by Ron Schwab
Once hidden by the pine, Billy did not bother to look back but raced full speed toward the humming sound ahead of him. Upon reaching the stream, he dashed along its rocky banks down the chiseled mountainside, following the course of the stream. Once he stumbled and rolled some twenty feet down the precipitous incline coming to rest sharply against a ponderosa. Another time, he slipped on the sliding shale, and jumped up, only to step off a ten-foot embankment, dropping with a thud to the hard granite floor below. When he struggled up, a sickening pain ripped through his right knee, and he limped noticeably as he charged on ahead.
The terrain became increasingly steep and rugged as Billy made his way down the slope, and now the stream cascaded down the mountain over a series of small falls, perhaps three or four feet in height. Billy stopped momentarily, catching his breath and rubbing his knee vigorously where it had begun to stiffen. He bolted upright when he heard rocks and shale rattling upstream behind him, signaling that his escape had been discovered. Panic-stricken, he ran blindly and recklessly down the slope, sliding and rolling almost as much as he walked. The pain in his knee intensified, and, soon, he was hobbling along, giving ground quickly to his relentless pursuers.
"There's the little son-of-a-bitch," Bear roared, and Billy could make out the dark outline of the hulking figure not more than a hundred feet up the mountainside.
One of the Sioux was loping along at the side of the huge man and leaped ahead, like a mountain lion moving for the kill, when he saw Billy. At the sight of the Indian racing toward him, Billy jumped, feet first, into the icy stream. The torrential water, though only several feet in depth, lifted him like a twig and sent him shooting down the mountainside, bouncing over one small fall and then another. Billy gasped for breath and floundered like a turtle on its back, attempting to regain his balance as the stream's force swept him farther down the mountainside, leaving his pursuers far behind.
Finally, the water began to slow and the falls became less frequent, their drop smaller, until shortly, it almost leveled out. Billy reached out and snagged a limb of an overhanging pine and pulled himself, shivering, from the water, collapsing in exhaustion upon the shale bank. Numbness crept into his feet and hands, and an overpowering drowsiness started to overtake him, but the heightened pain radiating from his knee snapped him back to consciousness, and he staggered up to continue his flight downstream—away from Bear's smelly mouth, away from Lone Badger's probing hands.
The grade was gradual now, and Billy shuffled along the edge of the widening stream, halting momentarily upon hearing a louder, steady roar of water ahead. Quickening his pace, in a short time, Billy limped out on the floor of an immense, broad canyon, and he took on a new burst of energy when he saw his friendly stream emptying into the large, raging creek that foamed and raced along the canyon floor.
Angling away from the stream, he followed the turbulent waters on their twisting journey through the canyon. For hours, Billy stumbled along the creek's shale bank, oblivious to the ghostly whistling of the wind as it tore through the ever-narrowing canyon, and unaware of the eerie shadows cast along the chasm bottom by the towering, jagged canyon walls.
Finally, the pulsating pain in his knee became unbearable and the tremors vibrating through his body became unstoppable. He paused and bent over to catch his breath, took a few more steps, and then he tumbled face down to the canyon floor. Drawing his arms up and under his head, he closed his eyes and fell into a fevered sleep.
19
"GODDAMN IT, LUCY, will you stop that God-awful bawling? It ain't time to go to work yet," yelled the grizzled old miner.
"Crawdad, if you don't shut that burro up, I'm gonna have donkey meat for supper," came a voice from a makeshift canvas tent farther downstream.
"Well, don't crap your pants. I'll take care of her," grumbled Crawdad Logan as the balding, gray-bearded man stomped toward the braying burro about a hundred yards upstream. Mumbling to himself and rubbing his sore, stiff back as he neared the old jenny, Crawdad habitually searched the brush for signs of Sioux.
Lucy had to be nearly twenty years old. She had always been an obstinate beast, but she did not usually raise a ruckus without reason. "You wanna be buzzard bait?" he scolded the old burro as he came up beside her. Lucy cocked her head and, looking at the miner contemptuously, threw her long ears back and brayed loudly.
"Damn you." The old man raised his fist threateningly. Then, spotting the silent, dirty figure sprawled between the rocks not more than ten feet in front of the burro, he exclaimed, "What in the hell—“
Crawdad hobbled over to Billy's still form and rolled him over, running his gnarled hands over the boy's face and chest, seeking signs of life. He felt the gentle rise and fall beneath Billy's bony ribs, and shook his shoulders in an effort to bring him to consciousness but got no response. He lifted the boy in his hard, strong arms and staggered back toward camp, yelling, "Jasper! Get some blankets and get the damn fire goin'. We got us a visitor."
Jasper Johnson, a tall, stringy young man, tossed some axe-hewn pine boughs on the red-hot embers left from the previous night's fire. In a few moments, a crackling, orange flame crawled up the logs and commenced to remove the chill from the frosty morning air.
Crawdad placed Billy next to the fire, and Jasper moved to help him remove the boy's water-soaked clothes. Then they wrapped Billy in scratchy wool blankets, rubbing his hands and feet vigorously as they dragged him still closer to the fire.
Jasper, a beardless man, with a cherub like face, asked, "Where'd he come from, Crawdad?"
"How in the hell would I know," muttered the other testily. "He's in a hell of a shape, that's for sure."
In the meantime, the camp had come alive and other miners, as many as twenty, gathered about the fire to satisfy their curiosity. When Billy failed to respond to Crawdad's ministrations, the old miner was showered with a barrage of unsolicited medical advice.
An unreceptive Crawdad finally stood up and glowered at this audience. "If I want your help, I'll let you know," he said. "Now this here's a mighty sick young feller, but your standing here gawkin’ at him sure as hell ain't gonna make him any better . . . so git." The crowd broke up slowly, and the men shuffled away reluctantly, grumbling as they moved back to their own campsites.
Crawdad and Jasper remained at Billy's side and finally, as the warm rays of the morning sun drifted over the canyon walls, Crawdad noticed that some of the blue was fading from the boy's ankles and wrists, and a tinge of pink was returning to his ghostly white cheeks.
Shortly, Billy's eyelids fluttered, and his eyes popped open. Slowly, he turned his head, looking blankly at the faces of the two miners. Then, with a weak smile, he said hesitantly in a soft, squeaky voice, "I'm Billy Kesterson. . . . I must have got away from the Indians."
For the first time, Crawdad laughed. "You sure did, sonny, you sure as hell did."
20
"LOOK AT THAT swelling," Sarah pointed out unnecessarily to the grim-faced Stone Dog. She ran her fingers lightly over the hideous lump that ballooned out around the tight bandages to expose the brown, clotted wound; she winced. "The infection must be terrible. It's puffed up twice as big as yesterday, and look . . . it's turning black and yellowish around the opening."
It was midday, but Sarah shivered from the cold as a brisk wind nipped around her shoulders and steel-gray clouds hovered over her head blocking the sun's warmth. But in spite of the coolness of the day, big droplets of sweat rolled off Tom's neck and back, and he seemed decidedly weaker. The only encouraging signs since Joe's departure the previous morning were intermittent intervals of semi-consciousness when Tom would interlace incoherent ramblings with nightmarish screaming and then fade again into oblivion. During those periods, Sarah had successfully forced him to swallow small amounts of water to help replenish his dwindling body fluids.
Now, Sarah and Stone Dog cleansed the ugly flesh around the wound. According to Stone Dog, the blood that oozed from the crater like wound was no longer
a real threat to Tom's life; he was not going to bleed to death. The infection was another matter, however. If the fever didn't break, and if Tom didn't take some nourishment, his string would run out soon. Sarah looked at the old Pawnee. "Feel the softness of the swelling, Stone Dog. It has to be full of pus and fluid. If we can't do something about it, the infection's going to spread through his whole body."
"Need to cut out poison," Stone Dog nodded solemnly. He stretched out his hand, gesturing for Sarah's hunting knife. Squatting by the fire, the Indian held the blade near the coals until the razor-sharp edge was red-hot. Then, straddling Tom's back, he pushed the keen point abruptly into the depths of the wound. As the knife pierced the scabby seal, yellow, brownish fluid gushed suddenly from the crevice, and Sarah gagged momentarily when the putrid gas struck her nostrils, causing vomit to rise in her throat. His face impassive, the Pawnee sliced at the rank flesh encircling the wound and, as he probed deeper, chunks of pus, the texture of curdled milk, intermingled with red, fresh blood, flowed from the incision. The Indian scraped and scooped the foul matter from the cavity, hacking away small bits of gangrenous flesh near the surface as he worked.
When he had finished, the swollen mass was totally deflated, leaving a huge indentation in Tom's back, centered by a huge, puckered hole large enough to receive a man's fist. Sarah packed the wound with Stone Dog's Pawnee medicine and then redressed it.
"Now we wait," said Stone Dog. He walked away and climbed down the ledge, leaving Sarah to her lonely, silent vigil.
Tom's rasping, labored breathing eased almost instantly after Stone dog lanced the awful wound, but when nightfall set in, there were still no signs that his fever had broken. Worse yet, Tom had had no further moments of consciousness.
Just before sunrise the following morning, Sarah awakened from her restless sleep as she felt Tom stirring beside her. She sat up shaking her head groggily as her hand moved automatically to feel the back of his neck. She rose to her knees when her fingers told her of the healthy warmth that had displaced the torrid heat that previously ravaged his body.
She started when she heard him whisper in a weak, scratchy voice, "Sarah . . . Sarah. Do you suppose you could spare a drink of water?"
"Tom," she squealed excitedly. "Tom. Oh, thank God." She squeezed his arm and bent over, planting a warm kiss to his cheek. When she moved to fetch the canteen, Stone Dog had already scaled the escarpment and glided to Tom's side.
Tom was too weak to say more, and the black circles beneath his hollow eyes warned that he was far from out of danger. His hard, trim body had already taken on a sickly, emaciated look, and a cursory examination of the wound disclosed that it was beginning to bulge again from the purulence building up from within. With Sarah's help, Tom took a few swigs from the canteen and swallowed a few crusty bits of roasted rabbit washed down with another mouthful of water. In a few moments, his head bobbed drowsily and flopped against his chest, as his eyes closed in sleep.
Later in the afternoon, he gulped down nearly half the canteen, and some of the filmy glaze had left his eyes. In spite of his improvement, Stone Dog decided they would have to drain the wound again. As the white-hot blade penetrated Tom's raw, tender flesh, he felt like he was reliving the nightmarish moment of his injury, and he dropped off again into senselessness.
When he awoke near sundown, however, he was famished and devoured an ample portion of rabbit with enthusiasm, and a healthier glint replaced the foggy, confused look in his eyes. Now, he was alive to Sarah's presence, and his eyes followed her every move about the ledge.
"Sarah," he rasped, "you look tired. I've put you through quite an ordeal, haven't I?"
She moved beside him and knelt down, taking his hands in hers. He liked the natural impulsive way she always touched him, sometimes pressing his hand and, at others, squeezing his arm or brushing his cheek. There was nothing brazen about it; it was entirely innocent and spontaneous on her part. She was just a toucher.
"You didn't put me through anything, Tom," she chided gently. "The Indians did. . . . And I can't forget you wouldn't be here if I hadn't talked you into it."
"You didn't talk me into anything," Tom protested. "I decided for myself I was coming."
"No," she said. "You thought you made up your own mind, but I decided for you . . . you just didn't know it."
"Well, I'm in no shape to argue with you now."
"You're finally learning something," she teased. She placed her fingers softly on his eyelids and pressed them shut. "And now, you need some more sleep." He did not argue.
Tom was awake that night when Sarah crawled under the blankets and snuggled up against him, her arm curled around his waist. Her nearness kindled his passion, a good sign, he thought. "Sarah," he whispered, "is this what I've been missing the last couple of days?"
"It's a cinch you're feeling better," she said, "but I think it's going to be a long time before you're much danger to anybody."
The warmth of Sarah's body gave Tom a relaxed, comfortable feeling, and, as he drifted off into deep slumber, he thought this could get to be a mighty nice habit.
21
TOM FLINCHED AND gritted his teeth as Sarah pressed the keen knife point into his wound. The pain was excruciating, but he was grateful for the relief that came when he felt the acrid-smelling liquid pour from the wound and drip down his ribs.
"Damn it, Sarah, not so hard," he gasped as she squeezed the flesh around the opening in order to force out the residue of pus and tainted juices.
Ignoring his protests, Sarah observed clinically, "There's not nearly as much as there was a few days ago. We'll probably only have to drain it another week or so. The festering seems to be mostly near the surface now. By the way, in case you're interested, Stone Dog thinks you're going to live. I certainly wouldn't know it by the way you moan and carry on, though."
Tom could not figure this woman out. Up until today, she had been all sympathy and kindness, tending promptly to his every whim. Earlier this morning she had started to seem less attentive, however, insisting firmly, that he feed himself. After breakfast, she and Stone Dog had helped him to his feet for the first time, but he had passed out from the dizzying weakness that swept his legs when the searing pain shot through his shoulder and upper back like a red-hot iron. When he came to, Sarah chastised him properly for giving up so easily and announced that he would be walking tomorrow—or he could fix his own meals. Hell, he couldn't even stand; how did she think he was going to walk?
A good ten days had passed since the lance struck him down, and Tom admitted to himself that he was becoming mildly resentful of his dependence on his companions for his every personal need. A southern gentleman was raised with a certain degree of modesty, and he still was not comfortable about Sarah's supervision of his toilet requirements. As he gradually regained his strength, he was increasingly distressed about the whole situation. Several days ago, he had tactfully suggested to Sarah that Stone Dog might be willing to help with some of his more delicate bodily functions. Sarah had laughed and needled, "Oh, you men, you all think you've got something special in your britches. Well, Stone Dog has more important things to do, and I assure you, I find no pleasure in these little chores. No one will be more delighted than I when you can get off your fanny and take care of yourself."
His musings were cut short when Stone dog climbed up on the ledge and, cocking his Winchester, readied himself behind the barricades. "Somebody comes," he said.
Sarah snatched up Tom's rifle and moved beside the Indian. They watched tensely as the trail of dust spun toward the stronghold like a small cyclone whipping through the prairie grass. Finally, the big, dark man straddled on the bay horse and leading a string of horses came into view.
"It's Joe," Sarah exclaimed, "Joe's back! He made it." Dropping her rifle, she scrambled down the rocks and dashed like a little girl to the oncoming rider.
No sooner had Joe dismounted than Sarah flew into his arms, hugging him ecstatically, like a child with a bi
g teddy bear, tears of joy streaming from her excited eyes.
"Sarah," Joe said, "what about Tom. Is he—“
"He's going to be all right, Joe. He's grouchy as a hungry grizzly, but he'll be okay. Now that you're here, we can get some decent food in him so he can get his strength back. Go see him. Stone Dog and I can take care of the horses and put away the supplies. Thank God you're back."
22
THE FRESH PUNGENT smell of new-cut pine cleared Tom's nostrils as the sap bubbled from the logs where the flickering orange flames were just beginning to take hold. They were building up a big fire, he knew, for his sake, risking observation by hostiles in order to fend off the piercing cold that gave him goose bumps as it crept into his bones. A bitter wind whipped sharply against the stone escarpment, warning that a long, cold night was in store for its occupants.
Sarah and the three men gazed silently at the dazzling flames as they finally commenced to consume the too-green wood and shoot higher, bouncing the fire's warm glow off the faces of the entranced observers.
Joe broke the spell. "Well, where do we go from here?" he asked, poking aimlessly with a stick at the red-hot coals beneath the flames.
Sarah answered firmly, "Nowhere. Tom won't be able to ride for days, maybe weeks. We'll stay here till he's fit to ride. We have water close by and now that you're back, we've got food and everything else we need. We can stay right here for a long time, if we have to."
Tom protested, "Just give me a couple of days, and I'll be ready to—“
"Oh, don't be so damned noble," Sarah interrupted. "You can't even stand up by yourself. You're not going to do anybody any good if you fall off your horse out in the middle of God knows-where."
Tom knew he was whipped and pouted quietly as the others planned for the days ahead. It didn't seem like he carried much weight in the camp right now. Evidently, General Kesterson was assuming command.
