The Stalking Moon by T.V. Olsen

Author:T.V. Olsen [Olsen, T.V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781477884805
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2013-08-12T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

There was a young eternity of pressing through wind-lashed torrents of icy rain till all his flesh was numbed by the wet cold working beneath his slicker; he could no longer feel his knees urging the horse’s flanks. His fingers around the reins seemed blocky and frozen. Equally numb, his senses were dazzled by the writhing white snakes of lightning and the sullen cannonade of steady thunder. Not willing to pause for his own sake, not daring to pause for the horse’s, Vetch drove the stumbling animal relentlessly on.

Then he was plunging down the muddy channel of Spanish Crossing’s street; he was hammering at Dr. Sykes’s door and rousing him out and saying to get his clothes on. Not waiting, Vetch then slogged through the heavy mud, leading the pinto to the livery barn, which was closed at this hour. Vetch did not hesitate; with unfeeling hands he unbarred the big double doors and led his mount inside. By the time the doctor arrived Vetch had the two fresh animals saddled and bridled.

Early on the return ride the storm mercifully lost violence; the rain slackened to a gentle misery of slow drizzle while the wind held bearably low and was at their backs. Even the thunder was so intermittent that Vetch’s tired ears registered every syllable of the doctor’s steady cursing. Vetch had ridden out the full brunt of the storm and had enjoyed not a moment to thaw out; by the time they reached the ranch he could only collapse into the leather armchair by the fireplace, where Sara had laid a roaring fire. The doctor bustled on into the bedroom.

As a slow restoration of feeling and sensory impression came, Vetch heard the low onrun of Sara’s and the doctor’s voices, but they ran together in a meaningless jumble. His head ached and his eyelids felt like crusty lead; the fire’s hot aura ate soporifically into his consciousness, and so—Just for a minute now—he let his eyes close.

He became aware of a hand rough on his arm; then he was on his feet with a start, facing Dr. Sykes. He saw the changed expression on Sykes’s irascible face, and he knew even before the doctor said in a remarkably soft tone, “I’m sorry, Mr. Vetch. Deeply sorry.”

Long minutes passed after Sykes took his leave, and still Vetch could not nerve himself to enter the bedroom. He had not heard a whisper of sound from there. She is a woman like other women; she could cry or whoop or anything but this. Then he heard it, a sound that he knew and yet could not give credence to; the short hairs rose at the back of his neck.

The blood in his veins was cold; he stalked through the rooms and halted in the bedroom doorway. She was kneeling before the rude box crib, swaying her head and shoulders; she shook the unbound mass of her hair, and on her lips was a loose singsong chant. He had heard Apache women wail for their dead; he knew.

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