WHEN LOOMIS GOT up from the beaver lodge, Lou Prophet gave an inaudible sigh of relief. He’d been crouching there, only his head above the water, six inches from Gerard Loomis’s ass.
Now he sucked air through the mesh of steel-gray branches and covered the wound in his side with his hand. He was losing blood fast. He needed to get the hell out of here and plug the bullet hole before he bled dry. But he knew if he left the den now, he’d be a dead man.
Maybe, after an hour or so, Loomis and his men would think he’d left the area and would pull out. Then Prophet could leave the den, dry himself out, and fashion a compress for the wound. When it got dark, he’d try to make a break for safety ... wherever the hell that was.
This was some of the biggest, emptiest country Prophet had ever seen. At the moment he had no horse and only about a dollar-fifty in change. Moreover, he was wanted for killing the son of a prominent cattleman: a son of a bitch who, it appeared, had a good many men riding for his brand. A good many men, it appeared, who didn’t mind killing, even seemed to enjoy it.
Prophet would have to find a farm or a small ranch in the area and steal a horse. Horse stealing might only compound his problems, but the only way he could get out of the country in a hurry was by horse. He’d either have to head for a city and mix with the population or head for Montana and disappear in the mountains for a while until this hell storm blew itself out.
An hour passed, then two. The water grew cold; he shriveled like a prune. He grew tired and weak from blood loss, but he held on there, inside the den, sucking the air filtering through the branches.
He heard voices as the men returned. Then they were gone again. A horse whinnied. Another hour passed, and Prophet watched the sun slide behind the trees and the light die.
Finally it was dark. Prophet sighed with relief, inhaled deeply, pulled his head under, and swam out of the lodge. He resurfaced just outside the den.
He hunkered with only his eyes and ears above the water, and listened. Hearing nothing but the rushing water and the distant cooing of a night bird, he made his way toward the southern shore and pulled himself up the bank, grabbing shrubs and rocks.
He sat gingerly down, careful not to grunt or groan too loudly, in case one of Loomis’s riders was near. He lay against the eroded clay, catching his breath and resting.
Finally, he pulled his shirttail out of his pants and tore off a wide strip. He wrapped the strip around the wound in his side and knotted it tightly to stem the blood flow. When the job was finished, he sat back and rested again.
He was so wet, cold, and exhausted that he wasn’t sure he could continue. But he had to. He couldn’t stay here. Loomis’s riders would no doubt be back through here in the morning, and they’d scour the brush, maybe even start a fire to burn him out.
He had to find a hollow or a settler’s barn, far away from here, to hide and rest. Then he’d steal a horse and ride like hell.
He lay there, listening to the night sounds above his own involuntary shivering. He heard only the breeze in the trees, the cattails scratching against each other, and the intermittent shrieks of a hunting nighthawk. That was all. No footfalls or muffled yells.
Taking courage from that, he pushed himself to his feet, holding his aching side, and worked his way up the hill, weaving between sage shrubs and willows. At the top of the hill he stood at the edge of the woods and looked out across the tableland opening before him, rimmed with butte silhouettes and capped with hard, cold stars.
He turned his gaze to his right, westward, where a pinprick of orange light flickered in the darkness. A campfire. Possibly a base camp from where Loomis’s men were crisscrossing the area, looking for Prophet.
As if to confirm his speculation, a bridle rattled to Prophet’s left. He crouched and turned back into the trees, grabbing his six-shooter and hunkering down behind a cottonwood. The sound of two men in desultory conversation reached his ears, growing louder as they approached.
Gradually, Prophet could make out their words. “ ... one of us shoulda done somethin’ right then and there, after he killed Little Stu. Had it over and done with, so we could all sleep in the bunkhouse tonight.”
There was a pause, during which the passing horses crunched grass. “I say Stu had it comin’.”
The first rider chuckled. “Yeah, he was a pain in the ass, but that doesn’t really matter, now does it? We’re ridin’ for Loomis, so we ...” The voice trailed off as the riders passed out of hearing.
Prophet holstered his revolver and walked back out to the edge of the woods. All was quiet now. A coyote prattled in the buttes behind him. Prophet grabbed his side, pressing the wound closed, and started walking south.
An hour later he was following a buffalo trail between two eroded buttes when he again heard voices. He hunkered down behind one of the buttes and waited for the riders to pass, heading northwest, toward the base camp.
Another hour passed, and he came to a small ranch nestled in a hollow, the buttery lights of the house silhouetting the pole barn and corrals. Prophet fought off the urge to creep into the barn and hide himself in the hay. He could maybe steal a horse out of the corral in the morning—if he lasted that long—but Loomis’s men had probably been through here looking for him and put the occupants on notice.
He had to keep moving. He had to find another place, tucked away somewhere.
Beyond the ranch, he sat and rested for a quarter hour, even daring a few minutes of shut-eye. His clothes were damp and stiff, his feet were swollen in his boots, and he felt as exhausted as he’d ever felt during the war.
But his instinct for survival would not give him release. He had to keep moving.
A pale ribbon appeared in the prairie before him. A wagon trail. Prophet took it. He thought it would be easier on his feet and would keep him from walking in circles, as he was liable to do out here in this maze of buttes, chop hills, and dry watercourses, and with his brains scrambled from blood loss.
The trail might also lead him to water, maybe even an abandoned cabin where he could bed down for the night.
He followed the trace for half an hour, stumbling along with his head drooping, one hand pressed to the growing fire in his side. Then he stopped and stood for several seconds, weaving as though drunk. His energy drained out of him like liquid through a sieve.
He lifted one heavy foot, stumbled, pitched forward on the wagon trail, and passed out.