Page 48 of Hell and Gone
The beer dangled in Everett’s frozen hand. “He never took it when he went riding?”
Lawrence shrugged. “What’s the point? No signal on the range, and the best you can do is not lose it when your horse decides to be funny right when you pull it out. Every cowboy learns that lesson real quick. No one carries ‘em.” He took a swig of his beer. “Only place you can get any signal is at Endless Sky’s ranch or down in town.”
Everett stared out the window as his jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tensing and relaxing. His knuckles, wrapped around his cell, had gone bone white. His shoulders strained beneath the t-shirt Lawrence loaned him.
And then he jerked. Pushed his face to the window. “Get your gun, Law. There’s a rider coming in from the back pasture. He’s just ridden out of the woods.”
* * *
They rode togetherto meet the rider, pulling Trigger and Banshee out of the barn. No time for a saddle. They both swung up bareback.
Lawrence had held Everett’s gaze as he guided Banshee out of her stall and passed the lead to Everett.
Their mystery rider wasn’t moving fast. Still, they took no chances. Lawrence carried his shotgun and Everett had his hand on his pistol, ready to draw.
At the crest of the hill sloping toward the ranch, the rider pitched sideways and fell from his horse.
“Yah!” Lawrence squeezed his heels into Trigger’s side, and Trigger leaped forward, sprinting up the hill. He recognized the mare as they drew near. “She’s from Heart’s Rafter. She was in the corral.”
Everett circled the mare and came up behind the fallen man. He was facedown in the grass, unmoving. Blood soaked one shoulder, and his right arm had been shot off at the elbow. A mess of bone and blood and destroyed flesh hung from the joint. Three fingers were still attached at the end of the smear of blood, but they’d turned black and had swelled grotesquely. “Cover me,” Everett said.
He racked the shotgun. Brought it to his shoulder as Everett dismounted Banshee and crept to the fallen man. Slowly, he rolled him over, cradling his head. Blood streamed from a cut on his temple, and there was a hole in his right shoulder, stuffed with a blood soaked handkerchief.
“Shit.” Lawrence peered over Everett’s shoulder. “I know him! That’s Connor O’Donnell. He’s an Endless Sky hand.”
Everett felt for a pulse on his bloody neck. “He’s still alive, but he’s in shock. That wound is infected. He might be septic.”
“He followed us here from Heart’s Rafter. Why?”
Everett patted Connor down, checking his pockets and his waistband. “No weapons. He wasn’t coming to kill us. In his condition, I don’t think he was doing anything other than trying to survive.” Everett hauled him up, throwing him over his shoulder in a fireman carry. “We’ve got to get him back to the ranch before he dies.”
“We’ll take him to the main house. There’s a medical kit in the kitchen.”
Trigger carried Connor draped on his back, Lawrence riding as gently as he could, sweet-talking Trigger the whole way. Everett rode ahead with Banshee and led the mare, tying both up outside the ranch house on the fence line.
“Lay him down on the kitchen table,” Everett said when Lawrence carried him in Delaney’s big log-built ranch house. Connor’s breaths were shallow, weak, and wet. “The light is best.”
Under the kitchen light, they could see the full extent of Connor’s wounds. His arm was gone below the elbow. What little remained would have to be cut off. Already, it was infected and slowly poisoning him. Blood still wept from the torn flesh and arteries that dangled free. Someone had shot him with a large caliber rifle, the kind normally used to hunt elk. Or bear.
A second shot in his shoulder had gone straight through, a clean entry on his back and an explosive mess through his front. “He was shot in the back,” Lawrence said.
“Like the bodies in the gulch. And judging by the blood left behind down there, they were shot with a similar caliber rifle.” Everett tore at Connor’s clothing, ripping away the soaked flannel shirt. “I need towels and hot water. And a belt.”
Everett cleaned Connor’s wounds as best he could, plucking the dirt and rocks and debris from the ravaged flesh. He wrapped the belt above Connor’s elbow and yanked, tightening it until Connor’s skin buckled, and then strapped it down.
Connor moaned. His head flopped left and right, and he tried to fight Everett off with his remaining arm.
Lawrence grabbed him, pulled his hand away. “Easy, man! We’re tryin’ to help you!”
Eyes flickering, Connor stared upside down at Lawrence. His gaze was a million miles away, and he stared through Lawrence for a long moment before focusing in. “Law,” he croaked. “That you?”
“Yeah, you bastard, it’s me. Why the hell are you tryin’ to die in my field? Who shot you to hell and back?”
“Law…” Connor’s eyes closed. He hissed, and his legs kicked, pain wracking his body as Everett probed his shoulder wound. “Law, I swear, I never wanted to get no one killed…”
“What were you a part of, Connor? What’d you get wrapped up in?”
“It was just supposed to be a little rustlin’,” he breathed. His voice was ragged, his throat raw. “We was just supposed to unsettle everyone. Get people riled up.” He coughed.
