Saviours of Oestend Oestend 2 (8 page)

“Stop bleeding on me!” Frances griped at Foster as they dragged him into the barracks. “This is my best shirt!”
“It
was
your best shirt,” Simon amended.
Foster’s response was a string of obscenities. A few seemed to be aimed at Frances, but mostly they seemed to be about Dante. Simon laughed as they dropped the man unceremoniously into his bunk. They stood back to eye him. It was difficult to tell exactly how bad the damage was. Foster’s scalp appeared to be split open from one eyebrow to the back of his head. He had his hand against the gash, but it did little to stop the massive flow of blood.
“I suppose something should be done about his head,” Frances said.
Of course he was right, but Simon didn’t feel like doing the man any favours. The incident had shaken him more than he liked to admit. Cami had obviously fought hard. She’d had a split lip and the beginning of a black eye. Still, she hadn’t been beaten. She’d stood there and told Dante to stop.
Had Lena fought like that? Would she have begged mercy for her attackers?
But nobody had been there to help Lena. The fact that Foster had been thwarted didn’t change the fact of his intentions.
“Let him bleed,” Simon said.
Frances shrugged. “Works for me.”
“The question is, can we leave him here like this, or should one of us stay with him?”
“I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
They were interrupted by a tentative knock on the barracks door. It surprised Simon. Nobody ever knocked on the door. Any of the ranch hands or Dante would have walked right in. He was even more surprised to open the door and find Cami there. She had a pan of water, and bottles and bandages tucked under one arm. She looked up at him with Lena’s big dark eyes. “I came to check on him.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Simon asked.
“No,” she said in a shaking voice. “But somebody has to.”
He held the door open and let her come in. She stopped though, just inside the door. She glanced over at him. “Will you stay while I do it?”
“Of course. We’ll tie his hands for you, if you want.”
She bit her lip, obviously considering it. “Let’s see how he behaves, first.”
Foster was absolutely cooperative. She gave him whisky for the pain, first, and Simon noticed how her hands shook as she handed him the bottle. She used vinegar and water to clean his wounds, which had him screaming, and finally, she wrapped his head in bandages. By the time she was done, he seemed to be only half conscious.
“After a head wound like that, there’s a good chance he won’t wake up,” Simon said.
She hung her head. “I don’t want anybody to die because of me.”
Her words saddened him. “If he dies, it’ll be because he made a horrible decision. Or it’ll be because Dante is one ruthless son of a bitch. But it
won’t
be because of
you
. Don’t for a minute think this is your fault.”
She nodded, although she clearly wasn’t convinced. It reminded Simon again of Lena. She’d blamed herself afterwards, too. As if it wasn’t enough for women to be abused by men, they somehow felt the need to bear the guilt of it, too.
“This was not your fault,” he said again.
She shrugged. She glanced hesitantly over at Frances. He hadn’t spoken since she’d come in the door.
“Thank you,” she said.
Frances hung his head, and mumbled something unintelligible. Simon could tell by the boy’s demeanour that he was blaming himself as well. Simon could have smacked them both.
Simon had her leave the vinegar and extra bandages and promised he’d tend to Foster himself. It didn’t seem fair that Cami should have to do it. He could tell as he let her out the barrack’s door how relieved she was to be able to leave to task to somebody else.
He turned back to find Frances still in the same spot on the bunk, looking down at his boots.
“Stop grousing and tell me what your problem is.”
Frances sighed in frustration. “I should have been able to do something!”
“You
did
do something!”
“Yeah. I ran away.”
“You went for help. That’s not the same thing as running away.”
Frances hung his head. “It feels the same.”
Simon sighed and put his hand on Frances’ shoulder. “Your first instinct isn’t to fight, that’s true. But that ain’t a bad thing.”
“It makes me feel weak.”
Simon could understand that, and yet, he knew Frances had strength, too. He’d grown immeasurably since the incident with Miron. Countless times they’d been in situations as dangerous as the one with the bull had been, and not once had Frances balked. He’d covered Simon’s back in a fight, and although he’d come away with a black eye and his nose broken for a second time, he hadn’t backed down. And today, he’d tried to stop Foster, and when it hadn’t worked, he’d gone for help. Simon didn’t want him to be ashamed of that.
“Look, kid. You’re never going to be Deacon, who keeps men in line with his fists. And you’re never going to be Dante, who bashes people’s heads in with a chair as easy as breathing. But if you ask me, that ain’t necessarily a bad thing. I’d take you at my back any day over a wild card like Dante.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” But he could tell by Frances’ voice that he was pleased to have Simon say it.
“I wish somebody had been there to go for help when it was Lena.”
Frances looked up at him in sudden realisation, his eyes big and full of embarrassment. “Oh, Simon. I’m so sorry! I didn’t even think—”
“It’s all right,” Simon said, cutting that conversation off before it had a chance to drag him down. “You did well. A lesser man would have pretended he’d seen nothing. A lesser man wouldn’t have wanted to risk having Foster as an enemy.”
“I couldn’t let him do that to her.”
“I know.” He gripped Frances’ shoulder tighter and shook him until he smiled grudgingly. “Quit beating yourself up. It’s ‘cause of you Foster wasn’t able to do what he wanted. Count it as a win.”
“On the bright side, he’d have to be a fool to try again.”
“You’re right about that.” But Simon wasn’t as confident as he let on. In his experience, when it came to women, men were fools far more often than not.

Foster didn’t awaken that day, although Simon assured Dante the man was still breathing. Dante didn’t care. He’d never been one to waste sympathy on men like Foster. He noticed, though, how Cami wouldn’t look at him. She was pale, and her hands shook as she served him lunch.

“Are you sorry I did it?” he asked her.
“I just don’t want him to die because of me.”
“It won’t be because of you.” Dante had no trouble admitting to himself whose fault it

would be. One more death meant little to him.
“I feel like I’ve caused you so much trouble, and after everything you’ve done—” “You
are
trouble,” he said, but he smiled to soften his words. “Don’t you apologise for

it. You’re worth a hundred of him and don’t you forget it. I won’t put up with garbage like him. This is your home, and he’s nothing more than a dime-a-dozen ranch hand.” “A ranch hand you need, though.”
“Not that bad, I don’t. I’ll string up every man here and work this damn ranch myself if I have to.”
As it turned out, the issue of who was to blame for Foster’s death ended up being moot. He awoke the next day, although he stayed in the barracks. On the third day, he disappeared.
“He was here this morning,” Simon told Dante. “I sent him to muck the stalls, but looks like he took one of your horses and left.”
“That’s too bad,” Dante said. “Good horses are hard to come by.” Bad men though, he could do without.
A few days after Foster’s disappearance, Dante took Frances with him to ride the fences. On the furthest end of the pastures, they found a deer caught in the fence. It had tried to jump over, but its foot had caught in the barbed wire. It had obviously struggled a great deal to get free but had only managed to tear up its leg on the wire. It lay panting and helpless, too tired to fight, its eyes rolling with fear as they approached.
Living on a ranch had inured Dante to the death of animals, but the deer made him sad. Life on the prairie was cruel.
“Think we can cut her free?” Frances asked.
Dante pointed at the odd angle of the deer’s leg. “Pulled it right out of the socket. She won’t be able to walk.”
“Can’t leave her like this.”
“True enough.”
Dante pulled his knife. She tried to buck as he knelt next to her, but her strength was gone. He put his hand on her neck and made soft, calming noises, the way he did with the horses. He remembered a story from his childhood, told by Olsa, of the Ainuai and how they could soothe an animal to sleep before they killed it. He wished he knew how to do that.
“It’ll be over soon,” he whispered.
He made the cut fast and deep. For some reason, he’d expected Frances to turn away, but he didn’t. They sat in silence, watching her struggles end. Dante hadn’t lied. It was quick. Then they had to cut her free from the fence.
“You know,” Frances said, “I kind of feel like an ass saying this, but the salt pork ran out a while ago. It’s been a long time since we had meat on the table that wasn’t beef.”
That was true, and Dante knew the Ainuai would have asked, “How will the whole be served?” It was a sad thing, but there was no sense it letting fresh venison go to waste.
They took the deer as far from the pasture as they dared and made quick work of butchering her. Dante silently said a prayer, both in apology and in gratitude, not to the Saints, but to Olsa’s ancestors. It was something he’d never done before. He had no idea if they heard him or if they’d accept a prayer from a man like him. He only knew it felt right.
The strapped the meat to their saddles and then walked down to the stream to wash the blood from their hands. They were midway back to where the horses waited when Frances put a hand out and stopped Dante dead in his tracks. He didn’t say a word, but pointed to the west.
Dante looked. He saw what Frances was pointing at, but he couldn’t quite put words to what it was.
“What the blessed hell is it?” Dante asked.
His confusion was echoed in Frances’ voice. “I have no idea.”
It was like a misty grey curtain, from the heavens to the ground. “Looks like rain,” Dante said. “But no rain I ever seen.”
“It’s not monsoon season.”
Monsoon season or not, the grey wall was moving towards them at an alarming speed. He could hear it now, too. It was louder than a stampede. The two horses bucked and reared, then bolted together back towards the ranch.
“Son of a bitch,” Dante swore.
The cattle in the adjacent field began lowing loudly, with an urgency usually reserved for predators in the fields. Beyond the grey veil of the oncoming storm, the Oestend prairie was nothing more than a dull smudge of brown.
“Dante?” There was a hint of fear in Frances’ voice. “I think we better get out of here.”
“It’s just rain,” Dante said. But he sounded far more confident than he felt, and the storm bearing down on them was so loud, he doubted Frances had heard him anyway. The storm was close enough now that Dante could smell it. Not the rich, clean aroma he associated with rain, but the sharp tang that hinted at lightning and the earthy smell of battered grass. It seemed ominous.
Frances grabbed Dante and pointed to the nearest building. It was a small shack a couple of hundred yards away. “Let’s go!”
It’s just rain
Dante wanted to say again, but even he didn’t believe it. The suddenness of it was unnatural, and it was moving faster than any storm he’d ever seen. Whatever it was, it was damn spooky.
“Dante,
let’s go
!” Frances yelled again, and this time Dante went.
They were halfway to the shelter of the shack when the storm overtook them. It wasn’t just rain. There was hail, too, some of it as big as peas. They ducked their heads against the onslaught and ran faster, squeezing through a barbed wire fence, and finally they were inside the building.
It was even louder inside than out. The hail on the roof was deafening. The building was for storage only and had obviously never been wraith-proof. What had once been tarpaper windows were now just empty panes, allowing them a bit of light. They stood for a minute staring out at the downpour. The ground was already covered with piles of hail, some of them so deep they looked like drifts of snow.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Frances said. He glanced at Dante. “Have you?”
Dante slowly shook his head. Yes, he’d seen hail. Hail bigger than this, even. But the way it had come out of nowhere, descending upon them as if it had a purpose, had him unnerved.
“You’re bleeding,” Frances said.
Dante looked over at him, and Frances pointed at his right shoulder. “On your back. You must have caught it on the fence.”
He hadn’t felt it when it happened, but when he flexed his shoulder, he felt the sting. “Doesn’t feel like much.”
“Let me see.” Frances tugged on the back of Dante’s collar, and Dante unbuttoned his shirt so the boy could pull it off his shoulder. He felt Frances’ fingertips on his back. “It’s not deep, but it’s pretty jagged. It’ll be a nasty scar, unless you have Cami sew it up.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Hope it wasn’t rusty. You don’t want to get lockjaw.”
“It’ll be fine!”
Frances laughed. “All right. Don’t get uptight.”
Dante wasn’t actually paying much attention to Frances. He was staring out the window. The hail was giving way to rain. The drum on the roof had become a dull roar. The piles of hail were slowly being washed away in the downpour.
“How long you want to stay here?” Frances asked.
Dante shrugged. “May as well wait ’til it lets up a bit.”
Frances blushed a bit. He scuffed his toe in the dirt and bit his lip. When he glanced back at Dante, his smile was shy and unnervingly flirtatious. “You know, it’s just us here. You interested in being entertained?”
Dante felt his pulse speed up. He instinctively took a step backwards. He didn’t want this to happen.
Frances’ smile grew. “I’d never tell, you know. Not even Simon.”
Dante felt his own cheeks turning red. Frances continued to watch him, completely unembarrassed, waiting for an answer.
Dante wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Saints knew it had been ages since he’d any kind of release he hadn’t granted himself, and now here was Frances, making an offer. Dante had to admit, he was tempted. He found himself wondering exactly what Frances would look like bent over in front of him in the low light that fell through the windows. He couldn’t deny the way the thought made his pulse race and his blood head for places south of his belt.
Still, he was sure he’d regret it in when it was over.
“I’m not sure it would be wise,” Dante said.
Frances shrugged, still smiling, as if wisdom were inconsequential. “Well,” he said as he turned to look out the window at the rain, “you know where to find me, if you change your mind.”
Yes, Dante did know where to find him. At that moment, he really wished he didn’t.