Matt set his hands on Lewis's back and tried unsuccessfully to determine if the left lung was expanded. Then he put his ear near the entry wound and listened for breath sounds. It was simply too awkward a situation to tell.
"Lewis, how's your breathing?" he asked, checking the pulses in Lewis's arms and neck, which were all strong and steady.
"Be better if'n Ah could have me one a them cigarettes in ma back pocket."
Lewis grunted as he spoke, and stopped twice to cough.
"They'd be soaked. Everything's soaked," Matt said, aching at what he had caused to happen to his old friend.
"Ah put 'em in a baggie. Matches, too."
"Why am I not surprised. Listen, Lewis, as soon as we're away from here I'll give you one. Promise." Matt cut the light. "What do you think we should do right now?"
"Not stay here. Thet's fer certain."
"Can you walk if I help?"
Matt guessed that fifteen minutes or more had passed since Lewis was hit by one of the wildly ricocheting bullets. Over that time, they had traveled quite a ways through narrow, low, winding tunnels. The man might be in his sixties and slight of frame, but he was an absolute bull.
"Ah kin try," Lewis said.
Carefully, as silently as they could manage, they inched their way down the hill, sliding on their backsides. At the bottom they waited again, listening. Finally, Matt slipped his arm around Lewis's waist and helped him first to his feet, then across the narrow clearing between the hill and the woods. From somewhere in the distance they could hear voices, but the threat of discovery — at least imminent discovery — was gone.
By the time they had gone fifty yards into the forest, it was clear that Lewis was not going to be able to make it back to the motorcycle. Now, breathing more rapidly, he sank down against the base of a pine tree.
"Don' this jes friggin' beat all," he said, punctuating the observation with an abbreviated burst of coughing. "Ah spent two year in Nam without gettin' a scratch. Now this."
"You look like you're having more trouble catching your breath."
"Ah'll be okay."
"Lewis, I've got to get you to the hospital."
"Exceptin' Ah ain't goin'."
Again, he was coughing, only this time he couldn't keep himself from crying out in pain. Matt checked his wounds, which were almost clotted, and his pulses, which still seemed fairly strong.
"Listen," he said, "you've got to stay here while I go and get my bike. Then I'll take you to the hospital myself."
Lewis's eyes flashed.
"Zare somethin' wrong with yer hearin', boy? Ah sayed Ah weren't goin' ta no hospital. They's a chance them mine guards don' know who they 'uz shootin' at. But havin' me show up ta the hospital with a damn bullet hole in me would be lak a death sentence — an' probly one fer you, too."
He ran out of breath before he could say any more.
"Look," Matt said, "let me go and get the bike if I can find it. Then we'll talk."
"Ah done all the talkin' Ah need to," Lewis said, folding his arms across his chest.
As best he could manage, he gave directions to the path they had taken to get to the cleft. Matt took the flashlight and compass and prepared to set out. First, though, he knelt beside Slocumb.
"Lewis, I'm really, really sorry for what's happened to you," he said. "I wish it were me instead."
"Well, Ah sure as shit don," Lewis twanged. "Ma brothers'd kill me in a lamb's heartbeat if'n they thunk Ah let ya get shot. Yer our doctor."
"I'll be back soon," Matt said. "You stay put."
"Ah 'uz plannin' on doin' that," Lewis replied.
With his senses on red alert, Matt skirted the hill, giving it and the men searching its base a wide berth. He had never navigated by compass, and after a time, he abandoned the attempt as too difficult and uncertain. It was now after four. It seemed likely that the new day would bring an intensified search for them. In the dark it was impossible to appreciate whether or not Lewis was well concealed. Spurred by the thought that he might not be, Matt sped up, stumbling more than once on thick, exposed roots. Using the flashlight was still chancy, but after he tripped and lurched headfirst into a juniper bush, he decided it was a chance worth taking.
With a rough notion of where the hill was, he plunged on, searching for the small clearing where the Kawasaki Vulcan was chained. Getting to the motorcycle was requiring implicit faith in Lewis's directions and a hell of a lot of luck, but not nearly as much luck as he was going to need to get the five-hundred-pound bike back through the dense forest.
Locating the Vulcan turned out to be surprisingly easy. The key was maintaining a notion of where he was relative to the hills and keeping on until he hit the stream. Then he made a cautious right turn onto a narrow path and carefully inspected the woods until he spotted the bike.
Matt unlocked the machine and pushed it twenty feet or so over the uneven ground. Roots stopped him short, and even small rocks threw him off balance. He had estimated half a mile from the clearing where he had chained the motorcycle to the base of the hill. There was a chance that the damp, heavy air would swallow the noise of the engine, provided he didn't go too close to the men who were searching for them. But even if he managed to ride the bike through the forest to a spot equidistant to where Lewis was waiting, he would have to turn to the right and head back toward the hills where the guards were patrolling.
Were there any choices?
One possibility was to ignore Lewis's wishes and get the police and rescue squad involved immediately. Beyond trespassing in an area that wasn't even posted, they had really done nothing wrong, and whether their actions were lawful or not, their findings clearly showed the mine was guilty of storing and dumping toxic waste. Still, involving the Belinda police felt chancy at best. There was little sympathy for any of the Slocumbs in the official quarters of town, and it was well known that Police Chief Bill Grimes was tightly connected with Armand Stevenson.
Perhaps it would be worth contacting his uncle, he thought now. Hal was tight with Grimes, as he was with most of those in town.
Matt knew that if he didn't get help and something serious happened to Lewis, he would forever have trouble living with himself. But he would also have trouble living with himself if he betrayed the man's trust.
It was my clinical judgment, Lewis.
Well, screw yer clinical jedgment, boy. You jes signed our death warrant.
His stomach churning like a rock polisher, Matt checked the direction of the hill using his compass, started the engine, and swung the bike west into the dense forest. So much for clinical judgment.
Bushwhacking through heavy brush on a moonless night aboard a five-hundred-pound motorcycle built for the street was as challenging as running a disaster drill in the ER, and a hell of a lot more dangerous. Keeping his feet off the rests and his legs out straight for balance, Matt weaved between trees and under low-hanging branches, all the time trying desperately to keep from revving the engine too much. Brambles whipped across his visor and gouged his chin and lips. Once, the Vulcan skidded sideways on a thick root and fell over. Matt barely managed to keep his leg from being pinned underneath it or fried on the exhaust pipe. Five minutes… ten… Surely the engine noise had attracted attention by now. They probably had four-wheel ATVs and were already after the sound. Fifteen… It seemed like time to turn right toward the hill.