Windy?”
Before Longarm could say anything, Belle cut Floyd short. “shut up, Floyd! Windy didn’t have anything to do with Taylor being shot. All he’s doing is trying to help him.”
“That’s right,” the girl seconded, “if this big man here is the one you call Windy. If it hadn’t been for him hearing me calling for help, and if he hadn’t come to see what was wrong, I don’t know whether we’d have made it to the house.” Floyd was slowly subsiding. He said, “All right, if that’s the way of it.”
“That’s the way of it,” Belle assured him. “Now, if YOU don’t want to help, stay out of the way and we’ll see what we can do for your friend.”
She went to help Longarm. As she bent over Taylor, she asked, “Where were you a while ago, Windy? I went but you weren’t in the cabin-“
“I was like you, Belle—I couldn’t sleep, so I moved over to the barn.”
“Why the barn? You’d have been welcome in the house.”
“Never mind that now,” longarm said impatiently. “Let’s see if we can’t stop that blood from coming up through the bandage I put on this poor devil.”
Belle looked at the bloodstained bandage. “You need lint under it to stop the blood. Wait a minute, I’ve got some cloth I Can shred UP.” She hurried into the bedroom.
“Is Lonnie going to be all right?” the girl asked Longarm.
“Too soon to say, ma’am. He’s in real bad shape. Lost a lot of blood, I’d judge.” Floyd asked the girl, “Who in hell are you, lady? And how’d you get connected up with Lon?”
“I’ve known Lonnie for years, mister. Ever since we were in school together, back in Kansas.” She frowned, her eyes widening. “Why, you must be Floyd. Are you?”
“That’s me.”
“Lonnie was coming here to meet you. If he hadn’t stayed conscious long enough to show me how to go, though, I never would’ve found this place.”
“How’d he get shot?” Floyd asked.
“Do I have to talk about that now? Can’t it all wait until we see how Lonnie’s going to do?”
“Sure. I was just asking,” Floyd told her. He looked at Taylor on the table. “Old Lon sure don’t look too good right now, though. I hope he pulls through.”
Belle came in carrying a handful of shredded rags. “Here,” she said to Longarm. “We’ll untie that bandage enough to get to where he’s wounded, and put these over the place. Maybe that’ll stop him from bleeding so much.”
For the next few minutes, Longarm and Belle worked over Taylor. When the lint had been packed in the gaping wound and the bandage retied, Belle said, “Well, that’s all I can think to do for him right now. If he comes to, we’ll try to get a little whiskey down him; that’ll help his circulation. But all we can do right now is wait and see.” She turned to her husband. “Sam, is there any coffee left from supper? I guess we could all use some. Or a drink, or both.”
“It’s heating, Belle,” Sam replied. “And I’ve got water hottening on the stove, too.”
A thudding of boots on the porch announced the arrival of Steed and Bobby. Steed growled, “What’s all the fuss up here? Bobby woke up and seen the lights, and we figured something was wrong.”
“Taylor just rode in,” Floyd said. “He got himself shot up somewheres. I don’t know where or how.”
“Who done it?” Steed asked.
“How bad is he hurt?” Bobby asked at almost the same moment.
Floyd answered them both at the same time. “I don’t know who got him. And we won’t know for a while how bad it is.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The way he looks, he ain’t going to make it.”
“Goddamn! That blows our job for sure!” Steed exclaimed.
“We’ll wait and see,” Floyd replied.
“But with Mckee dead, and now maybe Taylor, how could we pull it off?” Bobby asked. “You said there had to be five of us at least.”
“Shut up, Bobby!” Belle commanded. “Floyd, you and Steed cut it out, too. We’ll see what happens to your friend, then we can make a new plan, if we have to. There’s others we can bring in besides Mckee and Taylor.”
Longarm overheard the conversation; they were standing directly behind him. Apparently, in their excitement, they’d forgotten about him. Or, he thought, they might have accepted him as one of their kind by now.
Taylor groaned and his body twitched. His eyes opened, but weren’t focused; he shook his head to try to see clearly.
Longarm said over his shoulder, not caring who responded, “Pour a little bit of that whiskey in a glass. Let’s try to get a drink down him.”
It was the girl who reacted first. She splashed some of the corn liquor into the first glass she picked up from the chair. Longarm raised Taylor’s shoulders; the wounded man was still trying to focus his eyes. The girl put the glass to Taylor’s lips. He accepted the liquor in his mouth, but gagged when he tried to swallow it. Most of it trickled back out and dripped off his chin onto his bloodstained chest.
