Ralph Compton - Down on Gila River

Hannah forced herself to move, one small step at a time, wary as a doe at a water hole.

As she got closer to Sam, she saw that the man was not stirring. His head was at an odd angle, forced back on his neck, as though he’d strained mightily against his bonds.

Hannah stepped toward him on cat feet, then froze, her heart racing. She thought she’d heard the saloon door rattle.

“It’s the wind,” she told herself. “Only the wind.”

But fear spiked her to the ground.

Forcing herself to move, she stepped toward Sam again.

To the west, the sky opened a crack, allowing a watery shaft of sunlight to briefly splash over the rock ledge.

“Oh, please . . . oh, please . . . ,” Hannah whispered.

Please don’t let the door open.

She reached Sam and knelt beside him. His eyes were shut, and, to her horror, Hannah saw that both of his cheeks had been laid open by a blade. The rain had washed his face clean of blood, but the wounds were deep, red, and angry, like extra mouths.

She glanced over her shoulder at the rectangle of light that was the saloon window, and then began to work on the rawhide bonds.

To her surprise, they loosened easily, not because of the rain, but because Santos had tied them that way.

Hannah didn’t take time to fathom the man’s motives. Slowed by trembling hands, she untied Sam’s wrists and ankles from the wooden stakes and began to drag him away, toward the talus slope.

* * *

Sam Sawyer was not a tall man, but he was stocky and solid, and heavy for a woman to move.

Her hands under his armpits, Hannah dragged the man across the muddy ground, her eyes fixed constantly on the saloon door.

Stopping often, rain lashing at her, she was only a few yards from the top of the talus slope when Sam regained consciousness.

He turned his head and looked up at the woman.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“Dumb question,” Hannah said, breathing hard. “I’m trying to save your life.”

“I can walk.”

Sam attempted to get to his feet, but his knees buckled and he went down again.

“You’ve lost blood and it’s weakened you, Sam,” Hannah said. “Lie still and I’ll drag you.” She peered through the gray mantle of the downpour. “When we get to the slope, it will be easier.”

“Dang it, woman, leave me,” Sam said. “If Jake Wells comes out to cut me some more, he’ll kill you for sure.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Hannah said. “I can’t spare breath for idle talk.”

“Hannah, please, let me go,” Sam pleaded.

“Shut up, Sam,” Hannah yelled.

* * *

By the time they had reached the top of the talus slope, the coming night added to the dark of the day. The slope was running rain like a waterfall, and the air smelled of rotting tree roots and wet stone.

Hannah backed to the edge, dragging Sam, the man’s protests just so many meaningless words that didn’t register on her consciousness.

The rising wind whipped the woman’s hair, the wet strands writhing across her face like Medusa’s snakes.

“Hold on, Sam,” she said. “We’re heading down.”

She started to pull again but became a motionless statue when a man yelled from the saloon door.

“You, stop right there!”

“Dang it, Hannah, leave me,” Sam cried out. “Save yourself!”

A shot racketed through the dreary dusk, and a bullet spurted mud a few inches from Sam’s chest.

Hannah saw a man hobbling toward her, gun in hand, the bandage around his thigh bobbing white in the gloom.

She took a step down the slope, then another, dragging Sam with her. Hannah’s breath came in short, sharp, painful gasps and the fingers of both her hands cramped badly, hurting from Sam’s weight.

A second bullet split the air inches above Hannah’s head, and she tried to hurry her descent.

It was a bad mistake.

The high heel of her lace-up boot rolled on a rock and badly turned her ankle. Off balance, she toppled backward, her arms flailing as she was forced to let go of Sam in an effort to regain her footing.

But the slope was steep, made treacherous by the rain, and she and Sam started to tumble . . . head over heels . . . bouncing down the incline like rubber balls . . . a racketing shower of shingle cascading in their wake.

Chapter 39

Hannah Stewart hit the flat with a thump. She glanced up and saw Sam’s cartwheeling body coming at her and quickly rolled out of the way.

Sam’s back thudded onto the ground and for a few moments he lay still, stunned, a pulse beating in his throat.

Bullets ripped through the cottonwoods, but Dan Wells was firing blind and none came near.

Hannah crawled to Sam. “Are you all right?” she said.

Unable to speak, the man nodded.

“We need to get out of here, Sam,” Hannah said. “They’ll come after us real quick.”

Sam struggled for breath. Then, like a man choking on a chicken bone, he managed, “Jake’s leg is broke. He can’t ride. But . . . but Dan will come.”

Hannah looked around her, her eyes reaching into the rain-flayed night, but she saw nowhere that suggested a safe hiding place.

“I can walk,” Sam said. The razor cuts on his face were gouging his skin like drawn wires.

“But I don’t think I can,” Hannah said. “I just tried to move my right ankle and it hurt like fire.”

“Is it broke?” Sam said.

“I don’t think so. But it’s sprained maybe.”

“The same thing happened to the Injun and he couldn’t walk worth a dang fer a long spell,” Sam said.

“Well,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “you’re right, we can’t stay here. I’ll help you.”

He rose to his feet. His head swimming, he felt aches horn his body from the top of his head to his toes.

“Sam, are you sure you’re all right?” Hannah said. She’d made no attempt to rise herself.

“Yeah, I’m just fine,” Sam said. He managed a wan smile. “A few razor cuts and a body covered in bruises, is all.” He extended a hand. “Here, let me help you up.”

He pulled Hannah to her feet, but she couldn’t put any weight on her right leg.

“Hurts bad, huh?” Sam said.

“I’d say considerable.”

“We’ve been dealt a lousy hand, Hannah,” Sam said, after he’d retrieved his hat from the bottom of the slope. “And no mistake.”

The woman tried a smile that barely moved her lips.

“How do we play it?” she said.

The downpour drummed on Sam’s hat and wedged coldly between him and Hannah like a divorce lawyer.

“I don’t know,” he said. Then, after some thought: “Be full dark soon. We’ll find a place to hole up out of the rain.”

“I can’t walk far,” Hannah said. She averted her eyes. “And you’re in bad shape.”

“Where’s your hoss?” Sam said.

“He pulled up lame. I left him”—she pointed north—“that way.”

“Put your arm around my shoulder,” Sam said. “We’ll find some kind of shelter nearby.”

Hannah hesitated, and Sam said, “Hell, woman, you’ve been close to a man afore.”

“Only my husband.”

“Well, he ain’t here and I am. Now lean on me and let’s get the hell out of this rain.”

* * *

As shelters go, what Sam found after a short search wasn’t much, a narrow, rocky depression gouged into the hillside, roofed by a couple of fallen pines. The hole in the ground kept out the worst of the wind, and Sam tried to convince himself that there were only a few random drops of rain pattering on his hat.

He ached all over, and his slashed face was also starting to hurt. The wounds on his cheeks were bleeding again, as though he were crying scarlet tears.

Hannah saw and it disturbed her. “Sam,” she said, “you’re hurt real bad.”