Wild West by Elmer Kelton

Author:Elmer Kelton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

NO EPITAPH FOR ME

On the offside of the hill, two of the three shivering riders swung down from their saddles. Stiff-fingered, they tied their split leather reins to winter-bared mesquite limbs swaying in the chill morning wind. Hunching over against the cold, they trudged up the hill.

The third man stayed in the saddle. He was bent low over the saddle horn, clutching with a gloved hand the dried crimson blotch that spread down from the shoulder of his thick woolen coat. His pinched young face was almost blue. His struggle against pain had left ugly tooth marks on his lower lip.

Reaching the top of the hill, Clay Forehand crouched low. He glanced a moment at the heavy gray clouds and grunted in satisfaction. There was a smell of rain in the air, freezing rain that would chill to the bone. But it would wash out tracks. Zack Bratcher crawled up behind him. “See them anywheres? They coming on?”

The wind was blowing straight down from the wide-open plains of the Texas Panhandle. Forehand blinked the wind-bite from his eyes and peered anxiously over the back trail. “There’s a little speck down there. Can’t tell if it’s moving or not.”

Awkwardly, because of the cold, he reached his sheep-lined coat and pulled out a six-shooter. He slipped it into the crotch of a stout mesquite, near the ground where the wind couldn’t move it. He worked it around until the sights were aligned on the speck. Blinking again, he concentrated on the front sight. The spot moved slowly from the top of the sight and off to the left.

“They’re heading up the river,” he said.

Zack Bratcher chuckled, a chuckle that came from deep in his thick throat. A grin showed stained teeth through the black stubble that covered his wolfish face.

“Then we’ve shook them, by God. It’s took us two days, but we’ve shook them.”

Clay grunted. “If they don’t circle back and cut our sign before it rains. Now let’s put some more miles behind us so we can find shelter for Allan.”

He trotted down the hill, enjoying briefly the warm tingling of blood circulating through his saddle-stiffened legs. He wasn’t a big man, this Clay Forehand. But though he was hardly more than thirty, he already had a way of carrying himself, a stern set to his stubbled jaw, that made men walk around him.

Untying his own horse, Clay led him up beside the wounded man’s mount. “How you making it, boy?”

Allan Forehand swayed over the horn. He mumbled an unintelligible answer through his chattering teeth.

Attempting a show of cheerfulness, Clay rested his hand on his brother’s knee. “Hang on, boy. We’ll be finding you a house and a warm bed directly.”

But, he pondered darkly as he swung into the cold saddle, it had better not be too long. The jogging ride might start the wound bleeding again. Allan had spilled too much blood already, this side of the San Angelo bank.

The rain started, as he had hoped. First it fell in scattered droplets cold as ice.

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