CHAPTER
22 
The wagon wheels squeaked and groaned across the vast, flat prairie. A relentless wind pushed against our backs and tossed tumbleweeds across our path. Blowing dirt stuck to our sweat and settled into the creases of our skin, tattooing our faces and arms like the Tonkawa. I thought of Little Stick, dead by the cold spring, and wondered if the buzzards had picked his body clean by now.
I pulled on the left rein to steer the oxen around a hole ahead. To my left, Henry Pope rode Kindle’s gray. Reed sat on the buckboard to the right, holding his gun in his lap. Kindle sat in the back of the wagon, hands cuffed behind him, head down so his hat protected his face from the sun. Or maybe he was asleep. He hadn’t spoken since we left Darlington.
Reed wiped his face with the cloth napkin he’d stolen from Isabel Darlington and squinted up at the sun, his ruddy face twisted into a miserable mien.
“Wrap the napkin around your face,” I said. Reed stared at me. “To keep the sun off.”
Reed folded the napkin and shoved it in his front pocket. “No wonder they gave this land to the Indians.”
“Not much to look at, is there?” I said. “The sunsets are magnificent, though.”
“How far to the railroad?”
“I have no idea.”
Reed looked questioningly at Pope who shrugged. “How would I know?”
Reed turned to Kindle, who didn’t answer. “Kindle,” Reed growled.
“Two hundred miles, maybe.”
“How long?”
“At this pace? Ten days. Assuming we don’t run across angry Indians. Hope you’re a good shot at a distance, Reed.”
“We would move faster on horses,” Pope said.
My sorrel and Pope’s horse were tied to the back of the wagon. Reed had sold his horse and tack in exchange for a box of supplies: jerky, beans, flour, and salt. He’d forgotten to buy a pot to cook in, but the three of us remained silent on his omission. He’d figure it out soon enough.
“We only have three horses,” I said.
“He has no intention of taking me all the way, do you, Reed?” Kindle said.
“Smart man.”
My insides twisted with fear as my mind struggled to come up with a way out of this mess. Reed had the gun trained on me, Kindle was bound, and Henry Pope gave no indication he was here for anything other than his own self-interest. He might help if I instigated something, but I couldn’t count on it.
The right front wagon wheel hit a large hole, jolting Reed out of his seat. He yelped in surprise, but regained his balance as the back wheel hit the hole. He gripped the buckboard and yelled, “Watch where you’re going.”
“I couldn’t see it for all the nettles.”
“Look around. We’re surrounded by them. See the yellow-topped plant over there? That is a thistle. They’re wonderful for healing burns, Mr. Reed.” I lifted my bandaged arm. “You make a tea out of it.”
“I’ll keep it in mind if I run across any thistles in New York City.”
“How much are the Langtons paying you?” I asked.
“Why? You want to match it?”
“If I can.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I wasn’t sent out here to take you back.”
“What? The reward is for her alive,” Pope said.
“Not my reward.”
My stomach clenched. “Beatrice wants me dead? But, why?”
“I didn’t ask, and I don’t care.”
“I didn’t kill George Langton.”
“The people who matter say you did.”
“You promise to let us go, to stop following me, and I will give you close to five hundred dollars.”
“No.” He grinned, showing a mouth full of crooked, dirty teeth.
The wagon hit another hole and Reed popped off his seat. Kindle pounced on the Pinkerton before he could regain his balance, sending them over the side of the wagon and into the patch of nettles.
I pulled back on the oxen, set the brake, and jumped into the back of the wagon while the sounds of fighting went on below me. Reed screaming in pain. The thud of fists. The crack of bones. Hissing and rattling. Grunts of exertion. Kindle’s growl that escalated into a roar and Reed’s scream spoke of excruciating pain. The irons with the key in the lock lay forgotten on the bed of the wagon. I grabbed the first gun I found, stood in the wagon, and turned my attention to the men on the ground. I cocked the gun, ready to shoot Reed if need be. My arm drooped as I saw Kindle straddling the Pinkerton, shoving his face into a nettle with a free hand while squeezing his neck with the other. Reed’s visible eye was full of terror. A dozen rattlesnakes squirmed around them.
“William, don’t move!” He either didn’t hear me or ignored me. His shoulders shook from the exertion of strangling the Pinkerton.
Instead of slithering away from the men in terror, the snakes moved closer. “You’re going to kill him and yourself!”
Kindle kept his hands on Reed and looked up at me in astonishment. “You’re in the middle of a snake den,” I said, my voice coarse with fear. Kindle relaxed his grip and noticed the snakes for the first time. He lifted his hands slowly, but it was enough to entice the nearest and largest snake. In a blink, it reared back, struck Kindle on the hand, and held on. Yelling, he stood and tried to shake the snake off, which only made it cling the harder.
I cocked my gun. “William, don’t move.” He stopped and looked at me, understanding crossing his face as I shot. The bullet cut the snake in half. Blood dripped from the half connected to Kindle’s hand. Kindle’s expression was one of shock, horror, and appreciation.
“Nice shot, but a little more warning next time.”
“Goddamn, you’re a fine woman,” Pope said.
Kindle grabbed the dead snake below its head and tried to pull it off. Snake blood splattered on his pants as he worked his fingers beneath the jaw of the snake and pried its mouth from his hand. He threw the half body away and stared at the back of his hand for a moment, before pulling his gun, cocking it, and aiming it at Reed, who was prone on the ground.
“No!” I yelled.
I jumped from the wagon, away from the snakes that were thankfully slithering away. The wind blew Kindle’s hair into his face, obscuring his expression, but not enough that I couldn’t tell he was flabbergasted. “What the hell are you doing, Laura? He was going to kill me, probably Pope, too, and do God knows what to you before killing you.”
“No more killing.”
Pope watched us from the back of the horse. “He’s no threat now.”
Lorcan Reed’s body convulsed on the ground. A snake slithered from beneath him. I stepped back.
“I hate snakes,” Pope said.
Kindle holstered his gun and climbed up in the wagon seat. He took the reins and released the brake.
“We aren’t leaving him here to die,” I said.
“He may live. Live to keep chasing us,” Kindle said.
Reed’s arms seized up across his chest and his convulsions increased. “Come on, Pope. Help me get him in the wagon,” I said.
“Are all the snakes gone?”
“Henry, get down here, now.”
Pope was off the horse and beside me. I grabbed one arm and pulled Reed onto his side. A snake hissed and rattled. With his head half-turned away and a grimace on his face, Pope stomped on the snake’s head with his boot heel until it was flattened and bloody, though the tail spasmed and rattled. “Get his shoulders,” I ordered, and went to the Pinkerton’s feet. Pope did as told.
I ignored the painful nettles poking into my hands and struggled with Reed’s feet. Kindle jumped from the buckboard, pushed me aside, and helped Pope throw the man into the wagon. Kindle moved around me to get to the buckboard. I grabbed his arm to stop him.
“Let me see your hand.”
He held it out. The punctures from the fangs were between the metacarpals of the left index and middle fingers. I lifted the hand closer to my face. “Is the fang in there?”
“Yes.” I jumped into the wagon and got my saddlebag, ignoring Reed’s obvious pain for the moment. I pulled out my leather pouch containing my medical instruments and returned to Kindle. I lay the instruments out on the back of the wagon.
“Pope, give me your flask.”
Already mounted and ready to go, Pope walked his horse to me and handed the flask down. I uncorked it with my teeth and poured whisky on Kindle’s hand and my scalpel and tweezers. I pushed the tweezers down into the puncture to get a grip on the fang and pulled the almost-inch-long fang out. Kindle never flinched.
“Jesus,” Pope said.
I tossed the tweezers and fang onto the wagon bed and picked up my scalpel.
“Any tips, Kindle?”
“This all is vaguely familiar,” Kindle said. I was relieved to see a modicum of humor in his expression. “Cut across it.”
I put the tip of the scalpel against Kindle’s hand and paused. “Ready?” He nodded and I cut a gash across the wound. He brought his hand to his mouth and sucked out the blood and venom and spit it out. He repeated the action two or three times and wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand. I inspected the hand, which was swelling.
“Did we wait too long?”
Kindle sucked and spit two more times. He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
I splashed some whisky on the wound and wrapped it with one of the strips of cloth I’d cut from our sheets at Darlington. I suppose part of me always expected the worst to happen.
“Can you drive?”
“Yes.”
“I have to help Reed.”
I climbed into the back of the wagon and took quick stock of Lorcan Reed. His entire right side was punctured with nettle needles and his face was swelling alarmingly. I needed to get the needles out of him as quick as possible, but first I had to see if he was snakebit.
“Pope, tie your horse to the back. I need your help.”
I had to hand it to Henry Pope, he had zero qualms about taking orders from a woman. His horse was tied to the wagon and he was by me waiting for instructions when Kindle slapped the reins against the oxen’s backs and turned the wagon to the north and the Canadian River.
Henry and I sat across the wagon from each other, Lorcan Reed between us, unconscious and barely alive. I’d sucked the venom from two bites on his back and removed fifty nettle needles from his face and neck. Half of his face was swollen and deformed and he was having trouble breathing. I was wracking my brain to figure out what I would use as an airway if I had to perform a tracheotomy when Pope spoke.
“Why are you helping this man?”
I sighed. “I’m so tired of death, Henry.”
“Chose the wrong profession, then.”
“No, actually. I’ve lost only three patients in my career. Two at Richardson who were so far gone when I got there I hardly take the blame for their deaths.” I tried to smile. “I haven’t lost my arrogance, have I?”
“It’s not arrogance if it’s true.” He leveled his gaze at me. “Whose deaths are you talking about, then?”
“Maureen. Everyone on the wagon train. The soldiers killed when Black had me kidnapped. Little Stick.”
“Who’s Little Stick?”
“Our first guide.” I stared at Lorcan Reed, thought of the five other men who’d come after us since Jacksboro and had died as a result. “The bounty hunters.” The Arapaho. Bell, Tuesday, Kruger, and Cuidado. I rubbed my head. The list seemed endless.
The wagon bumped over a hole. Kindle swayed in the seat. “William? Are you all right?”
He nodded, but didn’t answer. I stepped over Lorcan and onto the seat. Kindle’s head had shrunk into his shoulders and his face was pale and sweaty. Dark circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes. His whole body shook. “William!”
He slumped against me, burning with fever. “Henry! Come take the reins.”
Pope wedged himself onto the seat and took the oxen in hand while I tried to hold Kindle upright. Kindle’s glassy eyes met mine. “I think one bit my leg.”
“Oh, why didn’t you tell me?”
“When I realized,” he wheezed, “it was too late.”
“Too late? What do you mean?”
“He means once the venom gets in the bloodstream, there’s not much you can do,” Henry said.
“No.” I pulled Kindle’s knife from his boot. “Which leg?” Kindle stared blankly at me, his mouth moved, but no words came out. “Which leg!” I yelled. Blood pounded in my ears, tears pooled in my eyes.
I put the blade of the knife between my teeth and felt Kindle’s legs above the knee, assuming his leather riding boots had protected the bottom. He flinched when I touched his right knee, which was warm and straining against his pants. I cut through his pants and saw two tiny punctures in the middle of his kneecap, which had swollen to twice its normal size. I gasped, and for a long moment, was transfixed by indecision and ignorance. My mind was wiped clean of all the knowledge and experience I’d soaked up over the past ten years. My eyes went from Kindle’s flaming red knee to his pale face. His eyes met mine and I knew he was resigned to his fate.
Anger spurred me to action. “Goddammit you aren’t going to die on me, William Kindle.” I pressed the knife tip to his bulging knee and was readying to cut when Pope stopped me.
“Laura, look!”
A line of tipis stretched out on the horizon as far as we could see. I dropped Kindle’s knife, lay him out on the buckboard, his head in Pope’s lap. I brushed Kindle’s hair from his face. “You’re going to live, William.” I kissed his temple, climbed over the buckboard and around Reed, who was unconscious and breathing laboriously. I untied Kindle’s gray from the back of the wagon and with agility born of desperation, jumped on the horse. I kicked him into a run toward the village, praying all the way it was a Cheyenne village, and I could find Falling Stars Woman before it was too late.