McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [119]
The Captain took his flask from the pocket of his shirt, unscrewed the lid and held it out to Frank.
Frank accepted the whiskey and drank deeply. Took a minute or so to settle back into himself after the jolt to his system. “Some Rangers found me, alongside the trail, and hauled my beat-up, dried-out carcass to Laredo. I wrote you that message, Holt, and hired a rider to carry it to you. I’m glad to see he got through—up until you showed up in the doorway just now, I wondered.”
“How’d you get here to Reynosa?” the Captain asked.
“My old papa out there, he heard what happened and came to get me. You ever ride that far in a donkey cart?”
The Captain chuckled, but it was a gravelly sound. Holt knew he wanted to find Templeton and the rest and rip their gizzards out, just like he did. “If that didn’t kill you, Corrales, I reckon nothing would.”
Frank laughed and took another draught of the whiskey. “I don’t suppose you’ve got an extra horse,” he ventured. “I love mi padre, but I’ll go loco if I have to stay here with him and the chickens.”
“I didn’t come all this way to leave you behind,” Holt said gruffly. “You got any broken bones?”
“A few cracked ribs,” Frank admitted. “I’d mend a lot faster on the back of a horse, though. Help me to my feet, will you, Holt?”
Holt stood, feeling uncertain. It wouldn’t surprise him if his old friend had a few internal injuries to go along with those cracked ribs, and he didn’t want to make matters worse. “You sure?”
“Yes, dammit,” Frank said, struggling to get up on his own.
Holt stepped in, draped Frank’s arm around his neck and hoisted.
Frank gritted his teeth and groaned, but he was upright, anyway.
His pa had slipped inside the hut at some point, and he looked mighty worried. Holt didn’t blame him for that.
“All right,” Frank gasped. “Let’s see if I can do this without hanging off of you.”
Reluctantly, Holt withdrew, but he stayed within grabbing distance, and so, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, did the Captain.
Frank teetered, then swayed, but he finally found his balance. “Damn,” he breathed. “It’s going to be good not to piss in a jug anymore.”
Up until that moment, the air in that gloomy little hut had been thick with tension. Now Holt laughed, and so did the Captain, and even old Frank, Sr., cracked a smile.
“What about your pa?” the Captain asked. “He want to go with us?”
Frank put the question to his father, in Spanish.
The old man shook his head. Said something about looking after his chickens. There was a look of sorrow in his eyes, along with a glint of pride.
“Adios, papacito,” Frank said. He gestured toward a bedroll and some saddlebags in the corner. “That’s my gear. I’d be obliged if you’d carry it a ways for me, Cap’n.”
This time, it was the Captain who saluted. He gathered Frank’s things, and the old man produced a battered rosary, which he pressed into his son’s palm. Seeing that made Holt’s throat tighten; he wondered how his own pa was faring, up there on the Triple M.
They made their slow way out to the horses, Holt and the Captain walking on either side of their friend. Frank’s pa had led the animals to the water trough, and they’d drunk their fill.
“Best you ride behind me, Frank,” the Captain said, gathering the reins. “That gelding of Holt’s thinks he’s still a stallion, and he comes unwrapped once in a while.”
“Any horse Holt can ride,” Frank said, “I can ride—sir.”
“You’re going to have to choose between your pride and your ribs,” Holt put in, meeting Frank’s gaze and holding steady. “If I were you, I’d favor the ribs, and prove up on the pride later.”
Frank grinned, still a little wobbly on his feet. “Because I’m so damn glad you finally got here,” he said magnanimously, “I’m going to let you have this one.”
The Captain swung up into the saddle, slipped his left foot out of the stirrup and held out a hand to Frank. Holt helped him mount up, waited till Frank was situated, with a