’t taught ya how to hunt and eat skunk yet.”
“Ryder Jones, you’re impossible,” she said as fresh tears fell down her cheeks.
“Yeah, but ya love my anyway don’t ya?”
She nodded, “Yes! You know I do!”
He smiled. “Yep, I sure do, and ya know what?”
Her tears were flowing free at this point, and all she could do was shake her head.
He cupped her face with both hands. “I love you too, Mrs. Jones. I will till the day I die. And nothin can ever change that.” He kissed her then, slow and soft, with what strength he’d regained over the last few hours.
He broke the kiss, and Constance rested her forehead against his. “The Sheriff is forming a posse. They’re going after the outlaws that took the horses, and try to rescue Cutty.”
“Cutty …” Ryder echoed. “The ol coot. I hope he’s still alive. I want to thank him.”
“For saving you?”
“Yeah. That and I’d like to ask him a few things.”
“What things?”
He looked at her. “Just things.” He cupped her face again. “How about givin’ me some Sugar?”
She smiled, brought her lips to his, and did just that.
THE END
About the Author: Kit Morgan, aka Geralyn Beauchamp, has been writing for fun all her life. When writing as Kit Morgan her books are whimsical, fun, inspirational sweet stories that depict a strong sense of family and community. When writing as Geralyn Beauchamp, her books are epic, adventurous, romantic fantasy at its very best.
