This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [78]
He awoke with a start and glanced quickly at the sun. He had slept well into the day. His face was hot and his mouth dry. After drinking deeply from the canteen, he ate beef jerky, deciding to leave the biscuits for another poultice. Gathering the blanket around him, he lay back in the warm sun.
Night came while he slept. He awoke in complete darkness, shaking with a chill despite the blanket. He crawled to the stream, drank, changed the poultice and drank again. The water was cold and went down his throat like intoxicating wine, giving him strength and new life. After he finished drinking, he lay wrapped in the blanket, his head throbbed and his shoulder and side tortured him with every beat of his heart. Drifting in and out of sleep, the day passed and night came again. The sun was directly over the tree tops when he awoke. He dozed, and when he next opened his eyes it was dusk.
His mind told him that he must move, but his muscles refused to obey. God, he was weak! He had to get on the horse . . . Summer would think he was dead. The days had floated by, he couldn’t remember how many.
Getting first to his knees, then to his feet, he looked around for Estrella. He was not in sight, and Slater felt a quick prick of alarm. He whistled and waited. Whistled again. Relief fell over him like a cloak when he heard the soft nicker and the horse came toward him.
“Good boy! God, you’re a good horse!” Slater hung his right arm about the horse’s neck and leaned on him while his heart pounded in his head. It seemed hours before he got the strength to thrust his boot into the stirrup, but mounting was easier than he thought it would be.
Night comes quickly to the hills, and it was dark when he touched his heels to the horse and said: “Let’s go home.”
He sat in the saddle like a drunken man. Exhausted, almost sick to his stomach from the effort of climbing on the horse. His head felt heavy and part of his mind dwelled on Summer. The other part dwelled on the thought of what had been done to him and the driving urge to fight back, to slash back, to kill . . .
Slater knew himself well, and the anger he was feeling gave him strength. He was actually a man of violent and explosive temper, and his usual quietness was a coverup for what lay under the surface. Seldom did he lose control, but occasionally, under exceptional strain, he had given way to outbursts of fury.
Unfortunately, the shortest route back to the ranch would mean he would travel the boundary line for several miles. In his present condition, he realized he wasn’t worth much, but on the other hand there was not much of a chance of anyone riding by this way at this time of night. He checked his weapon to be sure he was prepared to defend himself. The next thing he had to do was stay in the saddle. He thanked God again for a good horse.
Reaching the lower fork of the creek, he waded the horse through the stream and up the bank. He was shaking with pain and fury, no longer conscious of the cool night because the fever was on him again. A steady beat of agony pounded in his wounds.
Suddenly, Estrella’s ears came up. Instinct snapped Slater to awareness, his inborn will to survive alerting him to danger. He drew up, listening. He heard nothing, but the ears of his horse told him there was something. He moved only a few feet and pulled up again. It was then he smelled the woodsmoke. He urged the horse along a flat boulder. At the end of the boulder, which was at least twenty feet high, Slater could see that it overlapped another boulder of equal size and shape. Between the two was a passageway that would easily be overlooked if not for the pause beside the boulder. The path was large enough for a horse and rider to pass through.
He could hear voices. One sounded strangely familiar. He moved the horse into the passage and the voice that reached his ears was unmistakable. Travis.
“What’s the matter, kid? Don’t you have a stomach for real sport?”
“It ain’t that, Mr. McLean, but . . .