This Calder Range (Calder Saga 1)

“Do you reckon you two ladies can hold Woolie down while I straighten his leg?” Rusty murmured. “He ain’t likely to struggle much with the two of you lookin’ on. He’d want to show you how brave he is.”

Lorna glanced uncertainly at Mary. “I guess so.”

“You just set the leg, Rusty,” Mary stated. “Lorna and I will see that he doesn’t give you any trouble.”

Rusty uncorked the bottle and filled a tin cup with the liquor. He carried it over and handed it to Benteen, who crouched beside the injured cowboy. While Rusty returned to the wagon to get some rawhide strips and pry off a board, Benteen helped Woolie partially sit up. Woolie gulped down half of it, choked on a cough, then finished it.

“My God, Rusty,” he declared hoarsely as Benteen lowered him to the ground. “You sure that stuff ain’t to kill snakes?”

“Maybe that’s what the label said.” Rusty paused to break the board slat in half with his knee. “Never could read too good.” He waved Lorna and Mary toward the prone cowboy. “Each of you grab an arm.”

As Lorna knelt beside him, Benteen stepped back out of the way. Woolie tried to grit his teeth against the pain and smile at the same time.

“Look at me, fellas,” he called to the other drovers. “I got a lady on each arm. Bet you’re wishin’ you was me.”

Lorna had never seen anyone in physical pain before. It was impossible for her to be indifferent. She was tensing in sympathy for him when Rusty laid the wood slats on the ground beside Woolie’s left leg, holding the rawhide strings between his teeth.

“Hold on tight,” he said through them, and took hold of the left boot.

“I’ll try not to swear, ladies,” Woolie said, trying again to smile. “But I hope you’ll be pardonin’ my language if anything slips out.”

“We will,” Lorna whispered as her hands gripped his arm and shoulder to hold him flat.

Her gaze stayed riveted to his white face. She couldn’t bring herself to look to see what Rusty was doing. Beads of perspiration started popping out all over his face as Woolie clamped his teeth shut. His features were contorted with pain. Lorna wished he’d cry out. His body jerked from Rusty’s sharp pull; then he let out an agonizing groan and went limp.

“Passed out,” Rusty declared. “You can let go of him now.”

As Lorna sat back on her heels, she felt weak inside. Benteen’s hands closed on her shoulders to help her to her feet. She half-turned to him, a little pale. His glance seemed to run over her with disinterest.

“Better get some coffee,” he advised.

When she glanced to see if Mary was coming, her friend was helping Rusty tie the boards tight and straight to keep the leg bone in position. Lorna felt helpless. She thought she had learned to cope with everything that could possibly be thrown at her, yet she’d never had to handle an injury before.

She wandered to the fire, not really wanting any coffee, but she poured a cup anyway. Cupping it in her hands, she drifted to the edge of the circle, away from the silent group of cowboys. It wasn’t her intention to eavesdrop, but when they started talking quietly among themselves, she couldn’t help overhearing.

“I’ll bet Spanish never knew what hit him,” Bob Vernon murmured.

“They say the hair stands up on the back of your neck just before lightning hits you,” Vince Garvey offered, and Lorna felt her blood run cold. A bolt of l

ightning had killed Spanish.

“Yeah, well, there’s one consolation,” Shorty muttered. “Spanish hated the cold. I never liked the idea of bein’ fried myself, but it mighta been the way he’d a-chose.”

“I sure wish we’d a-found somethin’ of the kid to bury.” Zeke Taylor shook his head. “It don’t seem right.”

“Them cattle did the buryin’ when they trampled him into the ground.” Shorty bolted down a swig of coffee as if it were liquor.

Lorna felt sick to her stomach. She turned and stumbled to her wagon, gripping the side and leaning weakly against it. Her hand covered her mouth. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to stem the rising nausea or stifle the sobs choking her throat. She kept remembering the time Joe Dollarhide had told her about the ranch he wanted to have someday, and how eager he had been to become a cowboy. He was just a young farmboy a long way from home. Now there wouldn’t even be a grave to mark where he lay.

“Lorna.” It was Benteen.

She swallowed hard. “I was … just thinking about Joe … and how much he wanted to be a cowboy.”

“Drink your coffee.”

She hadn’t realized it was still in her hand until he carried the cup to her mouth and tipped it to force her to drink. Its bitter strength stiffened her. She brought her gaze up to his face, so lacking in emotion.

“He was so young, Benteen,” she murmured. “Doesn’t his death mean anything to you? Or Spanish?”