by Janet Dailey
The neighing of frightened horses surrounded the second explosion of the rifle. This time the bullet was buried in the frozen beef carcass that Webb had instinctively used as a shield when he’d heard the clicking of the rifle’s lever action. He knew he’d been shot, but shock kept him from feeling any more than a burning sensation in his side.
Defenseless against the attack, Webb knew he had to get out of the corner. He could hear Lilli screaming for her husband to stop. When he saw her struggling for the rifle, a shutter clicked in his mind to hold the picture in his memory. He lunged toward the pair as Reisner pushed Lilli out of his way. The rifle was swinging around to bear down on Webb again when he slammed into his assailant and drove him against the shed wall. He grabbed for the rifle to disarm Reisner.
Something cracked against the back of his head, sending an excruciating shaft of pain through his body. Exploding lights blinded him; then all was blackness.
“Webb!” Lilli gasped in horror as he crumpled to the ground, felled by Franz Kreuger’s blow. She rushed to his still form, falling to her knees beside him. The left side of his shirt was wet with blood, its stickiness reddening her hand when she touched it. Relief quivered through her when she saw he was still breathing, even though it was frighteningly shallow. “He’s alive.”
“Stand avay from him,” Stefan ordered.
She looked up at him, consumed by fear. “No,” she refused in a half-plea, then saw the rifle Stefan was pointing at Webb and reinforced her refusal with defiance. “No, I won’t let you kill him.”
“Come away from him, woman.” Franz Kreuger added his harsh command to Stefan’s and moved to enforce it by taking Lilli by the shoulders to pull her away. “This is a man’s business. It is no place for a woman.”
“No!” She struggled wildly, frightened of what Franz Kreuger might goad Stefan into doing. “You can’t kill him in cold blood! For God’s sake, listen to me, Stefan!” she stormed through her tears, straining against the iron talons of Kreuger’s fingers.
“No one vould convict a man of defending his wife’s honor.” Stefan flashed her one brief look.
“Oh, Stefan,” she sobbed in defeat, forced to condemn herself. “If there is any guilt, I must share in it. He did nothing I didn’t want him to do.” She saw the shattering effect of her confession and wanted to die for hurting Stefan that way. He stared at her, a broken man. And, most shaming of all, the man whose respect he sought above all others’ was there to witness the ultimate humiliation, his wife’s faithlessness.
“You have done this to me?” his voice murmured.
“Stefan, please let me explain?” Lilli asked to be given the benefit of a doubt. “I won’t leave you. I wouldn’t have done that to you.”
“You make of me a cuckold and I am to forgive?” he replied in a flat voice. Then he lifted a weary hand and turned his face from her. “Go to the house.”
Lilli had stopped fighting Kreuger’s restraining hands. At Stefan’s last statement, he let her go. But she made no move to leave the shed, her gaze searching Stefan’s averted profile.
“What are you going to do with him?” she asked, glancing briefly at Webb’s motionless form. “He’ll bleed to death if he doesn’t get help.”
“I don’t know.” His shoulders lifted in an impatient shrug at her continued concern for this other man. “I vill take him to his family.” The decision was difficult for him.
“But there’s a doctor in town,” Lilli argued weakly.
His head came up with a semblance of his old pride. “I do not vish the whole town to know of vhat transpired here,” he informed her coldly. “Go to the house.”
There was no need for him to explain that he was not concerned about the town knowing of the shooting, but rather the cause of it. At this point, there was nothing else Lilli could do except obey him. She paused at the shed door and took one last look at the crumpled body on the straw, her eyes clouded with tears.
Not a single word was exchanged between the two men as the team of horses pulled the wagon through the blowing snow. Metal harness pieces and chains jangled loudly in the cold morning air, wagon runners slicing through the crusty surface of the snow. Stefan Reisner looked neither to the right nor to the left as he drove the wagon-sled into the heart of the Triple C headquarters. In the back of the wagon, the unconscious man was wrapped in a quilt, not having stirred or made a single sound during the journey to the ranch.
There was little activity around the ranchyard. Those that were out and about stopped and stared at the drylander’s wagon that never wavered from its course to The Homestead, the big two-story house rising atop the knoll. Stefan drove the team right up to the front steps of the long porch and stopped.
Showing no haste, he climbed down from the wagon and walked to the rear. Franz Kreuger was there to help him lower the tailgate. Stefan reached and dragged the quilt-wrapped body to the edge, where he hefted it onto his shoulder like a sack of grain. With Franz leading the way, he walked up the steps to the front door and pounded on it with his gloved fist.
From the window in his den, Benteen Calder had already noted the wagon’s arrival and was on his way to the solid wood door, reaching it before it stopped vibrating from the hard pounding. He pulled it open, a frown gathering on his face at the sight of the bearded homesteader and the boots sticking out of the quilt he carried on his shoulder. There was no friendliness in the man’s cold-reddened face as he carried his bundle inside, uninvited.
“It’s your son. Vhere you vant me to put him?” The statement was made in a flat voice, as calmly as if he were announcing he had a rug to deliver.
“My son,” Benteen repeated in shock, his gaze racing back to the boots, which was all he could see of him. But the drylander was already walking past him to the living room.
Benteen turned to follow, ignoring the second man, who also entered the house. Lorna was just coming out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Who was—” She never finished her question as she watched the old but massively strong man dump his quilted bundle on the living-room sofa.
The ends of the quilt fell away to reveal Webb’s bloodless face. By then, Benteen was already there, raging inside at the thought that he’d lost his only living child. Long ago, he had taken the lifeless body of their youngest son, Arthur, from Lorna’s arms. No man should live to see the death of all his children. He heard Lorna’s broken cry, but first he had to know. His hand went to Webb’s throat, seeking a pulse, while his gaze began to travel his son’s length. It went no farther than his blood-soaked left side and the hole in the material.
“He’s been shot.” Benteen turned on the man who had brought him, hard demand mixing with his rage. “Who did this?”
There was no reaction in the man’s expressionless features. “I caught him vith my vife and I shot him,” he stated without blinking.
The explanation that preceded the admission negated any justification Benteen had for his avenging anger. The muscles stood out in his neck as he faced the man his son had wronged, bitterly swallowing his rage.
Behind him, Lorna exclaimed in breathless relief, “Benteen, he’s alive!”
A pain shot through his left side when he heard the hopeful words. He clutched at his arm, and glared at the drylander. “Get out,” he ordered hoarsely.
“If your son lives, tell him I vill kill him if he comes near my vife again,” the man vowed in the same emotionless voice as all his previous pronouncements, then turned and walked from the room with the second man following.
As they left through the front door, Nate Moore and two other curious riders came sauntering in. “What did those two want?” he asked before noticing the body on the sofa Benteen and Lorna were crouched beside. “That’s Webb!” He abandoned his lazy pose and rushed to the sofa. The bloodied side of the shirt had been ripped open to expose the bullet-ruptured flesh around the hole wound and the coldly caked blood. “He’s been shot.”
“The bleedin
g’s stopped, but he lost a lot.” Benteen shot a look at Nate, as if just realizing he was there. “Ride for the doctor, and just don’t kill the horse before you get there.”
“Do you want me to round up the boys to be ready to go after the dudes that did it?” Nate looked at his boss expectantly.
“No.” It was a grim reply.
A frown flickered across Nate’s forehead. “You don’t want me to bring the sheriff back, do you?”
“No!” The second denial was more forceful than the first. “Dammit, I said to get the doctor. Now, go!”
The word was rapidly transmitted to every man and woman on the Triple C in the curiously swift way the invisible range telegraph works. Riders were dispatched to every outstation and line camp on the place, spreading the word that it was not only one of their own that had been shot, but the boss’s son. Ruth was at The Homestead within minutes of hearing the news. All the others gathered at the bunkhouse or the cookshack, their attention divided between the big house on the knoll where Webb lay unconscious and the direction from which the doctor would arrive.
Since none of them knew the details of the shooting or the identity of the other parties involved, speculation was rampant. But there wasn’t a one of them—especially among the older men who had trailed north with Benteen, fought renegades, and battled rustlers to carve out this cattle empire—who didn’t believe there would be some sort of retaliatory response against the perpetrators of this deed. Everyone knew that when someone struck out at a Calder, he got hit back twice as hard. So they waited.
When she heard the jingle of the harness and the whispery rush of the runners attached to the wagon, Lilli wanted to run to the door, but she waited inside, sitting with her hands folded in her lap. Her hair was smoothly piled on top of her head, those damning pieces of straw brushed out. She looked composed and ready to make her explanation to Stefan, but it was all on the outside. Inside, she was a seething turmoil of anxiety, guilt, and torn desires. Her concern for Webb almost blocked out everything else.
It was a long, nerve-racking wait Lilli had to endure. The horses had to be unhitched from the wagon and the harnesses removed and stowed away. An eternity passed before she heard the stamp of his feet outside the door. He walked into the shack and began taking off his winter coverings without looking at her once.
“Stefan, I’m sorry about what happened.” She couldn’t tolerate his condemning silence.
He looked at her once with cold eyes, then walked to the stove. A helpless anger quivered through her at this silent refusal to listen to any explanation from her. It made her all the more determined to give one.
“He brought us some meat. A cow had broken its leg and he had to shoot it. Then he brought it here for us. You must have seen the carcass hanging in the shed,” she insisted.
“I threw it out,” he finally responded in a voice that was flat of feeling. “I vant nothing from him. Let the volves feast on it.”
A whole beef. But Lilli said nothing of the waste, aware that Stefan’s action was a pitiful grasp at pride. “When he found out you had gone hunting, he warned me there was a storm coming. That’s why he went out to look for you.”
“He vishes I had died in the snow.” But it sounded as if he were voicing his own wish.
“Stefan,” Lilli murmured brokenly. He didn’t appear to be listening to her. “He wanted me to go away with him, but I told him no. I—”
“Enough!” he thundered, then just as quickly brought that spate of rage under control. His expression was wooden when he finally looked at her again. “Ve vill speak of this no more.”
“Stefan, you have to understand—”
“No more.” It was decisive and cold.
But his words seemed to signal an end to something else—the closeness that had been such a vital part of their relationship. He wasn’t her longtime friend and companion, but a stranger who didn’t want her to heal the hurt she had caused. Lilli wanted to tell him that he could banish the subject but he could never banish the memory from their minds. Somehow she knew it was hopeless. The years had never stretched so wide between them before.
Benteen had a couple of the boys carry Webb upstairs to his old bedroom. The doctor was taken there when he arrived. He was a relatively young man, a year out of medical school back east. Slightly awed by the size of the house, Dr. Simon Bardolph was a little anxious about his own skills, especially while examining his patient under the intimidating presence of Benteen Calder himself. He’d never treated a bullet wound before. It was an exciting first in his western adventure, but he thought it better to keep that information to himself.
“The bullet passed completely through.” He was a little disappointed by that discovery. If he’d had to probe for it, it would have made a dandy souvenir. “Doesn’t appear to have damaged any vital organs, which is very lucky,” he assured the gentleman hovering on the other side of the bed and tried to make professional comments. “It’s a miracle he didn’t bleed to death, though. The cold must have prevented that.” He smiled at the blond-haired woman who helped apply a fresh bandage to the wound. “Barring any infection, it should heal very nicely. Naturally he’ll be quite weak from the loss of blood.”
“When will he regain consciousness?” Benteen Calder made it a demand for information rather than a simple inquiry.
“That’s a nasty bump on his head.” Dr. Simon Bardolph considered his answer carefully. “He could regain consciousness in a few minutes or a few hours, possibly two days.” And maybe never, but he chose not to broach that possibility now. “That’s about all I can do for him. Naturally I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Mrs. Calder came up beside him, the only one in the room who seemed to understand the limits of his healing abilities. “There’s hot coffee and homemade apple pie downstairs. I hope you will have some before you leave.”
“That’s kind of you, ma’am.” He folded together his black bag and moved to follow her out of the room.
“You’ll stay with Webb, won’t you, Ruth?” Mrs. Calder inquired of the blond-haired girl. “Benteen?” She spoke her husband’s name in a tone that prodded him into accompanying her.
Impatience made the stem line of his mouth appear even harder. He flashed a dark look at the woman called Ruth. “I want to know the minute he comes to.”
“I’ll call you,” she promised and drew a chair next to the bed to begin her vigil.
But it was the middle of the second night before Webb stirred. Ruth had just come into the bedroom so Lorna could get some sleep. She was at his side with the first sign of movement.
“He has a slight fever.” Lorna Calder wrung out a wet cloth to lay on his forehead and handed it to Ruth.
As she laid it on his forehead, Ruth noticed his lips moving. She bent closer to quiet him, then froze as she heard him murmur something that sounded like Lilli. Her gaze jerked to Lorna Calder.
“Is he conscious?” Lorna asked anxiously.
“No. That is—” Ruth faltered. “Do you know anyone named Lilli?”
A stillness came over Lorna’s features. “No, I don’t know anyone by that name,” she denied. Then she gave Ruth a considering look. “I’d rather you didn’t mention this to Benteen.”
“The man who brought Webb here, was he fairly old—with a gray beard?” Ruth asked, feeling the sharp pain of suspicion and trying to conceal it.
“Yes. Why?” Lorna Calder eyed her closely.
“I just wondered,” Ruth murmured and lowered her gaze. Although she had asked how Webb had got shot, Lorna had indicated to her that she didn’t know. At first, Ruth had thought that likely, since Webb hadn’t regained consciousness. But if it was the same man who had brought him here that Ruth knew to be the husband of that young woman Webb had danced with at the Fourth of July celebration, it seemed very possible the shooting had been over that woman.
At some point this year, she had lost Webb and hadn’t even known it.
17
&n
bsp; Benteen, please remember he’s very weak,” Lorna cautioned her husband before they entered Webb’s room.
“I will.” But he was impatient with the minor delay caused by her brief comment. Now that Webb had regained consciousness, he wanted to find out the actual circumstances that had surrounded the shooting. After two days of being gnawed by the old man’s claim, Benteen couldn’t accept it as true. “But there’s some things I’ve got to find out.”
As she opened the door, Lorna gave him another warning look that asked him to stay calm and take it slow. Ruth was sitting on the bed, spoon-feeding Webb some broth. Benteen was shaken by the whiteness of his son’s face. It made the blackness of his hair and eyes and the stubble on his cheek all the more pronounced. An array of feather pillows supported him in a semi-reclining position. Benteen felt a stirring of anger again for the man who had laid low his vital, strapping son.
“Ruth, would you leave us alone with Webb for a few minutes?” Lorna requested.
Benteen needed the time to compose himself and bring his emotions under control. He was trembling, and he shoved his hands deep into his pockets so it wouldn’t show. While Ruth gathered up her tray to leave, Benteen ranged alongside the bed, searching the pale features of his grown son. He didn’t say a word until Ruth had left the room.
“How are you feeling, son?”
“All right.” His voice lacked strength. “I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got a hard head.” The effort of speaking seemed to send shock waves through his head, increasing the pounding pain that fluctuated between a steady dullness and a stabbing sharpness.
“I want to know about the shooting, Webb,” Benteen stated, broaching the issue that had brought him to the room. “I want to know what happened and who did it.”
It wasn’t a physical pain that closed Webb’s eyes. “Forget it.”
“Forget it?” The retort came back fast and sharp, loaded with temper.
“Benteen.” Lorna issued a quiet warning from her position at the head of the bed.
