This Calder Range (Calder Saga 1)

“This is worse than a pigsty,” she declared in choked disgust. “We’re taking him to the cabin.” When Rusty started to argue, her temper blazed. “You heard me! We’re taking him to the cabin right now!”

Grumbling under his breath, Rusty hoisted more of the burden onto his shoulder and headed for the door. As they stepped out, two cowboys rode in. Vince Garvey and Woolie peeled out of their saddles and came to take Lorna’s place.

“What happened?” Vince demanded.

“He’s been shot,” Rusty answered. “She wants him in the cabin.”

“I’ll get a place fixed for him.” Lorna hurried on ahead.

Even if there had been time to fetch a doctor, there was none for fifty miles. Lorna cleared off the table so Rusty could operate on it and rounded up all the clean bedding she could find. There was a brief argument when Rusty tried to insist she had to leave because Shorty’s wounds necessitated undressing him, but he buckled under at her forceful determination to stay. She sent the children outside with Woolie and did what she could to help Rusty, holding the lantern for more light and dabbing away the oozing blood so he could see. Except for a few nauseous moments when he cauterized the wounds and she smelled the burning flesh, Lorna handled the bloody ordeal quite well.

After his wounds were bound and dressed, Vince and Woolie carried him to the big bed behind the canvas curtain. Not once had Shorty regained consciousness or showed any movement. The pallor of his face seemed emphasized by the whiteness of the muslin sheet.

“It’s up to the good Lord now,” Rusty declared as he looked from his patient to Lorna.

“I think there’s some coffee on the stove,” she said.

“I could use it. My hands don’t feel too steady right now.”

Rusty was lacing his coffee with a shot of whiskey when Benteen walked in. Vince and Woolie had already filled him in on the situation.

“How is he?” he demanded as he walked to the bed to see for himself.

“He’s breathin’,” Rusty answered. “But that’s about all I can say. He was shot up pretty bad.”

“He never said anything at all? Not a word about who did it?”

Rusty shook his head. “He never made a sound.”

Turning from the bed, Benteen crossed to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. Webb had slipped silently into the cabin behind Benteen. He stood on tiptoe peering at the cowboy in the bed.

“Mommy, is Shorty going to sleep here?” he asked.

“Yes, until he’s better,” she replied, aware of the sharp look Benteen sent her.

“But where will you and Daddy sleep?” Webb frowned.

“Daddy can sleep with you and Arthur. I’ll put some quilts in a chair and sit up with Shorty.” She took him by the shoulders and pointed him to the door. “Go outside and play while I get supper ready.”

In the predawn hours, Shorty drifted into semiconsciousness. His mumbling wakened Lorna as she dozed in the chair next to his bed. She moved to quiet him and moisten his dry lips with a wet cloth. Benteen came soundlessly to the bed and leaned over it.

“What happened, Shorty?” His murmured question brought a brief lifting of the cowboy’s eyelids.

“Indians … run off … stock … ambushed me.” The mumbled words were faint, most of them unintelligible, but Benteen got the gist of the story.

“Indians.” Lorna looked at Benteen with vague alarm. They’d stolen cattle before, but there had never been any attack on the men.

Shorty curled his fingers into Benteen’s shirt. A bewildered frown clouded his pain-filled expression. “… thought … white man … with them.” He closed his eyes tightly. “… must have been … wrong.”

“Sssh.” Lorna became concerned that it was taking too much of his strength to talk and firmly took his weakly clutching hand from Benteen’s shirt. “It’s all right, Shorty. You just rest.”

There was a slight nod as he seemed to relax. She smoothed the covers over him, then turned to Benteen.

“What do you suppose he meant about the white man?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he muttered with grim impatience. “He shouldn’t have gone after them alone, but you can’t tell Shorty that. He’d take on an army to prove he’s as big as anyone else.”

For five long days and nights Lorna nursed him through fever and bouts of delirium. There were times when Shorty became violent and Benteen had to hold him down to keep the wounds from being ripped open. Lorna fed him broth when he was conscious and force-fed it to him when he was not. But Shorty managed to pull through the worst of it. Rusty declared that the cowboy was too damned ornery to die.