He surveyed the desert around him in all directions. No sign of Orlander and his men. No sign of water either, or a road. The Rockies lay to the west, and the sun dangled just above Pikes Peak. He had maybe two hours before darkness erased the world.
He wiped the grime and sweat out of his eyes and slid off his horse, careful not to put weight on his right leg. Every muscle ached, but his thigh screamed in renewed pain at his movement. No denying it—he was bad hurt.
“Arrrgh,” he ground out as he gingerly pulled the stuck cotton of his trouser away from his wound. There wasn’t much he could do about the ball in his thigh—not without water. He pulled down his saddlebags, rummaged through, and took stock of the contents. Just as he figured—not a drop in his canteen and not a crumb of food. At least Dakota found the spare tufts of buffalo grass appealing.
May as well rest a spell. He hobbled over to his straying horse, undid the cinch, threw the stirrup over the seat, and pulled the saddle down to the ground in an explosion of dust. He slid the headstall off his mount and set it next to the saddle. He knew his horse wouldn’t wander far. Brett was hungrier than sin, but the thought of expending an ounce of effort to hunt down some game on this godforsaken prairie wearied him. Afar off he thought he could make out some prickly pear. That’d give him something to wet his throat. But first he had to do something about his leg.
He ripped an old nightshirt into strips, then tore away the bloodied section of his trouser leg, exposing the wound. It was festering something bad with all the sweat and dirt and blood making an ugly paste two inches from his knee.
Shadows crawled along the ground as the sun snagged in the peaks of the Rockies. Ground owls hooted in their holes, and the air droned with insects. Brett blew out a frustrated breath. He didn’t dare chance an infection that would cost him his leg. He’d seen a man with a gangrened foot once. It was uglier than sin, and the poor fella died before he could get the foot cut off.
Crimany. I don’t want to end up short a leg. He bit down on his lip as he limped over to the saddlebags and pulled out his cartridge belt. He found his knife and flint box and set to work. It took him only moments to get a small fire going of tinder and dried tumbleweed branches. He held the knife tip in the flames for a minute, then searched around until he found his leather quirt.
Dakota lifted his head at Brett’s activity, then, with a snuffle, went back to foraging, content for the moment.
He hoped the horse wouldn’t bolt when he screamed.
Brett plopped down in an ungainly fashion next to his little fire, then positioned himself, knowing nothing he did would prepare him for the pain. He stuffed the wooden end of the quirt between his teeth and clamped down. Then, sucking in a breath, he poked the tip of his knife into the hole in his leg.
His shriek was muffled by the mouthful of leather as he fished around in the pulpy mass of flesh until he located the lead. Salty sweat poured into his eyes as he choked back the bile erupting in his throat. Not wanting to prolong the agony, he dug in and popped out the ball, then arched back in a grimace of new pain that shot through his thigh.
He spit out the quirt and panted hard, snorting out breaths as his shaky hands loosened the strings on his pouch of gunpowder. Stretching out his shaking leg, he dabbed at the blood oozing from the hole, then, when it abated, he sprinkled a thin layer of the black powder on the wound.
He clenched his eyes as ripples of pain washed over him, then, when he’d caught his breath, he pulled out a glowing piece of tumbleweed branch and touched it to the powder.
It flamed up in a hiss, and Brett squinched at the new eruption of pain as the wound was cauterized. He spit into his bandana—on the end that had the least grime—and used that to snuff out the fire on his leg, though it did nothing to soothe. He wished he’d brought along a bottle of whiskey. But this would have to do until he could get to a town.
He’d spent many a night on open rangeland. And many a night alone. The Front Range didn’t scare him, and there was nothing around he couldn’t handle, now that the threat of Injuns was mostly gone.
Times sure had changed. Weren’t all that many years ago when a body might ride in any of the cardinal directions across the plains and end up getting scalped or killed. But now they were gone—like the buffalo—herded off to Oklahoma—the Pawnee and Sioux and Cheyenne. The big complaint among ranchers now were the “grangers”—the emigrant farmers coming from the east and south, homesteading and crowding out the wide-open spaces such that the large cattle herds could no longer roam. That newfangled barbed wire was a pox on the freedom of ranchers who’d once ruled the West.
Brett had spent most of his life as a cowpuncher, riding on the open range in Texas and down into Mexico territory. He wondered if the life he led would presently vanish along with the buffalo. And then what would he do?
His long-held dream of owning his own horse ranch wavered like a mirage on the horizon, always out of reach. An impossible dream.
Well, at the moment, his worries and dreams seemed a mite insignificant. With darkness collapsing on the plains, and his leg throbbing and swollen, he brooked no hope of heading over to that patch of prickly pear. He hoped the buffalo grass would slake Dakota’s thirst for now.
By the time he fetched his bedroll and fed the fire, which sent sparks sputtering into the dusky sky, exhaustion hit him like the flat edge of a frying pan. He thought about hobbling the horse, but just the idea made his eyelids heavy. With a rumbling stomach and mouth as dry as chalk, he pulled his wool blanket around him as the cool of night drifted across the Front Range and fell into a hard sleep.
***
Brett threw off his blanket, feeling as if someone had set him afire. An angry sun blazed overhead, scorching his face and neck. He moaned at the slightest movement, his leg also aflame. After struggling to sit upright, he winced at his swollen thigh, red and ugly, but was relieved to see it wasn’t discolored much or festering with pus. His head spun madly as he lifted it with some effort and looked around.
Dakota nickered at his movement and walked over to him with his head hanging and eyes imploring.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s time to go. We need to find water.” He reached up and stroked the stallion’s muzzle, then tried to get to his feet. The pain was manageable, but he could hardly put any weight on his leg. Worse though was the pounding in his head. He’d been lying in the sun too long, he thought, then felt his forehead—hot as a furnace, and sweat trickled down his neck. In the glaring sunlight he could just make out the mountains to the west. At least he had a general notion which way was north.
It took all his strength to get the saddle and gear back up on Dakota’s back. After tightening the cinch, he managed to swing up in the saddle, though he was glad no one was around to see his pathetic effort. He nearly tumbled over the off side of the animal, then had enough presence of mind to straighten before falling to the ground. Why’d he slept so long, he couldn’t figure—unless he had a fever. His head sure felt like someone squeezed it in a vise.
With reins loosely in hand, he urged Dakota forward, but the horse resisted moving faster than a snail. Heat bore down on man and beast alike, and the ground sweltered and seemed to undulate under the oppressive ball of fire overhead.
Rattle your hooks, Cowboy, or you’re gonna die out here. He kept straining to see across the miles of high desert, searching for some sign of water. Those prickly pears he thought he’d seen eluded him. The only vegetation around was creosote, and while the stems and leaves made a good tea for cramps and colds, the plant was worthless as a source of food.
Dakota stumbled along in the blazing heat, and Brett nodded off over the saddle horn. He tried to keep his eyes open but grew langourous as the day dragged on. Every so often he heard a hawk cry, but aside from the occasional moan of the wind, the desert was silent and bleak. He knew if he kept north he’d bisect a river. The Big Thompson ran down from the hills across the plains, and above that the Platte. There was no chance he’d miss some piece of wat
er if he kept north.
But when he lifted his head after dozing off again, he craned to see around him and get his bearings, only to have his breath hitch when he realized the Rockies were dead set behind him. How long his horse had been wandering east, Brett had no clue. But the day was fast slipping away, and water seemed no closer than it had yesterday, when he’d been shot.
He could hardly swallow, and his lips were chapped and swollen. His head now felt like a ball of fire as hot as the sun. Dakota, feeling him stir, came to a stop and refused to take another step. He felt bad for the horse but worse for himself. He could barely open his eyes, and his leg sent sharp pangs up into his stomach with every slight movement.
He toppled from the saddle to the ground, landing on his back. Rest. Just a bit of shut-eye, and I’ll be right as rain.
He pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes to block the sun and fell into a hard, deep sleep. When he next woke, the sun was peeking over the eastern horizon, bleeding colors of peach and pink across the flat land.
The sight confounded him. What was the sun doing in the east? Had he somehow slept through another night? What day was it? He’d lost track of the time, and hardly recalled where he was. Colorado, he thought. Where was his horse?
He stumbled to his feet, his head as heavy as an anvil, and hot and throbbing with searing pain. He could barely stand on his wobbling legs, weak as he felt and in desperate need of water. There—he spotted the stallion over by a dry gulley, his head hanging in misery. Brett felt like an utter fool for getting ’em both in this predicament.
With renewed anger—at himself and at that Orlander kid—he stumbled over to the horse and pulled the reins down over his head. He’d left the poor animal saddled all night. How could he have done such a thing? Dakota turned his head and gave Brett a half-pleading, half-surrendered look.
“I know, but we gotta keep moving, fella.” Brett clucked his tongue and got the horse walking alongside him, and together they headed north once more, a cool morning breeze tickling at Brett’s ears. He knew, though, as soon as the sun lifted off the horizon, the day would turn hot once more. They needed to make good time before too long. Still, there was nothing promising to the north—or in any direction. No sign of a road or trail, no buildings or copses of trees. No water.
Suddenly, Brett saw movement out of the corner of his eye and spun left. He’d nearly stepped on a rattler. Now that would make good eating. He could just crush the thing with a rock, skin it, and cook it over a fire. Just the thought made his mouth water something fierce.
But as Brett pulled Dakota back away from the snake, the horse sidestepped and faltered, then went crashing to the ground with a wild and frantic screech of pain.
Brett lunged to the dirt, reins still in hand, and met his eyes with the horse’s wide, terrified ones. Dakota thrashed and squealed, trying to get upright, flailing legs and hooves. Brett scrambled to get out of his way, figuring the horse’s panic was due to his dehydration and unsteadiness.
But then he saw Dakota’s left rear leg.
Anguish strangled Brett’s throat. The cannon bone was snapped clean in half, the sharp bone protruding through the brown hide. The horse must have stepped into an owl hole or prairie dog burrow when he backed up.
Oh, Dakota. Oh, no. Brett couldn’t help himself. Tears poured down his face as he watched the pinto scream and kick. His pal, his loyal pal. It wasn’t fair. It was all his fault.
He kicked hard at the ground, cursing the day he was born. Cursing the desert and his rotten luck. Maybe he was getting his just deserts. But why did Dakota have to be the one to pay the piper?
Swallowing back tears and swiping the dirt from his eyes, he made his way carefully over to Dakota’s flank, muttering soft, comforting words. All lies.
“That’s all right, you’ll be fine, I’ll take care of you, just take it easy, quiet now. Easy, fella.”
His faithful trusting horse panted in short bursts of pain but eased off his squirming as Brett laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled out his Colt pistol from its holster.
Taking a deep breath, Brett hardened his face against the sorry duty now laid upon him and cocked the trigger. He met Dakota’s pained gaze.
His aim was steady and true—he at least owed that to his horse. The ball of lead shot straight into the side of Dakota’s head, below the ear, killing him without delay. Smoke from Brett’s gun rose into his nose, the acrid smell making him choke up. His ears rang.
Brett stood still, unblinking, staring at his lifeless horse, his heart empty and his soul numb. Then he wiped his face with the back of his hand and set about the task at hand. He worked efficiently, his head pounding and his leg screaming in pain, and managed to slide the saddle off Dakota. The bridle he placed inside the saddlebag, which he slung over his shoulder. Why he thought he could haul the thing across the desert, he had ’airy a clue. But he didn’t cotton to the notion of leaving it here alongside his horse. And he sure wasn’t going to leave his saddle for some no-good granger to find.
With a lump aching in his throat, Brett heaved the saddle into his arms and shifted the weight until he could stand. On a good day, hauling a saddle and toting saddlebags full of gear and a rifle would stretch a man’s strength. But this was far from being a good day. In fact, it was turning out to be one of the worst days of Brett’s life. And that don’t say it by half.
Brett flashed on his ma’s pretty face, all bruised and swollen.
Well, this wasn’t the worst day, not by a long chalk. But it sure as heck wasn’t the best either. He sent a silent good-bye to Dakota, thinking on how the animal had deserved better—much better. Brett wanted to scream, but he’d lost his words in the dust and heat.
He took a look-see around him. The Rockies lay to the west, mocking him with their peaks of white snow, promising waters flowing in cascades down the sides of the mountain. To the north and east lay more desert. To the south, nothing but trouble.
The sun was warming the land. Already sweat beaded on Brett’s forehead. With a heart as heavy as his load, he set off, one foot after the other, keeping his hat brim down to block out the glare, keeping his thoughts few and corralled so his eyes didn’t well up with tears. Weak, weary, thirsty, peckish, and in pain, he trudged on—because he had no other choice.
Chapter 3
Angela dropped the heavy carpetbag at her feet and looked around her in the late-afternoon glare. A few other travelers exited the train car behind her at this small, unassuming station that shared no resemblance to Grand Station in New York. A simple wooden sign with “Greeley” painted in large green block letters nailed to the railway station house greeted her. She’d caught glimpses of the modest wood-sided houses as the train pulled into town, many whitewashed with planked porches and garden plots hugging the structures, jumbles of colorful blooms trailing up railings and spilling out of earthen pots on porch steps.
Five days sitting in a rocking, jostling, smoke-filled railcar left her grimy and sticky and in need of a hot bath. Every muscle felt stiff and sore, and though the thin dry air invigorated her as she breathed deeply, her heart still weighed heavy from her worries and misgivings.
At each stop along the route she’d considered turning back and catching the next train east. But then she’d reminded herself that whether she returned with or without a violin, the same fate awaited her. She’d come to one clear conclusion, though. Before journeying back to New York, she would inquire of her zia Sofia if she could live with her. Temporarily—until she could assess whether it would be safe to return to her apartment under her father’s harsh hand. If she could pass that audition with the philharmonic, she might be able to afford her own small apartment and see her dream realized. Oh, how she longed to play alongside such masterful musicians as Joseph White and Eugenia Pappenheim. The thought sent a shiver of yearning through her.
The first time she’d seen Miss Pappenheim play, Angela had been thirteen. Her widowed aunt, after giving her the violin for her
birthday, had surprised her the next day by showing up in her fancy carriage and carrying a beribboned box that held the most beautiful dress Angela had ever seen. On their evening out, the two of them had sat in a private box and watched the orchestra play Haydn’s Symphony in E Flat Major, with the conductor punctuating the music with his white baton held in his gloved hand. And while the swell of all the instruments had transported her to some heavenly realm, it was the solo violinist’s bowing that sliced open her world as if with a shimmering knife.
Angela had never heard such divine music. From that moment forward, she knew that nothing else would ever come close to bringing such deep-seated joy and peace to her heart. She determined she would devote all her time, energy, and heart to mastering the violin so that one day she could coax such ethereal music from an instrument in her hands.
As Angela stood on the splintered and weathered planks of the railway station, she closed her eyes and let her resolve and the memory of the melodic cadences of the Haydn symphony envelope her. Calm seeped in and filled her every pore, and a smile lifted her lips.
She had arrived, and a violin—and her future—awaited her here, in this unremarkable Western town. She had come this far—taken this hard step. Best to push aside thoughts of her parents and New York and take another step.
Yet, another concern rose in her mind—how far her savings would stretch. Mr. Fisk had assured her she would be able to purchase a quality instrument with the money she’d budgeted, but that left little for accommodations and food. She hadn’t expected such high prices for meals on the train and so had subsisted on mostly toast and eggs, skipping the more pricey dinners. Her unappeased stomach grumbled in complaint even now as she took bag in hand and walked over to the street. Surely, if she purchased food from a grocer’s and conducted her business expeditiously with Mr. Fisk, she could soon be on her way back to New York with a few coins left in her purse.
Small rickety shops lined wide Eighth Avenue—a general store, a blacksmith’s, a haberdashery, and a mercantile—many with flat wooden awnings covering wide boardwalks. Along the next block of mostly one-story shabby buildings she noted a druggist’s, and then her eye caught on a larger corner building bordering a church sporting a bell tower at its peak—The Greeley Opera House.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 3
