“Stew and biscuits tonight,” Rudy said.
“What kind of stew?”
“Sonofabitch stew. You toss everything in the pot but the hide, hooves, and horns.
“Beef?”
“Not likely. Big damn cattle outfit and not an ounce of beef. I got a dab of ham you might find in it if you’re lucky. Always got beans. I’ll throw in whatever else strikes me, but you’d better send out some hunters tomorrow or no more meat.”
“I just wanted to tell you I’ll be over at Jack’s wagon if anybody’s looking for me.”
“Slug’s coming out?”
“Yeah. Sierra’s going to do it.”
“Tough gal. Smart as a whip. She’s a Wills alright.”
“She’s okay, I guess,” Jordy said.
“Just okay? That tells me she’s too good for the likes of you. Sierra’s more than a woman that’s easy on the eyes, and if you don’t know it, leave her be.”
Jordy turned away. “I’m going.”
“You let me know as soon as the slug’s out, you hear?”
“I hear.”
Sierra sure had Rudy wrapped around her little finger. The old devil had anointed himself her protector it seemed. He was headed for the wagons when Irish stopped him.
“Hey, Boss. I know you got a lot on your mind. Would you like me and Mitch to set up the night watches?”
Boss? “Uh, yeah. I would be grateful if you would do that for me. Have Mitch check with Throws Lance. They’ll be working with us.”
He was stopped several more times before he got to the wagons, but he was struck by something that he had not recognized before. Jack made ranch and freighting operations look like they ran themselves. That was because they almost did. Jack picked men who thrived on responsibility—hungered for it—and ran with it and got rewarded for it. Why had he not seen it before? Most of Jack’s employees had endured lives of adversity, in some cases ups and downs, but mostly downs. Yet, they were the kind who did not look for somebody else to blame. They picked themselves up and persisted.
Jordy realized that he had been a beneficiary of Jack’s philosophy. Since he was a kid, Jack had calmly drummed it into his head. Self-responsibility. Persistence. Don’t count on somebody else to blaze your trail through life no matter how tough it gets. Jack always said he knew men who were blessed with windfalls along life’s road and then pissed the good fortune away and spent their days whining because they had been unable to hang onto it. They had never learned to look after themselves, always waiting for somebody else to wash their dishes, take night shift, or as Jack would put it, “wipe their gluteus maximus.”
By the time Jordy reached the wagons, Sierra had finished cleaning Swede’s wound and departed the wagon where the patient rested. She Who Speaks was applying her poultices. He stopped to speak with the Kwahadi woman. “How is Swede doing?” he asked.
She shrugged and smiled. “He cannot tell you. He totally anesthetized himself. We must hide the whiskey bottles. My poultices will ease the pain, and I have other potions if he needs more help. Sierra is an accomplished surgeon. She found shards from his shirt in the wound and removed them with a forceps. They could have caused serious problems. She placed a few stitches in the exit wound. She says she is just doing what she would do for her horses.”
"I’m glad you are both with us.”
“Songbird is helping her with Mister Wills. She is of the Penataka band—the ‘honey eaters.’ She has learned some English from her man. I like her. You will, too, I think.”
“I will see how Jack is doing, but I’ll stay out of the way. Thanks for all you and your warriors have done. I’m afraid our effort would have turned into a disaster without your help.”
“You are welcome, but we needed each other. The horses will be critical to the band as we go to the reservation.”
The other wagon was no more than ten paces distant, and Jordy walked over to see what was happening there. He peered in the back opening of the canvas-covered Studebaker and saw that Jack lay on his belly and Sierra was hunched over his leg with a probing instrument of some kind clutched in her fingers. Songbird, the petite Comanche woman, held a cloth folded over various surgical instruments within easy reach and appeared to be focusing intently on whatever Sierra was doing. A pan of hot water for washing instruments sat on the wagon bed’s floor next to her.
Jack was grimacing with pain and sweating profusely, but Jordy supposed the heat brought on by a fiery sun contributed to his misery. Unlike Swede, he suspected Jack would be cold sober. Jordy had only rarely seen Jack touch a drop of alcohol. Rudy always joked that he tried to drink enough for both men, and he likely achieved that goal. Jack was not a temperance proponent. He had been a serious drinker in the old days, Jack had told Jordy once. During his early service with the Rangers, however, he had awakened in a strange room one morning lying in vomit with an obese, wild-haired woman he could not remember meeting. He had decided at that instant the demon alcohol was not his friend, and his drinking since had been infrequent or “one and done.” He was almost obsessive, Jordy thought, about remaining in control of his faculties.
Sierra was probing the wound with a forceps now, apparently fishing for the slug. She straightened up. “Grandpa, I found the slug, but it’s pressed against bone at an angle, and I can’t get a grasp. I need to make the opening bigger to get a hold on it. You should take a few swigs of the whiskey if I’m going to be cutting.”
‘No need,” Jack said, “I’m going to keep it.” His voice was weak and raspy but carried firmness.
“Just leave it in?”
“I already got a lead souvenir in my back. We’ll just add this
