“Bad? It couldn’t be much worse. You have a piece of metal pressing right up against your backbone and that’s what’s giving you them dead legs. It’s deep, boy, real deep and hard to get at.”
“Can you cut it out of there?” Tyree asked, a formless panic rising in him.
Pettigrew glanced at Sally, giving her a look that conveyed his misgivings, then turned to Tyree. “Boy, one time, right after First Manassas, I seen a Yankee captain with a musket ball in his back, same place where you got that chunk of iron. A doctor—unlike me, a real doctor—dug the ball out of there but it didn’t do that Yankee officer any good. He ended up paralyzed, couldn’t even move his little finger. After that he lasted for two, three days. Then he died.”
Pettigrew looked into Tyree’s eyes. “To answer your question, yeah, I can cut that metal out of there, but I can’t guarantee you’ll ever walk again.”
“Maybe I can get a real doctor,” Sally suggested, a worried frown creasing her forehead. “Take a chance on the one at Crooked Creek.”
“Sam Neary?” Pettigrew spat. “He’s a butcher. He’s a butcher when he’s sober and worse when he’s drunk— and he’s drunk most of the time. Let him be, girl. He can’t help here.”
“Zeb,” Tyree said, “cut the damn thing out of there. Do it now.”
He heard Sally’s sharp intake of breath and saw the fear in her face. He held her hand tighter. “I’ll be all right, Sally. Maybe that Yankee captain was just unlucky.”
Zeb grinned. “You got that right, boy. Luck’s got a lot to do with it.”
The old man took a pocketknife from his overalls, opened the blade and passed the knife to Sally. “Burn that blade real good in the flames, girl,” he said. “And don’t worry none about the soot, it won’t do any harm.”
When Pettigrew deemed the knife was ready, Tyree turned his back to him and the old mule doctor went to work. The tip of the blade dug deep and Tyree felt Pettigrew working it this way and that as he dug for the shard of steel.
The pain was intense, and Tyree breathed hard between clenched teeth. Despite the coolness of the night, sweat covered his face and stained his shirt. Sally held his hand, her face pale and drawn in the yellow firelight.
“Damn, but it’s deep,” Pettigrew muttered. “Real deep.” He placed a hand on Tyree’s shoulder and spoke into his ear. “I can see the metal, boy. It ain’t no longer than a match head, but it’s got a jagged end to it. Trick is to get it out o’ there without nicking your spinal cord.”
“Do what the hell you have to do,” Tyree said, a harsh, irritated edge to his voice. Then, surprised at his own angry tone, he said, softer this time, “Zeb, just . . . just get it over with.”
“Doing the best I can,” the old man said. “But I could sure use some more light in here.”
The knife blade dug deep again. “Just gonna ease the iron away from the backbone,” Pettigrew muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Nice and easy . . . real nice . . . and easy . . .”
Tyree felt the knife scrape bone to the right of his spine. Then again. And again.
He gritted his teeth against the pain, wanting to cry out, to yell at Pettigrew to stop, but he knew there was no going back from this. It had to be done.
To add to the light, Sally threw another branch on the fire, and flames flared up, shot through with dancing red sparks. Out among the mesas hungry coyotes were complaining to the night and a haloed moon dominated the rectangle of sky that could be seen high above the canyon walls. The still air around Tyree smelled of wood smoke, blood and man sweat, and when he looked over at Sally he saw that his suffering had become a physical force that was pressing down on the girl like a mailed fist.
He took Sally’s hand again and tried a weak smile as Pettigrew’s knife scraped and skidded in his raw flesh. But the smile quickly died on his lips and he closed his eyes tight against the hurt.
“Got it!” the old man yelled after what seemed like an eternity. “And I was right. Damn thing’s as sharp as a mesquite thorn.”
Pettigrew rose and stepped in front of Tyree. He took the younger man’s hand and dropped a tiny piece of the steel ring into his palm. “That little thing was what caused all the trouble. Hard to believe, ain’t it?”
Sally also rose to her feet. “Zeb, is his spine . . . I mean . . .”
“It’s too early to tell,” Pettigrew said. “If the surgery was a success, he’ll be able to take some steps in a day or two. If it wasn’t . . . well, we’ll see.” He handed his bloody knife to Sally. “Heat that blade until it’s red-hot. I have to cauterize the wound real good. I can’t risk an infection getting started so close to the backbone.”
Sally did as she was told, and Pettigrew got behind Tyree again, the red-hot blade held upright in his hand. “This is gonna hurt like the dickens, boy.”
Without waiting for a reply, Pettigrew instantly plunged the glowing knife into the open wound. Tyree heard his flesh sizzle and almost fainted from the searing, hammering agony of it.
“It’s done,” Pettigrew said. He eased Tyree against the wall of the canyon. “Now you rest up, boy. Gather your strength.” The old man turned to Sally. “I’ll try to come back in a day or two and see how he’s doing. In the meantime, don’t let him attempt too much. His legs will be weak for a while, so he’ll have to take it one step at a time.”
Sally was effusive in her thanks, but the old man waved them away with a dismissive hand. “Hell, girl,” he said, “I’d a done it for a sick mule.”
After Pettigrew left, Sally sat beside Tyree and held him in her arms, listening to his soft breathing as he slept.
Beyond their canyon, out in the vastness of the night, the coyotes were still calling, and the fire crackled and snapped, bathing them both in a shifting scarlet light.
Chapter 17
Within a couple of days, Sally helping to support him, Tyree was taking half a dozen steps at a time, struggling mightily to keep moving, the devil of impatience riding him. At the end of his second week he was walking almost normally and most of his strength had returned. He left the canyon, shot another deer and gathered wood to cook it, his back giving him little trouble.
A little more than two weeks after he’d been wounded, he rose at first light and saddled the steeldust. It was time to leave.
Tyree and Sally rode in the direction of the Colorado where it flowed through Glen Canyon, turning their backs to the rawboned peaks of the Henry Mountains. The river was low at this time of the year, flowing between large sandbanks; salt cedar, willows and tall reeds grew close to the water’s edge. They splashed across the river without difficulty then headed east, riding through wild and lonely country across miles of untamed land. Wherever possible they kept to the flat, but occasionally climbed benches of reddish brown-and-orange rock onto eroded mesas where junipers stirred and offered their thin shade.
It was in Tyree’s mind to loop north along Hatch Wash and ride directly to Luke Boyd’s cabin. When he voiced his plan to Sally the girl offered no objection.
They topped a mesa streaked with wide swaths of blue-black, the result of leeching mineral deposits, and rode through stands of thriving juniper. Ahead of them the sky was cloudless, a flock of buzzards gliding in lazy circles against a natural canvas of pale blue.
Tyree watched the scavengers as they gradually dropped lower, unhurried and patient, knowing their time would come. Beyond the mesa something was dead or dying.
The mesa ended abruptly and below them lay a wide, open valley, green with grass and spruce, a thick stand of aspen along its eastern side. The path down wound from bench to bench. None of the slopes were steep, and the swings and switchback trails were easy for the horses to negotiate.
When Tyree and Sally reached the flat, a rabbit bounded away from them, then made a quick left turn around a saddled bay mustang that had moved out from behind a wide spruce a hundred yards away. The horse lifted its head to look at them, then unconcernedly began to crop grass.
Tyree had seen that ugly hammerhead before—it was Steve Lassiter’s horse.
“Wait, Sally,” he said, reining up the steeldust. He studied the land around him, but nothing moved in the stifling heat of the afternoon, only the serene, circling buzzards.
“Is it a stray?” Sally asked, her eyes on the mustang.
