Ralph Compton - Bluff City

Baine levered upright. As he rose he spied his black hat. Forgetting himself, he smiled. His mouth protested. His temples throbbed. Moving as if he were made of molasses, he picked up the hat and gingerly placed it on his head. The slight contact provoked waves of anguish that rippled clear down to his toes.

Suddenly Baine went rigid. He fumbled at his holster. A moan escaped him when he found it empty. He twisted to the right, then the left. A gleam caught his eye. He managed several swift strides without falling. Sinking to his knees, he clasped the pearl-handled Colt to his bosom. “Thank you, Lord,” he said, and ran a hand along the barrel and over the cylinder.

Baine knelt there a while. Then, with reverent care, he eased the Colt into his holster and rose. He turned, and nearly collided with the claybank. “Don’t sneak up on a person like that.” Elated, he placed an arm over its neck.

Climbing on took twice as long as it should have. There was a delay when he spotted his canteen in the grass. It was only a third full and the water was warm and flat, but to him it was delicious. He allowed himself a sip, enough to wet his hurting lips and dry throat.

Baine tapped the claybank with his heels. He had nowhere special in mind to go. He was content with whichever direction the claybank picked, and the claybank headed southwest. So southwest it was.

Baine did not look down at himself. He did not want to know how bad off he was. He did not want to know if infection had set in. He pretended it was nothing, and in the pretending, found solace in the illusion that he might live through the day.

The sun was hot but hot was good. Hot was alive. Every minute, every second, had become precious. Baine savored them as a starving man savors every morsel of food.

The pain worsened. Baine had never hurt in so many places at one time. The bullet wounds hurt. The slash marks on his shoulders and chest hurt. But the worst was his face. It hurt so much he wanted to rip it off. Several times his hand rose toward it but lowered again.

Evening brought a cool breeze. Baine did not make camp. Midnight came and went and still he pressed on. He held the claybank to a walk so as not to overly tire it. Along about four in the morning it lifted its head and repeatedly sniffed. Its sensitive nose had brought them to paradise.

Trees framed a stream. Cottonwoods, mostly. Baine rode in among them and drew rein at the water’s edge. The claybank immediately dipped its muzzle to drink.

Stiffly sliding down, Baine eased onto his belly, removed his hat, and submerged his entire face in the water. He held it under as long as he could. The relief it brought was exquisite. So much so that he submerged his face a second and a third time. Then, dripping wet, he touched his chin and both cheeks. Every spot he touched hurt. He ran his tongue over his lips, then over his teeth. Miraculously, none were broken or missing.

Exhaustion claimed him. Rolling onto his back, Baine closed his eyes. The sound of the claybank drinking motivated him to get up. It took forever to undo the cinch and strip off the saddle, saddle blanket and bridle. He had a picket pin in his saddlebags but he was too tired to bother.

Sleep claimed him almost instantly. Baine dreamed that he was a cowboy riding night herd. A rattlesnake spooked the cattle and he was caught up in the stampede. He tried to turn the cattle, but his horse was jostled and he was thrown to the ground. A seething wall of horns and hooves swept over him, trampling him into the dirt. He felt the stomp of every hoof. Hundreds of them.

Suddenly Baine was awake. The new day was under way. He had slept for hours but he did not feel refreshed. He hurt all over, exactly as if he had been caught in that stampede. He willed himself to sit up.

The stream flowed past his boots. Barely wider than a buckboard, it had the distinction of doing what many streams did not; it flowed year-round. It did not dry up in the summer months.

The claybank was dozing.

Baine opened a saddlebag. He had a handful of jerky left and he ate half. He washed it down with water and sat back against his saddle. He had no intention of falling asleep again but that is exactly what he did.

The sun was high when Baine awoke. He felt warm, and not just from the sun. He pressed a palm to his forehead and confirmed his worst fear. He had a fever. He had no choice now. He must take off his shirt and examine the wounds. But deciding to do it was one thing; doing it was another. No sooner did he pull at the bottom of his shirt than he learned it was stuck to his body. The dry blood was to blame. There was only one thing to do.

Baine unstrapped his gun belt. His moccasins were always a challenge to remove, but never more so than now. He tugged on first one and then the other. He was spent when he eventually got them off. A short rest, and he was able to stand and walk along the bank. He found what he was looking for around a bend. A tree had fallen and partially blocked the stream, creating a pool. It was not more than a couple of feet deep, but it would do.

Wading out to the center, Blaine sat down. The water rose to his neck. He propped himself with one arm. Just like the night before, the relief the water brought was marvelous. He stayed in the pool until his buckskins were waterlogged and hung loose on his frame. Then he sat on the bank and peeled what was left of his shirt over his head. In doing so he accidentally bumped his nose. The pain it caused was the worst yet. Gritting his teeth, he tossed his head from side to side and made hissing noises until the pain subsided.

He had been shot three times. Miraculously, all three slugs had gone clean through. One was in his right shoulder but had missed the collarbone. Another was in the fleshy part of his calf and had taken some flesh, but not severed an artery. The worst was the stomach wound. The exit hole was ugly. Of frightening size, it had long since stopped bleeding.

Try though he might, he could not see the entry hole. He twisted his neck as far as he could. He bent his body into contortions a snake would envy—to no avail. At a guess he would say his vitals had been spared, but only time would really tell.

Baine decided to make camp by the pool. He brought the saddle and the rest, and laid out his blankets. It took hours. He had to rest between trips. There was grass for the claybank, and a rock to pound the picket pin in. He donned his spare buckskin shirt and munched on the last of his jerky while lying back on his saddle. A deep lassitude came over him and he drifted off.

The rest of that day and most of the next he spent sleeping. His battered body craved rest. It also craved nourishment. He had plenty of water, but food required that he rouse himself, slide his Winchester from the saddle scabbard, and prowl the cottonwoods in search of game. He flushed a doe and brought her down with a head shot. He butchered her where he shot her so as not to have the scent of her blood near his camp, where it might draw predators.

He kindled a fire and roasted a haunch. He had known he was hungry, but his need went beyond hunger. He was truly and extraordinarily famished. He ate more meat at one sitting than at any time in his entire life. The rest he cut into strips and dried over a crude frame of broken limbs. He now had enough jerked venison to last weeks.

The days became pleasant blurs. He slept most of them away. Two or three times each day he stripped and soaked in the pool. He had been there ten days before he felt anything like his old self. The wounds and lacerations were healing. He had more energy. He took to taking walks. Short walks initially, then longer and longer walks, until one day he covered several miles going and coming back.

Baine had seldom experienced such peace. Peace of mind, the peace of his healing body and a different peace deep in his being. He was content to stay there until winter set in.