Austin nodded but didn’t speak.
“You swing out to the left there, an’ I’ll go over where I killed the first one,” Will whispered. “See you back at the horses.”
The lookout at the rock was standing this time and Will could hear him shifting his feet on the gritty stone surface as he paced a short pattern. Will listened for several minutes; the shuffling pattern didn’t change. The man’s final step as he turned to repeat his pacing was perfect. It put his back a mere couple of steps from where Will stood, knife at the ready, blade up, clutched chest high. Will let the guard make another pass. Then he crouched slightly, extended his right hand and the knife a bit from his body, and balanced himself carefully on the balls of his feet, left moccasin slightly behind his right. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, shook his wrist to loosen any tension in it, and when the time was perfect, sprang out from the edge of the rock, left hand finding and covering the guard’s mouth from the back at the same time his right hand arced out and plunged the blade to the hilt into the man’s chest.
The guard was an Indian. The stench of the grease on his hair was like the pit of a privy.
He grunted as the knife struck and his mouth opened slightly, even under Will’s powerful grip. Will drew the knife from the guard’s chest, pulling it upward and twisting it as he did so. At the same moment—perhaps as a final act of battle or perhaps in his death throes—the Indian closed his teeth on the lower palm of Will’s left hand. The pain was sharp, hot, and Will could feel his flesh tearing. Then, as quickly as the gnashing pressure began, it stopped and all the strength drained from the man: from his mouth, his arms, his chest. Will pulled his knife free and let the body fall facedown. He quickly turned the corpse over, carved the HW into the warm, blood-slick chest, and then looked at his own hand. It was bleeding freely, the blood dark in the night, spattering at Will’s feet. A flap of skin and muscle three inches long hung from the bottom of the hand like a piece of torn, damp cloth. Will put the rock between himself and the dead Indian and used his knife to cut the left sleeve off his shirt. The blade, razor sharp, eased through the fabric soundlessly. Will slid the knife back into his sheath and, holding one end of the sleeve in his teeth, took a tight wrap around the wound, doing his best to hold the flap of skin to where it’d come from. He listened for a long moment and then started back to his camp.
He had the horses saddled and bridled before Austin returned. “You OK?” Will asked.
“Yeah. Killed the outrider and left him with the HW. You?”
“I got the lookout that replaced the one I killed earlier. Sumbitch bit my hand pretty bad. Other’n that, I’m good.”
Austin stepped closer to inspect Will’s wound. “Still bleedin’ heavy, even with the wrap,” he said. “I got some latigo in my saddlebag. I’ll rig you a tourniquet. Take your reins in your right hand an’ hold the left higher’n your heart, much as you can.”
Will looked at his friend more closely. He had a tightly strung bow across his chest and a quiver with ten or so arrows in it draped over his shoulder. “I didn’t know you could handle a bow,” he said.
“Might could be lotsa things ‘bout me you don’t know, Will. Come on—let’s ride.”
They rode slowly, barely beyond an extended walk, until there was enough light to see prairie-dog holes, half-buried rocks, rattlers out seeking morning warmth, and the other natural traps that awaited the unwary horseman.
With the sun came the searing heat; by nine in the morning the men and the horses were sweating copiously. Every so often one of the men would turn in his saddle and gaze at their backtrail. Miles back there was some dust rising into the air, moving at what seemed to be a steady pace toward them.
About noon they came to a wagon-wheel-sized puddle of brackish water. They loosened their cinches and let their horses drink, and they themselves sucked at their canteens, ate some jerky, and rolled smokes. Austin noticed that Will was scattering tobacco around where he sat and that he couldn’t seem to get a decent crease in a paper. “Lemme see your paw,” Austin said.
“Nothin’ to see. It’s comin’ good.”
“Hold it out.”
Reluctantly, Will did so. “Jesus God,” Austin whispered. The tourniquet had stopped most of the bleeding, but Will’s fingers had turned into fat, shiny white-skinned sausages, and he couldn’t have formed a fist if his life depended on it. Worse yet, tiny lines of red had begun traveling from Will’s palm up toward his elbow. “Hurt much?”
“Some.”
“Some, my ass. What we gotta do is free up the latigo, let some blood get to the bite. Could be some fresh blood’ll clean her out a bit.”
“It ain’t nothin’ but a little bite. It’ll clear up. We ain’t got time to screw around with it now.” He nodded toward the dust behind them. “They’re gettin’ closer.”
“They’ll kill their horses ’fore they catch us,” Austin said. “What they probably done was leave their worst drunks an’ cowards to watch over the cattle an’ horses, an’ One Dog brought his best braves an’ fighters with him. They’ll ride hard ’til their horses drop an’ then come on foot ’til they can steal some more somewhere.” He looked back at Will. “Lemme loosen that latigo.”
“It’s just a—”
“Lookit here,” Austin answered, almost in a snarl. “Ain’t nothin’ more dangerous than a human bite, ’specially from scum like them. A dog’s or wolf’s teeth are a lot cleaner’n a man’s, an’ I know that to be a fact. A friend of mine got bit by a Arapahoe on his shoulder an’ it got all swole up—like your hand—an’ he croaked in four days.” As he spoke Austin released the knot of the tourniquet. “Let it hang at your side now.”
Will did so. After what seemed like an interminably long time, some pus and blood began to drip onto the sand. Its odor was rancid, enough to make a man gag. “We gotta take the wrap off an’ put a fresh one on,” Austin said. “ ’Fore we wrap her again, I’ll pour what booze we got left into the cut—might help some.”
Before Will could reply, Austin began taking turns of the sleeve around the cut. When he got to the final wrap, he warned, “Now this one’s gonna be a pisser, but we got no choice. See, the cloth is kinda glued in there an’ it’s gotta come out. You ready?”
“No.”
“Well hell,” Austin said and tore the final turn of sleeve free. Will fell to his knees, his teeth grinding against one another with the pain. He didn’t yell out or scream, but the deep whimpering sounds that came from his throat showed the degree of his pain. Austin fetched the quarter bottle of booze they had left, drew his knife, cut off his own left sleeve, and hunkered down next to Will. “You wanna take a slug of redeye ’fore I do this? Might help.”
“Just do it—get it over with.”
Austin pulled the cork with his teeth. “Turn your hand so the bite’s up,” he said. The flap of skin hadn’t taken at all; it hung free, and its edges were turning a light greenish blue color. “Shit. That’s gotta come off,” Austin said, “or the sumbitch will rot your whole hand.”
Will nodded. Austin drew his knife, took the gangrenous edge between his left thumb and forefinger, and sliced downward quickly, without warning. The patch of flesh hit the sand and Austin kicked it away, hoping to get some of the stench away from them.
“I hardly felt that,” Will said.
“You’ll feel the booze.” He took a good hold on Will’s wrist and poured the whiskey over the exposed tissue. This time Will did scream—and then he passed out. “Jus’ as well,” Austin mumbled, finishing the pouring and tossing the empty bottle off to the side. He sat beside his friend, rolled a cigarette, lit it, and waited for Will to come back to consciousness.