“I see.” Longarm decided he’d better stop asking questions and give the woman the help she was pleading for. “You’re all right, ma’am? Not hurt or anything?”
“No, I’m not hurt,” she whispered, her voice high and rasping. “But my throat. I’ve called and cried so much…”
“You don’t have to yell or cry anymore,” he told her.
Longarm released the reins, hoping the horse would stand. It did, and he sidled along its neck until he reached the limp figure of the man.
“Please, can you hold him up?” the woman gasped. “I’ve held him so long that I don’t have much strength left.”
“You can let go. I won’t let him fall.”
With a relieved sigh, she took her arms away from the slumped waist of the unconscious man. She reeled and almost toppled from the saddle herself, but Longarm held up a hand, which she grasped, steadying herself.
“I’m all right now,” she said thinly. “I just lost my balance for a minute. Please, look at Lonnie. I know he’s in bad shape, but I think he’s still alive.”
Longarm pressed a hand to the wounded rider’s chest. He felt a heartbeat, slow and irregular, but a beat, just the same.
“He’s alive,” he told the old woman. “But we got to get him to where he can stretch out, and where there’s light so we can see how bad he’s hit.” He was feeling for the man’s wounds as he spoke, but the unconscious rider’s shirt was so stiff and thick with dried blood that he could not locate them.
“How long ago was he shot?” he asked.
“Last night. About midnight, I guess. Please, can’t you just take care of him now and wait until later for me to tell you how it all happened?”
“I ain’t trying to waste time, ma’am. I just need to know how old that wound is, so I can take care of him right.”
“Oh. I guess I didn’t understand that. But do something for him now, please! I’ll help you lift him off the horse.”
“No. There ain’t enough light even to see by out here, let alone to try and bandage up a bullet wound by. Best thing we can do is get him to the Starrs’ house. It’s just a little ways from here. Then we can tend to him proper.”
“All right.” The woman swayed again and reached out a hand, seeking support. Longarm reached up and grasped the hand and steadied her.
He asked, “You think you can walk a little piece, ma’am? I can’t hold you and your friend in the saddle and walk the horse too.”
“Yes. I can walk. If you’ll hold him, I’ll get off.”
Longarm balanced the limp, unwieldly form of the unconscious man while she pulled her skirt free and dismounted. She was unsteady on her feet. Longarm put an arm out and she leaned against him. He stifled the exclamation that rose to his throat. What he’d mistaken for an old woman with a creaking voice and long white hair was a young woman with long blonde hair and a voice made hoarse by calling for help and crying. He decided questions could wait.
“you get on the other side,” he told the woman. “Just walk by the horse and steady Lonnie as much as you can. I’ll hold him up on this side and guide the nag.”
Their progress toward the dim shape of the house was painfully slow. The lame horse, with the wounded man balanced precariously on its back, forced them to creep along. They reached the house at last, and Longarm guided the horse around it to the front door.
“Sam! Belle!” he called. “Make a light inside there! I got a man out here who’s been hurt real bad. He needs to be looked after right away!”
“Windy?” Sam Starr’s sleepy voice called from the blackness of the house. “What’s going on?”
“You and Belle get up, Sam!” Longarm called back. “There’s a man shot out here, and he needs help!”
A match flickered in the house, then the steadier glow of a lamp replaced it. Sam Starr came out onto the porch carrying the lamp. He was sleepy-eyed and slack-jawed, and wore only his long cotton undersuit. He held up the lamp and peered, blinking, at Longarm, the girl, and the wounded man on the horse.
“Who is he?” Sam asked. “Who shot him?”
“I don’t know yet. All I know is he’s in real bad shape,” Longarm replied.
“Please,” the woman said to Starr. “Please, can’t you take him inside? Help him? Bandage him up?”
“Sure.” Starr came down the steps. He winced when his bare feet met the rough-packed earth, but came on to where Longarm stood beside the horse, supporting the wounded stranger. He looked at the man sagging forward in the saddle, his shirt encrusted with dry blood.
“We better get him inside,” Starr said. He handed the lamp to the woman. “Here, you carry this. I’ll help Windy.”
Between them, Longarm and Sam got the stranger’s limp, unwieldy body off the horse. They worked as gently as they could, but, as they started with him into the house, fresh blood began dripping from the unconscious man’s back. The drops left a trail, black in the lamplight, up the steps, across the floor, and into the main room.
“Where you want to put him?” Longarm asked.
