Blood and Gold
Page 23
Instantly I lost all feeling in the arm and it flopped uselessly at my side, the Winchester slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers, thudding to the ground at my feet.
Above me I heard a loud whoop of triumph and the Apache jumped from the rock and ran at me, a knife in his upraised hand.
But I was in no shape to fight this battle on his terms.
Desperately, I clawed for the holstered Colt with my left hand, dragging it out of the leather by the hammer and cylinder. The Apache was almost on top of me. I threw the six-gun in the air and grabbed it correctly, thumbing back the hammer as my finger found the trigger.
The Apache closed with me and he slashed viciously downward with his knife. I twisted away at the last moment and the blade raked down my left side, drawing a thin line of blood but doing little damage.
Off balance because of his swing, the Apache stumbled into me and I raised my right boot and shoved him away. The warrior staggered back a couple of steps, his face twisted into a snarl of rage, and came at me again.
I triggered the Colt, feeling the gun awkward in my left hand, and saw the Apache jerk as the bullet slammed into him. Hit hard, the man slowed for just a split second, but it was enough. I fired again and again at point-blank range, every bullet finding its mark in the warrior’s body.
The Apache stumbled against me and I pushed him away again. He spun, fell on his face and then rolled over on his back, his black eyes blazing with a mix of hatred, defiance and the lust for revenge.
The warrior raised his head, frantically searching around him, and a hand stretched out for his knife, which had fallen nearby. But he never made it. His teeth bared in an ugly snarl, the breath rattled in his throat and he fell back, his terrible eyes closing for the last time.
I felt no pity for the man and no remorse. I understood what had driven him, because I’d seen the same single-mindedness of purpose, the same desire for revenge, in John Coleman. I did not admire it in Coleman, nor did I in this Apache.
I stepped over the warrior’s body and stumbled down the slope, found my horse and rode away from there. I didn’t look back.
Chapter 27
“It’s too deep, Dusty. Man, it’s gone right into the bone.”
With my good hand, I grabbed the redheaded puncher by the front of his shirt and pulled the man toward me. “Get it out of there,” I said, my teeth gritted against the pain. “Do it!”
I was lying on my back near the fading Apache fire and around me the Coleman hands were gathering their dead.
John Coleman had died without ever regaining consciousness. Including the Kiowa, we had five dead and two wounded—one of them me.
The redheaded puncher peered at the tomahawk buried in my arm. “That ain’t Apache,” he said. “I think it’s Arapaho. Maybe it’s Arapaho.”
“I don’t give a damn what it is. Just get it out of there,” I yelled, my patience snapping.
The puncher took a deep breath—I recollect that he had freckles all over his nose and cheeks—grabbed the ax by the handle and yanked. It didn’t budge, but wave after wave of agony slammed through me and sweat popped out on my forehead.
“Try it again,” I gasped. “For God’s sake, pull harder.”
The man did as I asked, and this time the tomahawk ripped free, bringing with it chunks of bloody flesh and splinters of bone.
I couldn’t stop the wild scream that rose to my lips, and beside me the redhead threw the hatchet aside, dropped to all fours and started to retch. The man finally wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked down at me and kept muttering over and over again: “Oh Jesus. Oh sweet Jesus . . .”
It was a prayer, not a cuss, but whether it was for me or for himself, I could not tell.
For me, the next few hours passed in a vague, whirling blur.
The dark landscape changed around me, from night to day, unshaven faces came and went and voices spoke to me, but, taken by a raging fever, I recollect very little of what happened.
I know we took our dead to Fort Davis for burial and that the sprawling post was a beehive of activity as two full regiments of Buffalo Soldier cavalry got ready to leave in pursuit of Victorio.
I remember a harried young army doctor doing what he could for my arm, and I recall him saying to the Coleman punchers: “If gangrene gets into that arm, he’ll need a lot more doctoring . . . and from a better physician than me.”
There was some discussion among the hands as to whether or not they should leave me at the fort, but I insisted that I could make the ride back to the SP Connected.
After a deal of cussin’ and discussin’, most of which I don’t remember, the decision was made to take me back to the ranch.
We rode into the SP four days later. I was burning with fever, seeing Apaches everywhere, talking to John Coleman like he was still alive, the dead Kiowa stepping out of a swirling mist, smiling at me, a bloody scalp in his hand, hearing gut-shot men scream and the sky above me cartwheeling, the hot sun spinning, never still for a moment.
As strong hands gently lifted me from the saddle outside the ranch house, I heard one of the Coleman punchers say to Ma Prather: “He’s in a bad way, ma’am. Unless somebody cuts that rotten arm off’n him, I don’t reckon he’ll make it much past the day after tomorrow.”
The hell you won’t cut off my arm, I yelled. But I must have only thought it, because nobody paid me any mind.
I woke to find myself looking into the whiskery, whiskey-reddened face of Charlie Fullerton, and this second time was no more pleasant than the first.
“How you feeling, boy?” Charlie asked.
“How . . . how long . . .”
“Best part of two weeks. You’ve been out of your mind, tossing and turning and raving. Been up the trail with Mr. Prather a time or two and refought old battles, lost and won. And you’ve been calling out for Lila, and saying other things about her as well.”
“Mr. Fullerton,” I heard Ma say, “that’s quite enough.”
My arm!
I turned and saw a fat bandage around my shoulder—but the arm was still there!
“Saved it for you, boy,” Charlie said, his face beaming. “Dang me, if’n I didn’t.”
He turned to Ma, who suddenly swam into my line of vision. “Mrs. Prather here, sent a fast rider all the way to Sweetwater for a doctor. When the man arrived, he unlimbered his saw and was all set to cut your arm off.”
“Mr. Fullerton stopped him, Dusty,” Ma said. She sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand. “For a spell there, we thought we’d lost you.”
I turned to Charlie. “But how did . . . ?”
“Well, first off,” Charlie said, stopping me as he warmed up to the conversation, “I put the muzzle of my old Remington against that sawbone’s head and tole him: ‘Mister, you let that boy’s arm be. I ain’t never shot a medical man yet, but there’s a first time for everything.’ Well, that doc taken out of here like a buckshot coyote and I went to work.”
My head was clearing and I struggled to a sitting position on the bed. “How did you save my arm, Mr. Fullerton?”
“Maggots, boy, maggots, hundreds an’ hundreds of them.”
Ma shook her head. “It was just horrible, Dusty. I’m glad you were out of your head and didn’t know what was happening.”
“Maggots?”
“Maggots, boy,” Charlie answered. “See, I was a medical orderly during the War Between the States, and I always noticed how the wounds of soldiers who’d lain out in the field for days never got gangrenous. But the wounds of the poor boys laid up in the hospital most always did. So, I ask you, what made the difference?”
I shook my head in bafflement.
“Maggots, boy. Them soldiers who’d been lying hurt between the lines day and night always had maggots in their wounds. Maggots feed on rotten meat, and that’s why they cured the gangrene. They ate it, boy, they ate it.”
“Mr. Fullerton, that’s horrible,” Ma said, her nose wrinkling.
“
Maybe so, but they saved the boy’s arm, and his life.”
“Mr. Fullerton,” I asked, not really knowing if I wanted the answer, “where did you get the maggots?”
“Easy,” Charlie beamed, “rode around until I found me a dead critter and then collected them. I put five hundred on your arm, Dusty, and covered them up with a bandage. Let them do their work for a week, then washed them off. That tommyhawk wound came up clean as a hound’s tooth.
“After that, I put on some healing salves of my own invention”—he gave Ma a sidelong look—“the secrets of which I plan to keep to myself, no matter who’s doing the coaxing.”
Ma sniffed, and Charlie continued: “ ’Course, you ain’t going to be using the arm for a spell and you’ll have a scar big enough to store hay in, but you still got your gun hand an’ that’s the main thing.”
I shook my head at the cook. “No more guns. I’ve had enough of shooting and killing to last me a lifetime.”
Charlie opened his mouth to object, but Ma interrupted him. “Dusty, there’s someone outside who’s been waiting patiently to see you.”
“Lila?”
Ma smiled. “Lila. I’ll get her.” She gave Charlie a nod. “Let’s go, Mr. Fullerton. These two young people need to be alone.”
I licked my fingers and was still running them through my hair in a vain attempt to smooth it down when the door opened. Lila stepped inside and quietly closed the door after her.
She was wearing a simple gray dress and her hair was unbound, falling over her shoulders and my heart skipped a beat, me just lying there, thinking her the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.
Lila crossed the room and sat on the bed. “How do you feel, Dusty?” she asked, her smile something a man would be willing to die for.
“I’m just fine,” I said. “And I could ask the same thing of you. How is the shoulder?”
“I’m on the mend, thanks to Mr. Fullerton.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. Then Lila said: “Dusty, the day after you got back, Ma and me drove the buckboard over to the Coleman place for Sally’s funeral. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the straw bonnet you bought for her and put it on her grave.”
I nodded. “You did just fine. Sally would have liked that.”
Another silence passed between us. Then I said: “Lila, I want to ask you something.”
“Ask away, Dusty. I’m listening.”
After a few false starts, I finally managed: “Lila, will you marry me?”
Her smile grew wider. “Of course we’ll be married. I knew that the first time I ever set eyes on you.”
“Soon,” I said.
Lila nodded. “Soon as you’re able to stand on your own two feet and say I do.”
“There’s one thing though,” I said. “When we’re on our own place, I won’t be able to walk behind a plow. At least not for a while with this arm.”
Lila stiffened. “Mr. Hannah, this is cow country.” So Ma had finally worn her down!
I held Lila close with my good arm, and she whispered. “There’s just one thing I want, Dusty.”
“Anything.”
“Will you clear me a space for a vegetable garden?”
“Of course I will. I’ll make you the best vegetable garden this side of El Paso.”
Outside the shadows were lengthening, but I saw no shadow of a future parting for Lila and me, now or ever, for as long as we’d live.
I kissed her then, hard and long.
When it was over, Lila rubbed her finger across her top lip.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“It’s your mustache, Dusty. It tickles.”
I touched my upper lip with the tips of my fingers and among the fuzz felt stiff, wiry bristles—the beginnings, I fancied, of a fine dragoon mustache. A man’s mustache.
I threw back my head and laughed.
Me, I was eighteen years old that summer of 1880.
And my happiness was complete.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 9e745c62-eb4e-4cf4-a243-31c079da489a
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 18.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.51, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Joseph A. West
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