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tottered, and fell against the trunk of a tree.
For a moment I clung there, trying to get the cramps from my legs. I felt for
my pistol ... It was in place.A drink. I desperately needed a drink. Tottering
on my injured leg, I got to the creek, lay down on the sand and drank. I drank
and drank. Getting up, I saw my hat. It lay on the rain-heavy branches of a
clump of mesquite near the stream. I retrieved it and shook some water from
it, then put it on.
Clinging to a branch of a tree, I looked carefully around. The clouds were
lowering and gray; the trees and the brush dripped with water. All was dark
and gloomy, yet I saw no movement, no stir of life. No wild animal would be
about on such a day, and probably no man.
I'd lost blood, and was therefore weak, yet I would get no better here. And
the nearest chance was the line-cabin. It was near, but terribly far in my
present condition. Most of all, I dreaded the thought of that open plain I
must cross for most of the distance to it. Once I stepped out on that plain, I
was a target for any rifleman who might lie in comfortable shelter and take
his own time to make the shot good.
Still clinging to the branch, I reached down and picked a length of dead
branch long enough for a staff from the ground. Taking a deep breath, I
started toward the bank. Only then did I realize what faced me. The banks I
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must climb to get away from the creek bed were in all places steep, and the
few places that offered a route a man might take were slippery with mud.
When I had gone some fifty-odd feet, I paused to gasp for breath, to ease the
pain of my hip and stiffened leg, and to study what lay before me.
There was no way I was going to get up that bank by walking. I must get down
and crawl. Onward I limped. At the foot of the bank I dug in with my stick and
hobbled up a step, then two. Trying a third, my foot slipped under me and I
came down hard in the mud, gasping with the agony of a suddenly wrenched leg.
After a long time of lying in the mud, I pushed myself up, but it was no use.
I sank down again and crawled on my hands and knees.
At last I topped out on the edge of the plain. A little scattered brush, and
then the open grassland, level as a floor. Beyond it loomed the low hills, and
just over those hills, the line-cabin.A dry place, a warm fire, hot food ... a
cup of coffee. At that moment, no paradise I could imagine needed any more
than that.
For a time I stood still, muddy and wet, looking carefully around. But again
I saw nothing. No horseman, no cattle, no Brindle. No doubtOl ' Brindle was in
some snug thicket, laying out the rain. At least, I hoped he was.
A step with my good left leg, then hitching my right forward with the aid of
the staff, and then the good leg again. It was slow, and it was painful. My
leg not only hurt, but the wound at my hip was bleeding again. The ache in my
skull had subsided to a dull, heavy pounding to which I had grown accustomed.
Twice I fell. Each time I struggled up. Several times I stood still for a
long time trying to wish myself across the plain. But wishing did no good, so
I plodded on. At last I reached the trail up the hill, and this was not steep.
At the crest I looked down at the line cabin. Two horses were in the corral
... No cattle in the corral beyond. No smoke from the cabin.
Where then was Fuentes?
There was a flat rock near a mesquite bush. I lowered myself down, stretching
my stiff leg out carefully. From that point I could see the cabin. Everything
I wanted was inside, yet I did not want to die to get it.
Fuentes should be there with a fire going. But suppose he was not, and
somebody else was? Suppose the unknown marksman who had twice tried to kill me
was down there instead?
He might believe me dead, but he might also realize that if I was not dead,
and needed a horse, that I would surely come to this place where horses
awaited me. I had struggled too much, suffered too much to want to walk
through that door into a belly full of lead.
For a long time I watched the windows. At this distance I could see little,
but hoped I would catch movement past them. I saw nothing.
Struggling to my feet, I hobbled slowly down the path to the cabin.
Approaching it, I slipped the thong from the hammer, leaned my staff against
the building and drew my gun.
With my left hand, ever so gently, I lifted the door latch. With the toe of
my stiff leg, I pushed the door open."Milo!"
Swiftly, I turned. The stable! I'd forgotten! My pistol came around, the
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hammer eared back.
The only thing that saved her was my years of training-never to shoot unless
I could see what I was shooting. It was AnnTimberly !
Cold sweat broke out on my forehead, and slowly I lowered my gun muzzle,
easing the hammer down ever so gently.
"What in God's world are you doinghere ?" I demanded,irritated by the fact
that I might easily have shot her.
"I found your horse, and I remembered your saddle. I tried tobacktrack him,
but the rain washed out the trail, so I brought him here. I was just
unsaddling when I saw you."
She helped me inside and I slumped down on my bunk, bolstering my gun. She
stared at me, shaking her head. "What in the world has happened to you?"
Explanations could be long, I made it short. "Somebody shot me. I fell and
got this," I touched my head. "And that was yesterday... I think."
"I'll get a fire started," she turned quickly to the fireplace. "You need
some food."
"Get my rifle first."
"What?"
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