What kind of a man could kill such a fine horse as Nero? Dag wondered. What kind of skunk? And for that matter, what kind of person could murder another human being for money? The lowest kind. Such a man did not deserve to live, but did he himself have the courage to take another’s life? Even take life from a man like Horton?
Dag wrestled with these and other thoughts as he continued to circle where he thought Horton had been when he shot Nero. Then he started closing in on the ridge. He made a crucial decision while he still could see Nero’s body up on the top of the slope. He holstered his pistol and slipped the heavy Henry Yellow Boy from its sheath, then eased out of the saddle.
He pointed Firefly toward the place where Nero’s corpse lay and slapped its rump hard with the flat of his hand. The horse galloped off in that direction, scattering rocks and making a racket as it galloped away from him. He levered a cartridge into the chamber of the rifle and, hunched over, started running toward the top of the ridge.
When he cleared the ridge, Firefly was still on the run. That was when he saw the silhouette of a man rise up from the ground, holding a rifle in his hands. The man brought the rifle up to his shoulder and tracked the running horse.
“Horton,” Dag yelled.
Horton turned in surprise and swung his rifle toward Dag.
“Drop it,” Dag yelled.
The man fired straight at Dag, without hesitation. Dag ducked even more and heard the bullet sizzle the air like an angry hornet.
“You son of a bitch,” Dag yelled as he stood up. He lined up the rear buckhorn sight with the front blade sight and squeezed the trigger. The butt of his rifle bucked against his shoulder.
Before Horton fell, Dag saw a puff of smoke, a belch of orange flame and felt a sledgehammer smash in his left shoulder. He spun around from the impact and saw clouds race by in a spiraling whirlwind. He pitched down and struck the ground. His rifle slipped from his hands and clattered on the rocks.
He heard a yell from somewhere as he fought against blackness and oblivion. He lay there, the breath knocked out of his lungs, and felt his head settle and his vision return. He reached out, grasped his rifle, and stood up.
“You got him, Dag,” Cavins yelled. “You nailed the bastard.”
Blood streamed from Dag’s shoulder. He staggered toward the figure of Cavins standing over a dark shape on the ground. He squeezed his left arm against his rib cage, out of some instinct, perhaps, to stop the bleeding. He gritted his teeth against the pain that now seeped from his arm into his shoulder, down his back and up to his head.
He staggered up the rocky slope to where Cavins was standing over the body of Horton.
“You got hit?” Cavins asked.
“Yeah,” Dag said, through clenched teeth.
“Let’s have a look.”
“Is he dead?”
“Plumb dead. You got him in the ticker, Dag.”
Cavins laid his rifle down across Horton’s legs. Horton’s shirt was soaked with blood, but his heart was no longer pumping and flies boiled over the wound.
“You took a bullet in the arm,” Cavins said, “but it went on through, kind of creasing you. Lot of blood and some ground-up meat, but he missed takin’ your arm off or hittin’ a big vein or such.”
He untied the bandanna around his neck, shook it out, then folded it flat. He tied a tourniquet above the wound, knotted it, and then reached down and found a small stick, which he placed inside the knot. He tightened that, then took a couple of turns until the blood stopped gushing out.
“You’re gettin’ pale, Dag. We got to get you back and put some liniment and a proper bandage on you.”
Dag’s face was pale and he felt dizzy. The arm did not hurt so much now, but he was giddy, and a little bit addled. He looked around.
“Find his horse, Lonnie. We’re packin’ Horton back. Can you do that while I go over and pay my respects to Nero?”
“Sure, Dag,” Cavins said quietly. “You go right ahead. I’ll pack this piece of shit.”
Dag looked up the hill and saw the hulk of Nero and started walking toward it. He laid his rifle down on the ground like a man bewildered, but going through the motions of life. The breeze was fresh and warm against his face, but it cooled the sweat that bathed his cheeks and forehead, that trickled down from under his hat.
Nero lay lifeless on the ground, his mane fluttering, his big brown eyes glassy and frosted over with the mist of death.
Dag knelt down and patted the horse’s neck, bowed his head. He thought of all the rides he’d had with the animal, and the loyalty and trust Nero had shown him. His eyes misted over and he fought back tears as he ran his fingers through Nero’s mane.
“You were a good horse, boy,” he choked. “I hope you go to good pasture where the grass is high and green and have the company of your own kind. I am goin’ to miss you, Nero boy, and I hope you miss me too.”
Then Dag crumpled up and began to weep softly. After a minute, the sobs came from a deep place and he couldn’t stop them. He put his head on Nero’s neck and rubbed his back with soft strokes.
“Damn, it ain’t right,” Dag husked, and stood up, the sobs lessening now, some semblance of reason returning. He wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve, closed them to squeeze out the last of the tears.
“So long, pard,” he whispered, and the tears came back again, choking him, uncontrollably.
He looked up at the sky through wet eyes and saw the clouds and the blue ocean and thought he heard Nero whinny from some far place, but it was only an illusion. The wind rose and blew against him. The scent of Nero wafted to his nostrils, not the scent of the dead horse, but the one that was still alive in his mind.
He did not look again at Nero, but started walking back down the slope, the wind at his back, and the acrid stench of death filling his nostrils and strangling his hammering heart.
Chapter 22
The delirium and the fever lasted three days. Dag lay on a makeshift cot inside the wagon that Finnerty had rigged for him. Fingers figured out that he could store food and utensils beneath the sickbed and not lose any space. Jo fed Dag hot and cold broth and wiped his feverish face with wet clothes while Dag raved or slept or hallucinated. It wasn’t until after they had crossed Palo Duro Creek, a creek that had no connection with the canyon, that Dag started to come around. The wound in his arm had scabbed over and the broth helped him regain the blood he had lost.
The herd moved on, into New Mexico Territory.
For the past several weeks, Flagg had been training the herd not to stampede if it heard gunfire. He started out by having a man shoot one shot from his rifle at some distance from the herd. Each day, and always during the day, he ordered each shot to be fired closer to the herd. And for the past several days, the single shot had been fired within sight of the herd. The cattle had soon learned that they were not in danger from these odd noises.
Now Flagg wondered if the herd would stampede if a lot of rifles were fired and the animals were sent into a panic that caused them to run helter-skelter. He had been watching his backtrail and seeing the flash of mirrors. He had known, for a time, that they were being followed by Comanches, perhaps the same ones who had dogged them through Palo Duro Canyon.
Then the flashings had stopped, and he thought he knew why. The Comanches were closing in. The signaling had stopped shortly after they had burned Nero. The fire had sent a tall column of black smoke into the sky, which could be seen for many miles.
And he lied to Dag about that.
“What did you do with Nero?” Dag had asked during a lucid moment.