“Evan! No! I’m coming!” Rage has him roaring out in the night.
Kimani hears the screams coming from behind her and kicks her mount harder, pushing him to go as far and fast as she can, while tears stream down her face. Killing a man, even a murderer is not something she planned.
The snow has stopped, at least she can ride longer. Chilled to the bone, she ignores the fever starting to rage in her body and doesn’t look back. “Put a couple hours in between you and them, Kimani,” she whispers and frowns.
“Kimani is dead, Vanessa Schmidt is what he said they called me,” she whimpers and pulls her borrowed coat closer around her body. “Yes, Vanessa Schmidt survived the massacre, she can make it to the ranch.”
Baling wire is made to be strong, and this is no exception. Craig feels the wire slicing into his face, and under one side of his nose and decides instead of pushing against the horse to lift it, he twists. This relieves the pressure on his arms and allows him to pull one free. Blood drips into the snow around the horse, and Craig strains to reach the pliers.
“Shit! Evan, wake up! Brother, I need your help, I can’t reach the cutters!
Evan groans and rolls over. “Comin’,” he clutches his stomach with bloody hands and crawls over to his brother. He leans against the horse and starts laughing when he looks at Craig.
“Witch, got us good, didn’t she, Brother?” Evan shoves a trembling hand through the wire and starts snipping.
“Funny. Cut my face out first,” Craig demands.
Evan leans away and vomits in the snow. Blood continues pumping out of his wound, but through his moans of pain, Evan doesn’t stop working to free his brother. Every snip releases pressure, and soon Craig can cut the wire himself.
“Just rest brother, I’ll be free soon.”
“Sorry, brother. Can’t… wait.” Evan falls forward and blacks out in the snow.
Craig weeps as he tears at the wires. “No, Evan, I’m coming…” he roars in agony.
An hour later he pushes his twisted and torn body from the wire womb. Breaking free, he rushes to Evan and lifts him up, to carry him to the cave. After tending to his wound, he covers him with a blanket from the horse.
Craig roars at the woman fleeing through the night. “Run, girlie. I’m gonna find you and make you wish you died with your family.”
Chapter 9
Dr. Harris Rivers washes his blood-stained hands in a basin while he snaps at his assistant. “Bandage up the patient, I’m headed back the barracks.” The door flings open, and his hand goes to the pistol always at his side, even as he turns.
Frigid air and snow blow inside and the door slams against the wall as a filthy soldier drags in a new patient.
“One more Doc,” he drops the patient into a chair and props him against the wall before turning to glare at him.
Harris sighs and relaxes his stance before staring at the sick man slumped against the wall. His shallow breathing, grey skin and blood-stained bandages on both arms say it all.
“What happened to him?” Harris narrows his silver eyes and moves closer to evaluate the patient.
“Got himself shot, Doc,” the man replies and spits on the floor.
“Obviously,” Harris glares at him, “Where are they all coming from?”
“Don’t see why that matters, Doc.” The soldier glances around nervously, “You just need to patch him up.”
Harris glares at the smart-ass soldier, “How long ago?” He squats down and pushes the man’s head back gently and is not shocked to find him burning up with fever. He lifts his eyelid to check his pupils. “Anyone tend to the wounds? Did the bullets pass through?”
“Dang, Doc. Slow down. One passed through, one got stuck in the bone.” He edges toward the door and Harris is thankful for the fresh air as it washes the room clean of the stench.
“You don’t look like any doctor I’ve seen afore?” The man says taking stock of Harris’s size and appearance. “More like a gunslinger,” he snaps.
Harris picks up the young man, ignoring the comments, he’s heard it all before. At six foot two, two hundred pounds he’s a large man. He lifts the patient and carries him to his wooden exam table in the center of the room, placing him gently on the table.
“How long has he had a fever?” He picks up a scalpel and cuts open the man’s tattered, filthy shirt. Instantly the scent of rotten flesh and infection wafts out.
“Damn,” Harris snarls, realizing that the wounds were left to fester. Before he can turn around the door slams, leaving him to deal with the dying man. As gently as he can, he pulls the shirt off and tosses it on the floor.
During the war, he treated many gunshots and wounds. Despite the medical training he’d received, nothing could have prepared him for the volume of injuries he would see. Anger rushes through him. They sent a telegram requesting his help at the Fort a few days ago to deal with the rise in attacks between the Indians and Soldiers. Fort Steele is not a bad place to be. It’s only a two-day ride to the Fort from the River’s Ranch. It was established ten years ago to protect workers constructing the railroad from Indian attacks. Now Cattlemen, sheepherders, and loggers frequently stop. Merchant shops have been built, along with a school, church, saloons, even a bar. It has ammunition storage, barracks and a hotel for those traveling through.
“Steven,” he yells for his assistant. “We have another one. Bring water.”
Steven rushes inside from a back room where patients are kept who need overnight care. The General made sure the fort was equipped with top-notch medical supplies including a
