This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [80]
Travis came to stand over him and Slater looked up at him with hate-filled eyes. The pleasant, boyish grin was still on his face as he drew his foot back and kicked Slater in the ribs. The breath went out of him, and he was barely aware when the other booted foot reached over and nosed its way between his bound arms. Shoving him over to the fire with his other foot, Travis held the bound hands over the flames.
The sound that was torn from Slater’s lips was like something he had never heard. He wasn’t even aware that it was his own voice. The searing, burning flesh on his hands was the only thing in the world. He heard only a few words before he fainted. They came from the boy.
“Mr. McLean . . . don’t!”
He could hear Travis’s voice as he drifted in and out of consciousness.
“Got to be a man, Lonnie. There’s no room in my outfit for a chicken-livered boy. Get the horses, Armando, and try and catch that black of Slater’s. Can’t have him going back to the Keep before we get there. It’ll take us two or three days to get Bushy Red and the men.”
Slater faded away again, but when he came back he knew he had but a few minutes to live. Armando having failed to trap Estrella, held the other horses. Travis walked over and poured the remains of the coffee on the fire. It sizzled, flickered and went out.
“I’m going to let you kill ’em, Lonnie. It’s got to be done. You been holding back, boy. It’s time you jumped in and got your feet wet. First time’s a little scary, but after that, there ain’t no more to it than crookin’ your finger.” Travis mounted his horse, and the spirited animal danced around in circles. The voice came from farther away when he spoke again. “Shoot ’em, Lonnie. Shoot ’em and come on.”
The boy came to stand over him, and Slater looked squarely into his eyes, determined the boy would remember that stare until his dying day. The boy had a pleading look on his face and his lips trembled. Slater continued to stare.
“Are you going to kill him . . . or look him to death?” Travis taunted.
The boy made a movement with his mouth, then put the gun down beside Slater’s head and fired into the ground. He raised up slowly, his eyes begging. Slater’s body had jumped at the sound of the explosion and lay still.
“Now the girl.”
“I think she’s already dead, Mr. McLean. She ain’t moved . . . or nothin’.”
“Well, shoot her and make sure.”
The sound of the second shot rebounded between the boulders. Lonnie hurried to his horse. Travis’s voice continued, laughing, teasing.
“Now, don’t you go and get sick. You done it, boy. I’ll make a man of you yet.”
In spite of the searing pain, Slater felt such relief that weak tears filled his eyes. He was alive! He would see Summer again! He didn’t know if the boy had killed the girl, but guessed that if she was dead Travis had killed her with his torture. He lay still, not daring to move lest they come back. After a while, he began to shake, his teeth chattered so that at first he wasn’t sure if they were making the noise he heard. Luckily, he was lying on his right side and not on his wounded shoulder. He tried to edge closer to the warm ashes of the fire, seeking some relief from the cold that penetrated his bones and the scorched flesh of his hands. The effort was too much. He sank into a black pit where it seemed demons, howling with glee, played on his body with torches and pitchforks.
When Slater opened his eyes, he was staring into a campfire. His brain was too numbed to know or care where he was. Fog drifted before his eyes and his body felt suspended in a vacuum. He felt no pain and moved his arms, thinking he might be dead. At the end of each of his arms was a bundle of cloth, and he stupidly wondered where his hands were. He was covered and he was not cold. Curious now, his eyes searched. Three Indians sat cross-legged beside the fire. One of them came to him, knelt down.
“Tall Man. It is I, Bermaga.”
Slater’s mind cleared for a moment. “The girl,” he croaked.
“My sister.