VI
Marshal Hank Zimmerman adjusted the brim of his old felt cavalry hat, so faded that it almost looked Confederate gray, and squinted into the midday sun, scratching the grizzled stubble along his jaw. His horse stamped and fussed about being reined up so harshly. A few rocky buttes and stands of brush and cottonwood were the only irregularities in the endless sea of grass.
Except for the lone, distant figure silhouetted on a hilltop, a figure moving unsteadily.
Hank turned his horse toward the figure.
Beyond it, in the distance, the brooding outline of a larger, rocky butte loomed over the prairie, Sentinel Hill, crowned in pines and cottonwoods.
What was somebody doing so far from town or homestead, on foot, and this close to the reservation? Relations were tense with the Sioux after what had happened in December. The Army gave them a good beating, but the homesteaders and even some of the folks back in White Pine were still nervous about another uprising. All that wild dancing they were doing last year, days of it at a time, gave white folks the shudders.
The wind whipped over the grass and tugged at his hat, forcing him to jam it tighter on his head. His eyes were still sharp, even at his age, and he kept them on the figure. A lone man, no hat, a white man, carrying something in one hand.
Then the figure collapsed out of sight.
Hank spurred his horse to a canter, keeping track of the small impression in the grass where the man’s body lay. Reaching the spot, he reined up and dismounted, cursing his stiff old bones as his boots hit the sod. A slow, steady, metallic, rhythmic clicking reached him from where the man had fallen.
He approached, hand on his Colt. On the wind, he smelled blood, and his shorthairs spiked like a porcupine. The man lay on his face. Hank rolled him over, and drew back. “Goddamn!”
A horrid groan escaped the man’s blood spattered face, like a man already reaching for the hereafter. He clutched an empty revolver, thumb and finger cocking and squeezing the trigger in rhythmic succession. His abdomen was a crusty wet mass of caked blood. Clots of brain and skull clung to his face and stubble.
The man’s eyelids fluttered, and Hank recognized his face.
“Oliver McCoy! That you, boy?”
Another groan, barely intelligible. “Marshal?”
“It is. You gutshot?”
A faint wheeze came back. “Yeah.”
Hank peeled his eyes and swept them around the area, pulling his six-gun. “What happened?”
Oliver’s broken, raspy voice forced Hank to lean in. “Camped. Ferrell. Crazy. Crazy. Killed ever’body.” His free hand snatched Hank’s coat. “Saw god!”
Hank clutched Oliver’s hand and tried to pry it free. Even gutshot, the kid was stronger than he looked. “What the hell?”
The whites of Oliver’s eyes blazed. “God! Saw the face of a black god!” Then Oliver’s eyes rolled back, and his head lolled.
Hank grasped the empty pistol and found Oliver’s fingers glued thick around it with dried blood. “Christ!” Prying it away, he thrust the pistol into his pocket, blood and all, then looked down at Oliver with a swell of pity. He knew what a gut wound was. He knew what bleeding out looked like. He knew all too well that getting Oliver help was nearly impossible.
His thumb tickled the hammer of his Colt. One shot, through the head, would end Oliver’s misery, like shooting an injured horse or a man too far gone from Confederate shrapnel. One quick shot. His hand shook a little, seeing creased blood funneling over Oliver’s lips, down his neck. Hank remembered all too well what young, wounded faces looked like. Thirty-five fucking years and he still remembered.
Common sense fought with common decency. They were miles from anything. White Pine was half a day’s ride. Oliver would never make it.
“Damnit to hell.”
But Hank was going to try today.
He eased the pistol back into his holster. “Pain in the ass.” In one swift motion, Hank slung Oliver over his shoulders. He approached his horse, knowing this boy should have been dead hours ago. “I’m gonna get your stupid ass to a doctor, son.” As he reached for the reins, the horse shied away. “Christ, Daisy, settle down! He ain’t gonna hurt you.” He reached for the reins again, but the mare shied back again. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
As his hand reached again for the bridle, the animal bolted for the nearest horizon.
He could do nothing but watch the horse’s rump grow smaller with distance. Who was the horse’s ass now?
“Son of a bitch.”
The McCoy boy was already getting heavy.
In a heartbeat, Hank took stock of his situation. Nothing to see in any direction except the grim gray butte of Sentinel Hill and those thunderheads in the distance. No way he could get back to White Pine now, not carrying a gutshot man. The White River Agency was the closest habitation. His jaw tightened at the thought of going among so many redskins, but he wasn’t going to change his mind now about saving Oliver’s life. It was a few miles to the reservation, but whatever was keeping Oliver alive might just kill him in the next hour. If was going to go, he had better get to it.
“Well, Oliver, how do you feel about walking?”