“Didn’t hit that big bone,” Hatcher explained as he leaned over the wound, pressed down on the flesh around the hole with his weight, and dug in with the puller.
Scratch ground his teeth together as the pain continued to swell, rising to a feverish red heat, glowing in overlapping waves that rose right up through his buttock and into the pit of him, spreading deep through his belly. Again and again Hatcher dug—yanking and swearing with each attempt, only to dig again. Each time coming up empty-handed.
“Sumbitch!” Jack grumbled, the bags under his eyes going liver-colored with frustration. “Caleb Wood! Get me my pouch yonder.”
When the shooting bag was laid on the ground next to Scratch, Hatcher began digging through it all the way to the bottom as Bass raggedly caught his breath while the sharp pain slowly subsided. He watched Hatcher drag a short ball starter out of the pouch.
“Roll him on his right side, fellas,” Hatcher said, of a sudden his voice much calmer than it had been since this operation had begun.
While they gently rolled him onto his right hip, Titus stared at that ball starter: a short six-inch length of hickory ramrod embedded in a small hardwood ball that fit comfortably in a man’s palm.
“Wha—what you gonna do now with that?”
“I can’t pull that arrow outta ye,” Jack explained, holding the starter in the light, “so I figger to hammer it out.”
“H-h-hammer?” Titus squeaked.
“Hold him down,” Hatcher said, refusing to answer the question. “This is gonna hurt him, bad.”
As much as he tried to keep his muscles relaxed, Scratch felt them tense as Hatcher set the brass-tipped end of that short ramrod into the hole on the front of his leg. He didn’t like the idea of what he knew was about to happen, watching Hatcher take his knife from its sheath, grip the blade, and prepare to swing the weapon’s handle at the round ball. He figured Hatcher was right about this, if nothing else: it was gonna hurt.
The last thing Bass remembered was hearing the antler knife handle whack hollow against the hickory ball … then sensed his stomach rise, twisting itself into a fiery knot that hurled against his tonsils before he lost all sensation, the searing red flames of pain mercifully dissipating in a cool blue rush of blessed unconsciousness.
Slipping down, down—scolding himself for ever having thought the pain was going to be unbearable, that it was going to be so bad he’d wet himself there in front of his friends … because right where he was at that moment, Scratch didn’t feel a goddamned thing.
It wasn’t until the following morning that he learned how the others had hoisted him up on the back of a horse behind the muscular Matthew Kinkead, then tied the two of them together before setting off in the dark, riding south and east at a good clip toward the foothills lying tangled at the base of the western slope of the Rockies.
The sun had felt good that morning, despite the fever he was running. Its touch was warm and reassuring there on the back of his neck as he awoke slowly, bouncing gently against Kinkead’s broad shoulders, gradually sensing the rub of the thick hemp rope wound across his ribs and back, slowly realizing what they had done because he didn’t have the strength to cling to the back of a horse by himself, much less hang on to consciousness during their perilous starlit ride.
“Seen any sign of ’em?” he whispered in a hoarse croak that sunup, his words mumbled against Matthew’s back.
“Nothin’,” Kinkead replied wearily.
That one word was spoken loud enough to alert the others that Bass had come to.
Hatcher eased his horse up on the off-hand side, the direction Bass faced with his cheek rubbing Matthew’s shoulder blade. “Mornin’ to ye, ol’ coon!”
“Wh-where we …” Then realized his mouth was terribly dry.
“Where we headed?” Jack finished. “To Bayou Salade, Scratch. Right where we been heading since we pulled away from Sweet Lake ronnyvoo.”
“Mornin’, glory!” Caleb came up on Jack’s off side, smiling hugely as he leaned forward so Bass could see him. “How’s he doin’, Jack?”
“Don’t look to be bleedin’ no more,” Hatcher said. “’Bout all I know is the nigger’s awake and thirsty as the burning pits of hell itself. Let’s see if’n we can find us a cool drink for him up ahead at that line of green, yonder.”
“Likely a crik there,” Wood said, urging his horse into a lope so he could take the lead.
“This time of year,” Kinkead declared, “I hope it ain’t a crik what’s dried up already.”
“Nawww,” Jack said, his eyes smiling at Bass’s pasty face, “there’s bound to be water for this here arrow catcher. Even if we have to scratch for it.”
What there was had been a trickle. Still, enough for the men to water the animals downstream after they untied Bass and eased him down into a patch of shade among the trees where the buzz and drone of summer’s insects accompanied the rustle of the leaves brushed by an intermittent breeze. They brought him the cool water a cup at a time. No matter that it was a little gritty, what with flowing so close over the sandy bottom of the creekbed—it tasted better than he could remember water tasting on his tongue in a long time. They bathed his face and neck, washed off some of the dried blood around the crusty strip of cloth binding up his wounds, and some of the men dozed as the sun rose.
After a couple hours of fitful sleep, Scratch awoke to hear Hatcher rustling the men into motion. They had been off the trail long enough, he told them. They’d get a chance to sleep more that night if they put a few more miles, a few more hours, behind them.
Back onto the horse went Kinkead. Up they hoisted Scratch again, two of them, a third cradling the leg as gently as he could, raising him to his rocking chair behind the saddle, where they retied him to Matthew; then all went to their horses and drove the pack animals away from that narrow little stream.
Not until sundown did Hatcher select a secure place for a cold camp. No fire that night—but not one of them grumbled. They were either too tired to complain, or they damn well understood the stupidity of lighting a beacon that might well call down a reinforced Bannock raiding party on them again. That night Bass grew cold not long after moonrise.
“We’re climbing a bit,” Solomon Fish explained as he knelt and laid another blanket over Titus. “Natural for you to get yourself a chill.”
They kept on climbing the next morning, and for every day across the next two weeks as they tramped through the long hours of sunlight, winding into the high country. From time to time one of the group would point out a recognized landmark to the others. By the fourth day after the scrap with the Bannock, Scratch was staying awake longer as he rocked against Kinkead’s back. And by the end of that first week, he was finally able to move about on the leg, finding he could stuff his left foot into a stirrup and hoist himself onto the back of his horse without the muscles in that leg crumpling, collapsing, spilling him onto the ground.
This matter of getting himself forked astride a horse was something a mountain trapper quickly learned was an affair of life or death. To ride was not a luxury, not some mere convenience. Having an animal and the ability to ride meant survival. To be without a horse, or to find that one could not stay in the saddle, might well be a death sentence.
So again, from somewhere deep inside this determined man, came the strength and dogged resolve to mend himself. Mule-headed stubbornness even more than pride drove Titus to test the leg, to swallow down the pain and push beyond what he had known before as his limits of endurance. At each night’s camp Bass found himself almost too weary to eat as the fire was kindled and meat set to broil at the end of long green sticks driven into the earth around the fire. The ride, that work it took pushing up into the high country, picking a trail along the mountainsides, up and down, then up and down again—it all took its toll day after day. At night he slept so soundly, he rarely rolled over, slept until someone nudged him with a toe, announcing it was time to water the stock, pack, and move out again.