James listened to the conversation of the others, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to pay attention. The initial shock of his wound had long since worn off, and now waves of pain were washing over him. The bullet was going to have to come out.
It wasn’t something he was looking forward to, but he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer.
He limped over to Billy.
“How are you doing?” Billy asked.
“I want you to cut this bullet out of my thigh,” he said.
Billy looked at the ugly, jagged wound. “I don’t know, James, I’m not very good at that sort of thing,” he said. “That wound is awfully close to a main artery. If the knife slipped and I cut it—you could bleed to death.”
“I’d rather bleed to death than die of gangrene,” James said. “Which is exactly what I’m going to do if I don’t get that bullet out. Besides, I’ve always heard you were good with a knife. Now’s my chance to find out.”
Billy sighed. “All right, I’ll take the bullet out for you.” He looked around at the others. “Carl, there’s a bottle of tequila in the saddlebag of Bob’s horse. Bring it to me.”
“Bob was carrying tequila?”
“No, I was. I switched it when I gave Bob my horse.”
Carl brought the bottle back to Billy. By the time he returned, Billy had cut open James’s pants so he could get to the wound. With his teeth, he pulled the cork from the bottle and poured tequila over the wound. It stung, but the effect was to wash away the blood and expose the ugly black hole where the bullet had entered the flesh. After that, he poured tequila over the knife. He looked at James and smiled.
“It’s a good thing I like you,” he said. “I wouldn’t waste good tequila like this on just anyone.”
James managed a pained laugh.
“Are you ready?” Billy asked.
“Wait,” James said. He picked up a stick, put it in his mouth, then nodded.
“A couple of you boys hold open the wound,” Billy said, showing what he wanted them to do.
The two men put their hands on each side of the wound then began stretching it open. One of the others held a burning brand aloft so Billy could see what he was doing and, carefully, he dug into the flesh until he located the bullet. Then, using the blade as a wedge, he got beneath the spent missile and pried it out.
“Uhn,” James grunted as he spit out the stick. “That wasn’t all that bad.”
“It isn’t over. We’re going to have to cauterize it,” Billy said.
“Yeah, I know,” James said. He picked the stick up again. “All right, let’s do it.”
Billy tore open a couple of the paper cartridges, and poured a little pile of gunpowder over the wound, then ignited it. It made a big flash and James cried out, then he bit the cry off. There was the smell of burned powder and seared flesh.
“Are you all right?” Billy asked.
“Yeah,” James replied in a strained voice. “Thanks, Billy.”
Billy nodded, then walked over to sit under a tree. Taking out his pipe he filled it with tobacco, then lit it up and was puffing contentedly when James came over to join him.
“Are you going to make it?” Billy asked.
“It hurts like hell,” James said. “But I’ll be able to hold up my end when they come back. If they come back,” he added.
“What do you mean, if they come back?”
“I’m not sure, but what I may have killed their leader.” He described the man he shot.
“You say he was wearing a red serape?” he asked.
“Yes. You didn’t see him?”
“No,” Billy answered. “But there’s a fella named Garza, Ramos Garza, who is one of those revolutionary generals I was telling you about. He wears a red serape.”
“You think this was him?”
“It could just be someone else copying him,” Billy said. “Although with a group this large, I’d say the chances might be pretty good that it was Garza you shot.”
“Will that stop them?”
“I don’t know,” Billy said. “But it will sure slow them down until they decide who their new leader is going to be.”
“Maybe that’s all we need,” James said. “Just a little more time until Bob gets back.”
Billy was silent for a moment before he replied. “Have you considered the possibility that Bob might not come back?” he asked. “Maybe something happened to him. Seems to me like he’s had plenty of time to ride to the ranch and back by now.”
“I know. I’ve thought about it and I would be lying to you if I said I wasn’t a little worried. But I’m not ready to give up on him yet.”
“Still, you’d think he’d be—”
“James, Billy, they’re comin’ back again!” Carl called.
“We’d better get ready,” James said, straining to get to his feet.
As they were getting into position, they heard shots being fired, but the shots weren’t being fired at them.
“It’s Pa!” James said, happily. “Bob got through! I told you he would!”
Flashes lit up the night as gunfire erupted between the banditos still encamped around the island and the large group of Texas ranchers who had ridden in with Garrison Cason. The fight was furious and brief as the little bandito army scattered, leaving their rustled herd behind them.
The Texans rode across the Atacosa at a full gallop.
“James!” Garrison called. “James, where are you?”
“Here, Pa,” James said, standing up from his place of cover. Riding alongside Garrison Cason was Bob Ferguson and Bob’s father, Dusty. Billy’s uncle, Loomis Swan, was also part of the posse, as were several other ranchers and cowboys. Cason had put together an army of his own.
Laughing, Bob swung down from his horse and hurried over to shake hands with James, Billy, and the others. “Had you boys given up on me?” he asked.
“No, but I must confess to being some worried,” James admitted. “You changed horses, I see.”
“I had no choice. The Mexicans killed Diablo,” Bob said. He looked over at Billy. “Sorry about your horse, Billy. He was a good horse. You might say he saved my life. Even with a bullet in him, he carried me a mile or more, far enough to get away. That’s where he keeled over. I had to run the rest of the way on foot.”
“You ran all the way to the ranch? That’s more than ten miles,” James said.
“I know,” Bob said. “Believe me, I know.”
“Hey,” one of the men shouted from the water’s edge. “This here is Ramos Garza! You boys killed Garza!”
“Are you sure?” Garrison Cason asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve seen him two or three times.”
“Who shot him?” Garrison asked. “Because whoever did, it’s worth fifty dollars, far as I’m concerned.”
“Then you’d better pay James,” Billy said. “He’s the one that shot him.”
James waved his hand in protest. “Tell you what, Pa. Why don’t you give the fifty to Bob? Seems to me like we all owe our lives to him.”
“Consider it done,” Garrison Cason said. He smiled broadly, his teeth shining brightly in the moonlight.
“Well, thanks,” Bob said.
“Don’t get too attached to that money, Bob,” Billy said. “You’re going to spend every penny of it buyin’ us drinks in the Oasis.”
“Yeah!” one of the other cowboys said.
“It’s a deal,” Bob agreed, happily.
Chapter Two
Clay County, Missouri
Friday, June 21, 1861:
The little building stood alone on a country road, ten miles from the nearest town. It had started out as a general store, but because it was the only establishment of trade in this part of the county, its business grew.