He had to get some help. That was all there was to it. And the Dillon place was the closest. Rowlett closed his eyes for a second. He didn't want to bring trouble down on the heads of Polly and her youngsters, but the alternative was to stay out here in the middle of nowhere and either bleed to death or wait for Turner to come back and kill him.
Rowlett drew a couple of deep breaths into his lungs. Nothing to it but to do it, he told himself. He had heard old Drago Tyler say that exact same thing a few times back in the old days. And Rowlett knew the truth of it. He reached over with his good hand, grasped his left arm, and tucked that hand behind his belt so that it wouldn't dangle uselessly and swing back and forth. He gritted his teeth against the pain as he moved the arm and secured it.
Then, placing one foot unsteadily in front of the other, he turned and started back the way he had come.
Chapter 11
Yancy Rowlett had been gone from the cabin for a couple of hours when Andrew suddenly asked, "Ma, why are you humming?"
Polly caught herself and felt a flush beginning to steal over her features. She'd had no idea that she was humming as she kneaded a pan of bread dough. She said, "I suppose I'm just happy we have a nice cabin so that we don't have to live in the snow."
"Oh. I thought it might be because Yancy came to visit us today."
She shot a glance at her son and saw the knowing smile on Andrew's face. He might be only twelve, but he didn't miss much. Jason had always said that about him.
The thought of her late husband made Polly's forehead wrinkle in a frown. There was no denying that Andrew was right. She had been humming because she had enjoyed Yancy Rowlett's visit. Not only that, but she was already looking forward to the next time he came calling. Perhaps it was unfair of her not to have explained the situation more clearly to him. She couldn't receive any suitors until a decent interval had passed since Jason's death. That period of time should have been a year under more civilized circumstances, she thought. But out here on the frontier, she supposed six months or so was long enough.
She wondered if Rowlett was willing to wait . . .
"I really like Yancy," Martha said. She was washing the dishes from their lunch, using a pail of water Andrew had brought from the creek after he had chopped through the ice with a hatchet. The water had been warmed on the stove first before the dirty dishes were put in the pail.
Polly looked at her older daughter, and in Martha’s eyes she saw the same thing she had seen in Andrew's. The affection they felt for Yancy Rowlett was genuine, and while all three of the children had loved their father very much, Andrew and Martha had both been old enough to recognize some of his failings.
Jason had always been too much of a dreamer, too impractical, too unwilling to do the things that were really necessary to take care of his family properly. Those thoughts made Polly feel guilty and disloyal, too, but they were true, she told herself.
Of course, Rowlett might not be much more reliable. From what she knew of him, he was a wanderer, the type of man who never stayed in one place for very long. It would be foolish of her to pin too many of her hopes to him, and she couldn't let the children do that, either.
"I'm certain Mr. Rowlett is a fine man," she said, making her voice sound more acerbic than she really felt, "but I wouldn't get too fond of him if I were you. You might not ever see him again."
"Will, too!" Francie said indignantly. "He said he was coming back to visit us again."
"A man like Mr. Rowlett says many things, dear," Polly told her. "But when the time comes for him to move on, that's what he will do. Men like him have to answer the call of the lonely places." She didn't know from where inside her she had found that rather poetic way of putting it, but the words summed up Rowlett quite well, she thought.
Francie didn't think so. She pouted and said, "I don't understand. He promised."
Polly went over to the table and sat down next to her younger daughter, searching in her mind for some way to make Francie see what she was talking about. After a moment, she said, "You've seen your shadow outside on a sunny day, haven't you?"
"Sure I have."
"Then you know it's there?"
'"Course. I can see it."
"But can you pick it up and hold it?"
Francie frowned at her and shook her head.
"If the sun goes behind a cloud, can you keep your shadow from running away?"
"No . . ."
"But sometimes your shadow is really and truly there, even though you can't pick it up and you can't really touch it."
Francie nodded slowly.
Polly took a deep breath. "Sometimes people are the same way. They're there with you, and then they're gone, and there's nothing you can do about it."
"But Mr. Rowlett is really there. I hugged him!"
"But someday he may have to leave, just like your shadow leaves when the sun goes behind a cloud. The shadow can't help it, and neither can men like Mr. Rowlett."
"I'll be mad at him if he goes away," Francie said stubbornly.
Polly drew her into her arms and patted her on the back. "Don't be mad at him if that happens. But you can be sad when he goes."
Andrew and Martha had been listening intently. Andrew said, "Maybe he won't go. Maybe he'll stay around here."
Polly summoned up a smile. "We can hope so," she said. Then, to change the subject, she asked, "Are you through with those dishes, Martha?"
"Yes, ma'am," the older girl replied.
"Andrew, you take the pail out and dump it, then fetch some fresh water. Take the hatchet with you just in case the stream has frozen over again."
The boy nodded. "Yes, Ma. I bet it hasn't frozen up again yet."
He pulled his heavy coat on, then his gloves and the cap that came down over his ears. The hatchet was lying beside the door. Andrew picked it up along with the pail and went out, pulling the door closed behind him.
The sun was shining brightly, but there wasn't much warmth in it. Andrew emptied the dirty water from the pail, then trudged down the knoll toward the creek, heading for the spot where he had chopped through the ice earlier.
The hole was still there, he saw. He had to be careful as he knelt on the edge of the stream to dip the pail into the water. If he slipped on the snowy bank and fell forward, the ice wouldn't support him and he would break through it. Just the thought of plunging into that frigid water made a shiver go through him.
Some instinct made him look up. At first his eyes narrowed against the glare coming off the snow, then they widened in surprise as he spotted the figure plodding unsteadily across the plains toward the cabin. Andrew recognized the long bearskin coat immediately. It was Yancy, and something was wrong. Otherwise why would he be returning on foot?
And it was more than that, Andrew realized. Rowlett was staggering, and as the boy watched in horror, the big man fell, stumbling and then going down hard. He was close enough for Andrew to hear the groan that escaped from him.
Andrew shot to his feet, dropping the forgotten pail onto the layer of ice atop the creek. He shouted, "Ma! Ma!"
Then he broke into a skidding, sliding run across the snow-covered ground toward the fallen man.
Rowlett was still moving around feebly when Andrew reached him. His coat was open, and the boy saw blood on Rowlett's shirt. The sight made him pull up with a gasp. After a second, he forced himself to go forward again.
Back at the cabin, Polly emerged from the door holding the rifle. She had no idea what was wrong, but Andrew had sounded like there was some sort of danger. She spotted him a couple of hundred yards away from the cabin, advancing slowly toward a huge, dark shape that was lying on the ground. Polly shooed Martha and Francie back inside as they tried to come out behind her, then called frantically, "Andrew! Get away from that! What is it?" She was afraid the thing might be some sort of wounded animal that would attack her son in a frenzy of pain.
Turning around, Andrew cupped his gloved hands to his mouth and shouted, "It's Yancy! He
's hurt!"
Polly caught her breath. Now that she knew what she was looking at, she recognized the bearskin coat the big mountain man always wore. "Stay here," she told the two girls firmly, then started across the snow-covered flat toward Andrew and Rowlett. She took the rifle with her.
She had no idea what had harmed Rowlett, whether it had been man or beast, but she intended to be armed just in case the responsible party was still around close by.
"What happened to him?" she asked Andrew when she was closer. "Is he alive?"
"He's alive," Andrew said with an anxious nod. "But he looks like he's hurt bad, Ma. I think somebody shot him."
There was no sign of the horse on which Rowlett had ridden away earlier. Polly could see his tracks in the snow now, a long, weaving line that stretched to the horizon, and it was obvious he had walked here from wherever he had been injured.
The possibility that he had been shot sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the temperature. He could have run into some savage Indians, or some outlaws who tried to rob him, or . . . or . . .
There was no way of knowing just yet, Polly told herself, and anyway, it didn't matter right now. What was important was getting him inside the cabin and finding out how badly he was hurt.
Andrew was crouching next to Rowlett when Polly arrived at their side. The boy reached out tentatively to touch Rowlett's coat. Polly could hear the big man's breath rasping harshly in and out of his throat. She took a deep breath of her own and tried to control her fear and anxiety. Firmly, she said, "Don't disturb him, Andrew. Here, you take the rifle and go back to the cabin."
"But, Ma, I want to help—"
"This is the best way you can help," Polly cut in. "Hitch up the team and bring the wagon out here. There's no way we can carry him all the way back to the cabin, but maybe if we can get him in the wagon . . ."
Andrew nodded, straightened, and drew back from the wounded man. He took the rifle when Polly held it out to him, then turned and ran awkwardly toward the cabin, carrying the heavy gun.
Polly knelt beside Rowlett. He was lying on his side, and he seemed to be unconscious. She saw the blood soaking the upper left side of his shirt and for a moment thought he had been shot in the chest. Then she realized there was no bullet hole in the shirt and knew the blood must have seeped down from above. Sure enough, when she looked at the shoulder of his coat, she spotted a tear in it, also surrounded by a bloodstain. She was certain he had been shot in the shoulder.
All right, she told herself, that probably wasn't a fatal wound, or at least it wouldn't be unless he bled to death or gangrene set in.
She remembered Jason telling her that more men had died in field hospitals during the war from wounds that festered, rather than from the actual damage done by musket or saber. All she had to do to give Rowlett a fighting chance for life was to get him inside and clean and bandage the wound.
That might be easier said than done, given his size and the fact that she was a lone woman with only three small children to help her. But she would do the best she could, and she knew Andrew, Martha, and Francie would help. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Andrew had reached the cabin. He was busy leading the mules in front of the wagon so that he could hitch them into the harness.
Suddenly, Polly asked herself who had shot Rowlett. She looked up as she knelt beside him, and her eyes anxiously searched the landscape around her. There was no sign of anyone pursuing the big man. Maybe he had killed whoever attacked him. Polly certainly thought that was a possibility. But even if that was the case, Rowlett was still wounded, obviously afoot, and miles from town. He'd had no choice but to try to return here for help.
She gasped as fingers closed around her wrist in a tight grip. Rowlett whispered, "That . . . that you . . . Miz Dillon?"
"Yes, it's me, Mr. Rowlett," she told him, trying not to allow her voice to shake. He had regained consciousness and found her leaning over him, and she wanted to take it as a good sign that he had recognized her. And his grasp, while weaker than usual, was still strong, his fingers like iron as they wrapped around her wrist. That was encouraging, too, Polly told herself.
"Sorry I . . . I had to . . . bother you folks . . ."
"Nonsense," Polly said, forcing a brisk tone into her voice. "You just lie still and rest, Mr. Rowlett. Andrew will be here in a few minutes with the wagon, and then we'll get you inside where it's warm."
"Might be better . . . if you left me out here . . . to die . . ."
"Don't even say such a thing! Can you tell me what happened to you?"
"Ambushed . . . by two men . . ."
"Thieves?"
"D-don't know. I reckon . . ."
"That's all right. Just be quiet now." Polly turned her head and looked over her shoulder. The wagon was coming toward her, Andrew handling the reins, Martha and Francie on the seat beside him. The girls had bundled up in their coats and looked very worried.
A few minutes later Andrew brought the team to a stop and leaped down from the seat. Martha and Francie followed more carefully. Andrew came to Rowlett's side and said dubiously, "We'll have to pick him up, Ma."
Polly nodded. "I know. But perhaps Mr. Rowlett can help us a little. Martha, Francie, you girls come over here and help, too."
They approached hesitantly, obviously frightened by the blood and the knowledge that Rowlett had been shot. Martha asked, "What do we do, Mama?"
"Help Andrew with Mr. Rowlett's feet and legs," Polly said. "I'll get under his shoulders and lift. We'll try to slide him over to the wagon."
Quickly, the four of them got in position. Polly checked Rowlett's face and saw how pale and haggard he was underneath the bushy beard. She was sure moving him would be very painful for him, but there was no getting around it. She worked her hands under his shoulders, got a good grip, and nodded to the children.
With grunts of effort, they lifted enough of his weight off the ground so that they could pull him over the snowy surface and position him beside the lowered rear gate of the wagon. Rowlett's lips pulled back from his teeth, but he didn't make a sound. Once they reached the wagon, Polly said through clenched teeth, "Can . . . can you reach up and grab the gate, Mr. Rowlett?"
"Try . . ." he said weakly. He lifted his right arm. His hand was shaking as he clamped it on the edge of the rear gate. Andrew, Martha, and Francie let his hips and legs rest on the ground again and moved to his upper body to help their mother support his weight.
"Ready, children . . . lift!"
Slowly, maddeningly slowly, they raised Rowlett's torso off the ground. He pulled with his good arm to help them. Polly shifted her grip on him. She couldn't reach all the way around his massive chest, but she circled as much of his body as she could with her arms as she moved behind him. The strain of lifting him pulled at her shoulders, but once again she gritted her teeth against the pain.
Rowlett rose higher and higher until finally he let himself slump to the side and landed on the lowered wagon gate. He breathed heavily as he lay there, half in and half out of the wagon.
"Let's all . . . rest for a moment," Polly said as she tried to catch her own breath. The children looked even more winded.
"Reckon this bullet hole's . . . started bleeding again," Rowlett said.
"Don't worry," Polly assured him. "We'll take care of you. What happened to the men who . . . who shot you?"
"One of 'em's . . . dead. The other one . . . took off riding north . . . He ain't going to bother you none."
Polly nodded. She didn't think her heart had ever before hammered so hard in her chest, not even when Jason had died. The combination of fear and the effort it had taken to move Rowlett was almost overpowering. But every minute he stayed out here in the cold, losing blood, brought him that much closer to death. Even though she wanted to rest longer, Polly knew they had to get him into the cabin.
She didn't think any of them were capable of lifting him again, however. She said to Andrew, "Can you drive the wagon slowly back
to the cabin?"
"Sure. But we don't have Yancy in it yet."
"I'll be all right," the big man murmured. "Just take it . . . slow and easy. I won't fall out."
Polly climbed onto the gate. "I'll sit here and hang on to Mr. Rowlett. Andrew, you and the girls go back to the front of the wagon."
Andrew looked doubtful the plan would work, but he followed his mother’s instructions. Taking his sisters with him, he climbed onto the high seat at the front of the wagon while Polly settled herself on the lowered rear gate next to Rowlett. She took a firm grip on his coat, digging her fingers into the bearskin. When Andrew looked back, she nodded determinedly.
The youngster flapped the reins against the backs of the mules and shouted at them. After a moment the beasts launched into their usual plodding walk. Andrew hauled on the reins, turning the team toward the cabin.
Rowlett's boots dug two parallel trenches in the snow as his legs dragged behind the wagon. The vehicle moved slowly across the icy field and then up the knoll. Polly held her breath just as intently as she held on to Rowlett. She wasn't sure the wagon would be able to negotiate the slippery slope. Rowlett's weight shifted, and Polly hung on with all her might as he tried to slip backward off the gate. Rowlett managed somehow to kick his feet against the ground as Polly tugged on him, and their combined efforts brought him farther into the wagon, stabilizing his position a little.
When the wagon reached the top of the hill, Andrew turned the team again so that the back of the wagon was as close as possible to the cabin door. As the wheels creaked to a stop, Rowlett said, "I can walk, blast it, if somebody'll just give me a hand . . ."
Polly thought he sounded slightly stronger— or maybe just more determined—but either way that was a good sign. She helped him into a sitting position, alternately pushing and pulling, then dropped down to the ground behind the wagon. "I'll help you," she said as she lifted her arms to him.
Wolf Shadow (Wind River Book 3) Page 15
