“Yes?” Cox said.
“Let’s say I’m the far side and you are this side.”
“Your point?”
“I’m just trying to determine who benefits the most,” Virgil said, “and who don’t. So if I’m the far side, the side cattleman Swickey has land on, or your side, the Appaloosa and vicinity’s side—”
“I certainly see where you are going with this,” Cox said, interrupting Virgil. “I’m not unaware of the most obvious here. It is why the bridge was to be constructed in the first place, Marshal. The bridge would allow goods and services, including the transportation of cattle. There is no argument for one side benefitting more from having the bridge than the other.”
“I’m not talking about benefitting from having the bridge,” Virgil said. “I’m talking about who’d benefit the most from not having the bridge.”
36
Virgil and I mounted up in the silvery cold morning and left the bridge camp slightly before daylight. The snow had let up, but there was a good foot packed on the ground and it was slow going as we rode.
There was not the slightest breeze. We traveled for eight solid hours in the silence of the snow-covered country. The woods were soundless and everything was still as we moved. We came to a wide-open section without trees and Virgil stopped.
“This must be the meadow Gains was talking about,” Virgil said.
I looked around.
“And that there must be the incline he was talking about,” I said.
Virgil nodded and we moved off the main road and started up the incline. It wasn’t a steep rise, and when we topped the ridge it was clear we were on another road. We continued on riding for about two hours when Virgil stopped again. He turned in his saddle and waited until I was close before he spoke.
“Smell that?” he said quietly.
I looked around.
“Do,” I said.
From somewhere in the woods in front of us we smelled smoke. We rode on for a bit more, then we caught a glimpse of smoke drifting through the trees off to our left. Virgil stopped and I sidled up next to him.
He pointed to the opposite side of the road to the right and we moved off the road and distanced ourselves from the origin of the fire. We stopped under some tall oaks, dismounted, and snugged our horses and the mule to a twisted old oak tree.
Virgil pulled his Winchester from his scabbard and I got my eight-gauge. We circled off the road so as to come upon the fire at a distance from the path.
We made it a step at a time, moving through the deep snow. It took us some time of slow moving before we were close enough to see the source of the smoke.
There was a small fire burning behind an outcropping of rocks next to a steamy creek.
We moved up ever so slowly, and when we were close Virgil signaled me to come in from one direction while he moved off to the other side so he’d come in from the opposite angle.
We kept each other in sight as we approached the camp.
I saw Virgil squat down and I did the same. After a moment Virgil brought the Winchester to his shoulder and pointed it in the direction of the fire.
“Don’t move,” Virgil called out. “I got you in my sights.”
“I ain’t armed,” a voice called back.
“How many are you?” Virgil said.
“Just me,” the voice said.
“Step out,” Virgil said.
Just then I saw the backside of a figure rise up from the rocks. He held his left arm up facing Virgil’s direction.
“I don’t got no gun,” the man said. “I’m friendly, by myself, and hungry. I don’t want no harm to me or no one else.”
“Who are you?” Virgil called.
“Name’s Lonnie,” the man said. “Lonnie Carman.”
Virgil lowered his Winchester some and looked over to me.
“I’m just a worker from the bridge camp,” Lonnie said, “and I need help.”
“Lonnie,” Virgil said. “If you are lying to me, you will die.”
“Oh, hell,” Lonnie said. “I ain’t lying. I’ve been shot. I’m alone, cold, and real near dead like it is.”
“Step out more,” Virgil said. “Keep your hands away from yourself.”
“Okay,” he said. “I can barely move.”
Lonnie stepped out slowly from the outcropping with one of his hands in the air.
“I can only lift my one arm,” he said. “Barely.”
Virgil nodded over to me and we moved slowly toward Lonnie.
When we got closer, I could see Lonnie clearly. He had his one hand on top of his head and he appeared to be in bad shape, facing Virgil as he approached.
“Lonnie,” I said.
Lonnie turned, looking back to me. He squinted in my direction. He kept looking at me, as I got closer to him.
“Oh, sweet Jesus. Deputy Hitch?” Lonnie said with a tremble in his voice. “That you, Deputy Marshal Hitch?”
“It is.”
Lonnie looked back to Virgil, as he got closer.
“And Marshal Cole?” Lonnie said.
“It is,” Virgil said.
“Oh my Lord. My prayers have been answered. Oh, my. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.”
Lonnie looked back to me.
“Thank you, Jesus.”
Lonnie started crying.
“It’s okay, Lonnie,” I said.
“Deputy Marshal Hitch,” he said, then looked to Virgil. “And Marshal Cole. Oh, Jesus. Thank you, sweet Jesus. You fellas have no idea how goddamn glad I am to see the likes of you two. No idea.”
37
When Virgil and I got close we could see Lonnie was not lying. He had been shot. He was alone, hungry, dirty, cold, and in bad shape. He had been under a cavelike outcropping where he’d been able to keep a small fire going.
Lonnie dropped when we got close. He’d obviously been living on sheer will, and the sight of us as reinforcement allowed him to give way to exhaustion.
“Hang on, Lonnie,” I said. “Just hang on.”
Virgil fetched our horses and I tended the best I could to Lonnie. I eased him under the dryness in the outcropping. I pulled back his coat and blood-soaked shirt and looked at his wound. He’d been shot in the back, just below his collarbone, and the bullet exited out the lower part of his chest. He had managed to somehow wrap the wound with part of his shirt he’d ripped up. He’d made a bandage with his belt. He’d wrapped it under one arm and over his neck and on the opposite side, holding the pieces of ripped shirt tight to his body.
When Virgil arrived with the animals I retrieved the medicine kit from the panniers the deputies packed. We got the fire going good, and I cleaned Lonnie’s bullet wounds with hot water, doused them with carbolic acid, then wrapped his shoulder with bandages.
We cooked some venison strap we’d got from the cook at the bridge camp and heated up some beans.
Lonnie was hurt and weak, but he was hungry and had no trouble getting food down.
“Wanna tell us what happened here, Lonnie?” Virgil said.
Lonnie looked at us and shook his head a little.
“I run into some shit,” Lonnie said.
“You seen Sheriff Driskill and his deputies, Karl and Chip?” Virgil said.
“No, I haven’t,” Lonnie said. “I sure wish I had, that’ve been a blessing.”
“What kind of shit did you run into?” Virgil said.
“I was riding from the camp, on my way back to Appaloosa, and Ruth, my mare of twenty years, spooked. There was a goddamn rumble from the earth or some such, blackbirds shot out of a thicket and Ruth jerked up and sidestepped. Next thing I know she was walking funny. I got off her and there was bone sticking out of her leg. Poor Ruth. I hated it, but I had to put her down.”
Lonnie paused. He looked down, thinking of his horse. He blinked a few times and looked back to us.