Raw Land (21 page)

Milt rode up and dismounted and said, “Come over here by the fire.”

Becky went over, and immediately, from upriver, she heard the sound of someone walking.

Will Danning stepped into the circle of firelight, a slow smile breaking his wolf-hungry face.

He greeted Becky quietly and looked at Milt. “Good thing you came, fella, or I'd be eatin' my boots.” He looked sharply at Milt. “You're changed, Milt.”

“Solitude,” Milt said, scowling.

A fleeting frown crossed Will's face as he saw how a week of soft living, of drinking, of eating had changed Milt. There was the faint suggestion about him now of the way he used to be—stocky, well-fed, with pallor in his face. And then Will looked at Becky.

She was hungry for a sight of him, but these days had made a difference in him, too. He looked like the men who had come off roundup—saddle-worn and weary and gaunted with sleepless nights and fourteen hours of riding. His shirt and Levis were faded-looking and worn, and a black stubble of beard seemed to further lean his cheeks.

They regarded each other with troubled understanding, both of them remembering the night Will had taken leave.

“Anything wrong, Becky?” Will asked. Becky nodded mutely toward Milt, and Will said immediately, “He knows what I know, Becky. There are no secrets.”

Becky sat by the fire, and Will hunkered down on the other side of it. Milt, a faintly sardonic expression on his face, watched Becky.

“Dad has kicked Pres off the place,” Becky began.

She didn't expect to see Will smile, but he did. “I thought he would,” Will remarked.

“Why? Did you know about Pres's rustling?”

“I did the rustlin',” Will said.

“Then Pres told the truth!”

Will nodded. Milt, his gaze intent, watched Becky as she told the story of her father's quarrel with Pres. She finished by saying, “And I'm afraid now, Will, terribly afraid.”

“That Pres will do somethin' to your dad?”

Becky nodded.

Will shook his head. “He's got to keep your dad safe, Becky. If the deed to my spread is in your dad's name, then Pres wouldn't dare to make trouble right away. He won't get any money out of it if he does.”

“But I know Dad won't do anything with the Pitchfork now, Will. He's stubborn. If he thinks it'll help Pres, he'll let the house rot and pay taxes for the next twenty years and not touch it. And Pres will get tired of waiting.”

Will looked at her levelly and said, “Sure he will. He'll make trouble, too.”

“But—” Becky stopped talking, sudden knowledge flooding into her eyes. She nodded slowly and said, “That's what you want, isn't it?”

Will nodded. “I told you.”

“And you won't do anything to change it, will you?”

Will shook his head. They looked at each other in troubled silence, Milt watching them.

And then it happened.

Crack!

The sharp, flat slap of a rifle broke the night. Will spun around and fell sprawling by the fire. Becky screamed. Milt lunged to his feet, kicked out the fire, and whipped out his six-gun. He emptied it at nothing, and then they listened. The sound of a galloping horse faded, and then there was silence.

“Will!” Becky said. She ran toward him and knelt by him.

“I—it's nothin',” Will whispered. “In the leg.”

“Milt, build up a fire!” Becky ordered swiftly.

“But they'll see us!”

“If you'd made sure they weren't following us, this wouldn't have happened!” Becky flared. “We've got to see if he's hurt. Hurry, now!”

Milt gathered the coals, and Becky was silent, still. She listened to Will's breathing, and knew he was in pain now, after the numbing shock.

When they had light again, Becky looked at Will's leg. His Levis were soaked with blood, and Becky glanced at his face. He was smiling wryly, his lips tight over his teeth. Becky borrowed Milt's knife and cut away the Levis leg. The wound was high in his thigh, and the bullet had gone clear through, just missing the bone. A small purple-mouthed depression in those muscles was welling a small stream of blood. The exit of the bullet was larger, the flesh jagged and torn, and this was the wound that was bleeding freely.

Becky bandaged it tightly with the clean shirt Milt had brought in the sack of grub. When she was finished, the blood was already seeping through the bandage.

“Help me up,” Will said.

“You've got to lie still, Will,” Becky protested.

“And let them come back and finish the job? No, I've got to get out of here—if I can ride. Help me up, Milt.”

Milt helped him to his feet. Becky watched Will's face and saw it slowly drained of color. Tentatively, he tried to flex his leg, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. He leaned on Milt's shoulder.

“Put me down and gather my stuff, Milt, and saddle up for me.”

“But you can't!” Becky protested.

“I've got to,” Will said stubbornly, his gray eyes bright with pain. “I don't aim to lie here and let them shoot me!”

“Where will you go?”

Will didn't answer. He didn't know. The Pitchfork was out; whoever shot him would look there first for him. There were other caves in the brakes but none close to water.

Milt said, “We could go back farther in the brakes, Will.”

Will said flatly, meaningly, “You're goin' back to the place and stay there, Milt.”

“But you can't stay alone,” Becky said.

The three of them were silent, baffled. A wounded man was hard to hide, and beyond that, Will had to have attention, and Becky knew it.

“Why can't Milt take care of you?” she asked.

“I'm all right!” Will said angrily. “A couple of days and I'll be all right. Besides, he has to stay at the place!”

Becky didn't understand, but she knew Will was too stubborn to give in. And then she thought of something.

“Will, I know a place!” And then the excitement faded out of her eyes as she added, “Only it's too far.”

“Where?” Milt asked.

“Our line camp, the piñon line camp. Dad ordered roundup yesterday. Today they've pushed all the stuff past the piñon line camp down into Sinking Valley. From there, they'll move west. Oh, if we could only reach it! Nobody would bother you there.”

“I can reach it,” Will said.

“But you can't! Your leg is—”

“I can make it,” Will said angrily. “I've got to make it. Put me down and saddle up, Milt.”

Milt put him down. The wound was slowly bleeding now, soaking the bandage. Becky knelt by him and said softly, “Will, it'll kill you! You can't do it!”

“I'll make it there. Leave me water and grub and I'll be all right.”

“You need a doctor.”

Will shook his head and said bleakly, “Docs are people, Becky. He'll take care of my leg, but there's nothin' to keep his mouth shut. No. No doctor.”

Becky learned the will of the man then. She knew he would get on his horse and try to make the line camp, and that it would probably kill him. She also knew she couldn't stop him.

Milt came up with Will's horse and his own and Becky's. Becky held Will's horse, and Milt helped him over to it. Will was sweating; the muscles along his jaw were corded with the effort. He grabbed the horse's mane with one hand, the horn with the other, and then paused. It was his hit leg which he would have to swing over. He gathered himself up; putting his foot in the stirrup, he hoisted, swinging his leg. It hit the cantle and then slid over, and when he settled into the saddle a small groan escaped him. Head hung, fists grasping the horn until the knuckles were white, he sat there, breathing deeply, slowly. When he looked up, his face was wet with perspiration. He said in an altered voice, “We'd better hurry.”

It almost broke Becky's heart to watch him, and she turned away. Milt gathered up Will's blankets and guns, strapped the grub on his saddle, and they rode off in the dark.

“How is it, Will?” Becky asked softly.

“Fine.” It was spoken in a small, breath-held voice, as if he were afraid anything, even the sound of his voice, would start the blood flowing in a torrent.

These were the most dismal hours Becky was ever to know. As the long night wore on, Becky was almost frantic with worry. She cursed Milt Barron in her heart. She hated him and she hated herself, for if either of them had not been so careless they would have discovered they were being watched back at the spread. And who had shot Will? Anyone could have, any of Phipps's deputies, any bounty hunter, Pres, or even her father. There was no use puzzling over that, for it was done.

Will didn't talk. When Becky looked at him the few times he was sky-lined on one of the ridges in the brakes, he was holding onto the saddle horn with both hands, his head low on his chest. Once, when Milt lighted a cigarette, she glanced down at Will's leg. It was brown with dried blood, with a crimson film over it of fresh bleeding. His boot was soaked dark; even the stirrup was dripping. He was slowly bleeding to death, and she was helpless to stop it.

They picked up the short cut through the brakes to the Nine X, and came out long after midnight onto the bench. This was easier riding, but Will could not bear a faster pace than a walk.

Nobody spoke now. It was a slow, implacable race with time. Every last ounce of Will's strength was concentrated in a hard core of fighting against the grinding pain that was slowly taking over his whole body.

Once he fell out of the saddle, and Becky and Milt were in a panic as they knelt by him.

“Help me up,” he whispered. “I went to sleep.”

“Oh, Milt, we can't do this to him! We can't!”

“Help me up,” Will whispered doggedly.

They put him back in the saddle again, and Becky couldn't look at him.

The next time he fell off he didn't bother to lie about sleeping. He only kept demanding that they put him back in the saddle. This time his muscles were so loose that he could scarcely help them. Milt tied the stirrups under the horse's belly, thinking it might help to keep Will in the saddle.

It was just breaking dawn when they rode up to the line shack. Becky dismounted and ran over to Will. He was slumped in the saddle, his head almost touching his horse's neck, his body loose as a sack. Only some dim effort of will had kept him from entirely collapsing. His wounded leg was stuck to the saddle. Milt had to pry his hands off the saddle horn and pull him to the ground.

Milt and Becky carried him into the shack and put him on the bunk. While Becky built a fire Milt rustled water, and Becky bathed Will's leg and cleaned it. The wound looked ugly from constant irritation. Will roused to regard them with feverish eyes. His cheeks were shrunken, and there were two bright spots of color on his cheekbones. He smiled faintly and dozed off, muttering short snatches of sentences that made no sense.

Becky and Milt regarded him worriedly, and Becky said, “It's the fever. We shouldn't have brought him. Can't we get the doctor, Milt?”

“He's right,” Milt said bitterly. “He can't take a chance. They're huntin' him in town, and even if the doc don't turn him up, somebody's liable to follow.”

“He'll have to fight it out alone?”

“I'll stay with him.”

“I didn't mean that. I'm going to stay with him, and you get back to the spread.” She looked curiously at Milt. “Why was he so anxious for you to go back?”

Milt said evasively, “Worried about bein' burned out, I guess.”

Becky wasn't satisfied, and her anger against Milt was still high. But there were other things to worry about. Unless her father received word from her, the whole country would be turned out to search. And sooner or later they would look here. She found a stub of pencil and used a rumpled paper sack, the only thing she could find, to write her note. It told her father she was staying with Martha Forster, who had a ranch south of the Yellow Jacket, and that she might be gone a week and not to worry. It had been a surprise meeting, and she'd decided to go on the spur of the moment. She offered no excuse for the paper, knowing he would be uneasy but that the writing in her own hand would satisfy him.

She gave the note to Milt, told him to deliver it at the Nine X, and if he was asked where he got it to say that Becky had met him on the road and had asked him to deliver it.

Milt left, and she was alone with Will. She set about cleaning up the place, and when that was done, there was nothing left but to watch Will. He was in fever now. His big, bony hands plucked the blankets, and he tossed and muttered. She bathed his forehead, but it didn't seem to help. Nothing seemed to help. He was fighting that lonely fight with fever and pain in a country far beyond her reaching.

Late that night he opened his eyes and stared at her, and the look in his face frightened her. He didn't recognize her, only looked strangely around the room, then closed his eyes again.

Next morning, he was awake again. She tried to feed him, but he turned his face away. As the day wore on, he again settled into fever, and this time it was worse. He muttered of ranching and Murray Broome and Milt Barron and Chap Hale, and he was angry, but none of his talk made sense. His leg was angry-looking and swollen; and Becky was afraid. There was nothing she could do but watch him, and twice she went to sleep on the stump stool by his bunk. Later, in midafternoon, he dozed off, and Becky slept beside him, under his blanket. She listened to his troubled breathing and cried, and once she prayed.

The night after that day was torment. Will was deep in delirium, talking a weird nonsense with a strange passion that was frightening. Becky knew that this was the night when he would win or lose. She gazed upon that gaunt and beard-stubbled face, and it was a comfort to see the rugged strength there. His great gnarled and scarred hands were shrunken a little, as if shriveled by the fever. There was a wild strength in his eyes that were open but didn't see her.