A Man with a Past

by Mary Connealy

  “He doesn’t know there’s any reason for that.”

  “Sure, he does.”

  Cheyenne gasped and pulled her horse to a stop. Falcon rode on, and she got going again.

  “Did you tell him I—you, that is we—did you . . . tell him?”

  “That a man had some moments of . . . closeness with his big sister? A man who might be married? Who might be as big a sidewinder as his dead pa? Nope. I didn’t say nothin’. But a man like Wyatt wouldn’t want to leave his sister alone with a man in the wilderness. It’d go against his notion of what was proper. But he also probably knows, admits that is, I’m better in the woods than he is. That’d be a real grown-up way to think. You’re better’n him, too. So he takes the easy trail heading for town. Not hard to follow that one.”

  “And leaves the highly skilled trackers to head into the wild?” Cheyenne smiled.

  He noticed she’d done a little smiling here lately, after a long spell of not one upturned corner of a lip. He hoped she’d admit it was because of the son-of-a-sidewinder.

  “I would dearly like to believe my little brother—”

  “Who’s a full-grown man and a top rancher and tracker. Not as good as us, but still has a fine eye,” Falcon interrupted.

  “—is growing up. I like thinking it. I’m enjoying the rising respect for him, and it was already mighty high.”

  “The trail turns off here.”

  “I know this trail,” Cheyenne said. They were headed up. The trees closed overhead, shading them from the strength of the August sun. The scent of pine and rich soil, the breeze ruffling the leaves of oak and cottonwood and aspen, were like a comforting hand sheltering Falcon and Cheyenne. “I love riding in the forest.”

  “Me too,” Falcon said. “I walked through here that week I was wandering.”

  “That must’ve been before I caught sight of you.”

  “I intended to follow the stream that’d carried me along, hoping maybe I’d be able to find out where I came from. But I wasn’t real sure that was the right thing. Sure, I could maybe find folks who’d know me. But I might find trouble, too. I was feeling beaten up from that trip down the river. I spent a few days sleeping too much and eating what I could find until I had some strength back.”

  “This is miles from that stream and miles from where I picked up your trail. You covered a lot of country.”

  “I’m a long-legged galoot. Even with my head not workin’ right and nearly drowned and needing to feed myself with nothing to hand but a knife, I know I came this far.”

  “And you remember a woodsy trail in a mountain full of woodsy trails?”

  “Yep, mighty strange when I can’t remember my own name.”

  “Don’t try and remember anything now. We don’t have time for the pain you go through, and anyway, it’s awful to see. The trees clear out ahead. If Ralston is just flat-out running, if he knows we found his cattle—”

  “Your cattle,” Falcon interrupted again.

  “—found our cattle, he’d have to know we were in there, or someone was. We didn’t put all the boulders back like we found them. He’s making a run for it, but there’s a fine lookout on up the trail. If a man were to stop, keep his eyes open for someone doggin’ him, he’d have a field of fire and we’d have very little shelter.”

  “Unless we leave our horses and go into the woods and slide around, sneak up and get ahold of him.”

  Cheyenne smiled. “Yep, unless that.”

  Falcon swung down and led his horse a few paces into the woods and found a small area, little bigger than two horses, with enough grass to keep the critters content. Cheyenne was tying her horse up beside Falcon’s before he’d finished.

  “Let’s stay to this side of the trail.” Falcon headed out.

  Cheyenne clamped a hand on his arm. “Nope, this trail curves close enough to a solid wall of rock up there that we’d have to step out of cover.”

  “Nice being with a lady who knows her way.” Falcon smiled at her, proud to be in her company. “Then let’s take the downhill side. It’ll be a pleasure sneakin’ through the woods with you today, Miss Cheyenne.”

  The cold look she gave him reminded him of saying Patsy to her. She’d be a partner, but she wasn’t in the mood to be friendly, and who could blame her?

  They walked across to the downhill side of the trail. The trees here canopied the trail, but it was so rarely traveled that the grass grew solid on it, and some small trees peeked through right on the trail.

  Every step was hard work. The trees growing on a steep sidehill were a jungle. There were saplings growing up between ancient oaks, scrub brush everywhere. The ground was uneven, cut by ancient rivulets of water, stones jutting out every few feet. Mostly just animals walked the trail. They’d spent generations finding the easiest way through trackless forests.

  “That’s poison ivy, be mindful.” Falcon pointed to a ponderosa pine, its branches stretched far, weaving in and out of the growth around it. Its trunk was covered with a climbing vine covered with leaves clustered in groups of three.

  Easing up to his ear, Cheyenne whispered, “You remember poison ivy, but you don’t remember your own name?”

  “It’s strange, and no denyin’ it. But there’s nothin’ for it but to go on, manage best I can. Hope my noggin starts working again someday.”

  He pointed to a short tree with long narrow leaves that ran in pretty rows. “And that’s poison sumac. It’ll turn vivid red in the fall.” Shaking his head, Falcon slipped on downhill.

  It took time climbing down. Finally, Falcon stopped, crouched low, and pointed. Up the hill a stretch, maybe a dozen yards, barely visible through a thicket of scrub birch trees, a man crouched behind a waist-high boulder, his rifle resting on top of it.

  “Percy Ralston,” she whispered into Falcon’s ear.

  Falcon tapped her on the shoulder, then jabbed his finger at her, then at the ground.

  A firm nod of her chin, and Falcon slid away.

  He moved like a ghost in the woods.

  No idea how he’d learned it. He figured it was a need for hunting, but maybe he’d been a sneak and a thief.

  It gave him a headache thinking of it. He got down on his belly to stay below the bushes. If he rose up high enough to see Ralston, then it stood to reason that Ralston would be able to see him.

  Choosing every inch forward with care took time. He sure hoped Cheyenne didn’t get tired of waiting for him.

  Smiling at the thought, he could well believe she had the patience of a cougar waiting for prey to walk under the branch. Cheyenne would wait in silence forever.

  Another inch forward, then a foot, then five feet. He was close. Ralston crouched right past this clump of stunted trees. Another slow advance and Falcon knew his time was coming now. He had to launch himself. Strike hard and fast as a red-hot rattler. Oh, Falcon had a gun, but he didn’t want shooting trouble.

  A sickening twist to his stomach reminded him he’d already killed a man in the midst of this. It’d been his knife that did it for Ross Baker.

  Another thing he couldn’t know about himself. Had he killed before? And was this his next chance?

  Made him less partial to Wyoming.

  He leaned forward and to the left. He needed one glimpse of Ralston so he’d know where to jump him. Where was the man’s gun? Where was he looking?

  Leaning out, Falcon couldn’t see him. He leaned farther, then farther yet. Finally, he rose up on his knees, an inch at a time, and found no one.

  Ralston had taken off.

  He pivoted to find the man just as a hard blow knocked him to his back. A fist slammed into his face before he knew what had happened.

  Percy Ralston, the disabled cowhand from the Hawkins Ranch, had a punch like he’d hidden an iron horseshoe in his glove.

  Falcon caught the next plowing fist in his left hand, then pounded Ralston in the face.

  A hard grunt broke free of the man as he grappled with Falcon. Ralston had him dow
n, all his weight on top. He moved with a wiry ease that shocked Falcon at the same time it made him furious.

  Another fist to the face, then Ralston wrenched free of the grip Falcon had on his one fist, and in a flash that hand came up with a rock half the size of Falcon’s head. The rock came whipping down as a bullet blasted it to pieces.

  Cheyenne was on them with a fury. She swung the butt of her rifle into Ralston’s head and knocked him off Falcon. Falcon pounced on him with a drawn-back fist, then froze. Ralston was knocked into a sound sleep.

  Cheyenne leaned on her rifle and looked down at the man. “He ain’t a bit laid up, the low-down scoundrel.”

  Breathing hard, his face throbbing from too many landed blows, Falcon said, “At least he wasn’t before you bashed him in the head.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Cheyenne had a few piggin’ strings with her. She had Ralston bound hand and foot when they heard gunfire from back down the trail in the direction Wyatt had gone.

  “Wyatt!” Cheyenne launched herself to her feet and sprinted down the trail to her horse.

  “Either he is shooting Mrs. Hobart, or she’s shooting him.” Falcon was behind her a half step. They untied their horses and were riding down the rugged, narrow trail as fast as the horses could run.

  No talk. The race was against time, not each other, but Cheyenne was in the lead, and Falcon was keeping up, just barely.

  A tree branch hit Cheyenne hard enough she almost lost her seat. “Look out!”

  Afraid to turn and look back because she needed to be looking ahead to know when to duck next, she heard his horse and hoped Falcon was still atop it and galloped on.

  She reached the trail where they’d split off from Wyatt. Falcon came on just a horse length behind her.

  He’d made it.

  This trail was wider, and they went at a flat-out gallop.

  Wyatt’s riderless horse came tearing up the trail straight at them.

  Cheyenne’s stomach roiled.

  God, please don’t let Wyatt be shot and killed. Please, God. Hold him in your hands. Protect him with a heavenly shield. Please, please, please.

  Never had a prayer been torn from her heart and soul as this one was.

  They’d been separated for a good stretch of time, and Wyatt had gotten down this trail a piece.

  Protect him, God. Please, please, please.

  Then she saw him. Flat on his back. His chest a river of blood.

  Flinging herself off the horse, she skidded to her knees and touched his neck. “I feel a heartbeat. Weak but steady. He’s losing too much blood though.”

  Falcon was there across from her, stripping the kerchief off his neck and folding it. Cheyenne had one, too, and tore it free. And Wyatt’s.

  Falcon yanked Wyatt’s shirt open and a neat round bullet hole—high enough to have missed his heart, but not by much—bled freely.

  It was as if life itself was flowing out of her brother.

  Protect him, God. Please, please, please.

  Falcon pressed the kerchief on the wound; gradually but relentlessly, he pressed harder and harder yet. “I’ve got the blood staunched as much as I can. I’ll lift his shoulder, and you can just feel back there under his shirt for a bullet hole.”

  She pulled his shirt open farther, then slid her hand around to his back, afraid to bump him around at all. She pulled bleeding fingers away from the wound she’d found in back.

  “Yep. There’s a hole in the back of his shirt, too.”

  “Good, the bullet went through. I’ll hold the kerchiefs, back and front, while you figure out how to tie off a bandage. Once we get the bleeding stopped, I’m going to build a travois. Get him home that way.”

  Cheyenne dragged piggin’ strings out of her pocket. “Tie it off with these. I know how to build a sledge, I think that’s what you mean by travois.”

  “Two poles joined over a horse’s shoulders with the other end tied together so we can carry Wyatt?”

  “Yep, I’ll get to work on it.” Her voice was dry as a bone. She had to swallow hard to shut down the tears. Tears were useless.

  “Help me tie this off first. It’s a two-person job.”

  She did her best, hating how her hands trembled. Once the bandage was secure, Falcon kept pressure on the wounds, and Cheyenne jumped to her feet and got to work. She found the best branches she could that were close to hand and set to work, using her horse to rig the sledge that would carry Wyatt home.

  Please, God, please, please.

  She drew the rigging close to Wyatt as Falcon rose from his side.

  “I’m ready to move him. I’ve done all I can here.”

  “It had to be Hobart.” Cheyenne got on one side of her brother. The only person in this world she truly loved and trusted.

  “Probably,” Falcon said, his voice grim, his face pale with worry. He moved so he stood right across from her. “When we lift, we lift together.”

  Cheyenne had maneuvered the travois so the wide end of it was by Wyatt’s head.

  “Move him as little as possible,” Falcon instructed. “We’ll just lift a few inches and walk him right on up.”

  Nodding, Cheyenne gripped the side of Wyatt’s shirt and pants.

  “Can you get him? Is he too heavy?” Falcon’s eyes were serious and thoughtful, as if he were thinking of every move, considering all that could go wrong.

  “I can do it. I will do it.”

  He wanted Wyatt to survive just as much as Cheyenne did. Maybe not out of a deep love and trust, but because it was good and just that a fine man survive a low-down sneak attack.

  “I think the bleeding has stopped, but he’s lost a lot.” Falcon caught Wyatt’s clothes on his side. “Ready?”

  Cheyenne nodded.

  “Lift.”

  They made the shift.

  Wyatt groaned, and his eyes flickered open. “Whaa happened?”

  “Hush, be still,” Cheyenne said. “You’ve been shot. All three of you Hunt brothers have taken a bullet. I hope they don’t start on non-Hunts next.” She thought of Win, also shot. Well, she was a Hunt now.

  “Shot?”

  “Did you see who it was?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Let it be for now.” Falcon cut her off, and she was glad of it, glad he was taking charge. “I can promise you thinking is a hard business, takes more strength than a man has sometimes. I’ve sure enough learned that.”

  Falcon took the shirt off his back, so he stood there with only longhandles on, and twisted the shirt into a rope. He tied the rope around Wyatt, under his arms and to the poles supporting him.

  “It’ll keep him from sliding off and adding pressure to the wound. Do we head for home or Bear Claw Pass? Is there a doctor there?”

  Cheyenne heard the way Falcon said home, and it put strength into her. Steadied her when she wanted to cling to Wyatt, tend him somehow right here instead of adding to his pain by taking him on a long rough ride, however carefully they moved.

  “Home is closer than Bear Claw Pass, and Molly’s a better doctor than the one in town.”

  “I’ve been to Dr. Murphy,” Wyatt put in groggily. “I’d as soon stay away from him and his shaky hands.”

  Cheyenne looked at that chest wound. No bullet to dig out, so that’d let Molly avoid operating. Shaking her head, Cheyenne said, “Let’s go home.”

  They moved at an achingly slow pace. Cheyenne riding the horse pulling the travois. Falcon leading his horse and walking beside Wyatt.

  They passed near the Hawkins Ranch, and Cheyenne said, “I’m gonna signal Kevin and Win that we’re passing.”

  Falcon looked at her, and she gestured with her gun. No sense surprising the man.

  He gave his chin a firm nod.

  She fired into the air.

  A cowhand came running around a stand of trees, gun drawn. A man ready for trouble. Cheyenne recognized his face but couldn’t say his name.

  “Tell Win we’re heading home, and she should come along.” She never l
et up on the slow steady walking of her horse. “We ran into trouble. Wyatt’s been shot.”

  The man holstered his gun as two more came a-running. “She already headed home, Miss Cheyenne.” The man jogged up to look at Wyatt.

  “He looks bad, miss.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe you had oughta bring him into the Hawkins place.”

  Cheyenne considered it. But so much trouble was coming from this direction that she couldn’t stand the thought of it. “A woman staying with us has a lot of doctoring skills. I want to get Wyatt to her.”

  “Did you see anyone riding out from here?” Falcon rarely took his eyes off Wyatt, ready if the bleeding should start up or the ties holding him on the travois should break.

  “Besides Mrs. Hobart, you mean?” The other men were gathering around. “And of course Miss Winona and her husband rode away.”

  Another cowpoke said quietly, glancing behind him, “And that must’ve made the boss mad because he came out and started hollering and sent us all to bring in a herd that didn’t need to be brought in. He wouldn’t let up and we figured him to be hurtin’ ’cuz his little girl got hitched, so we done what he asked, every one of us.”

  “He made me saddle his horse before I rode out,” the first cowpoke said. “He takes off alone on horseback time to time.” Then he said, “I’ll saddle up and ride along with you folks. No one should be out without good protection. This is the third shooting we’ve had around these parts.”

  He didn’t wait to hear what Cheyenne had to say, just pivoted around and took off for the ranch. Two others went with him.

  She welcomed the armed guard.

  They kept moving, as slow and steady as . . . as . . . Cheyenne couldn’t help the thought that pounded in her head. As slow and steady as a funeral procession.

  But Wyatt wasn’t dead, and the things that could be hit right there, heart, lungs, spine, would kill him quick. There seemed to be every chance he’d survive the gunshot wound. But would he survive the fever and what came after?

  Sickened with worry, she focused on keeping things slow and steady.