“Don’t … move …”
The command came from a man hunched in an opposite corner. The words were halting, labored.
Jordan froze. A lantern placed near the crouched figure spread a small circle of light before him. Ben looked sharply at the man. His brush jacket had been thrown back. The entire right side of his chest was soaked by blood. There was another wound in his leg. The pistol in his hand wavered uncertainly.
Ben closed the door with his heel, started to rise. “Here, better let me …”
The hunched shape stiffened. “Don’t try …” he began, and lapsed into silence. After a moment he motioned with his weapon. “Get in the light. Got to see if …”
Jordan advanced slowly, stopped within the lantern’s yellow glow. “You’re in a bad way,” he said. “Let me help.”
The man stared at Ben with hot, glittering eyes. He was a thin-faced, dark individual. “You’re … you’re not one of them,” he said finally, and let his arm fall as though the pistol’s weight was more than he could manage. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Jordan. Up from Mexico,” Ben said, dropping to his knees beside the man. “What happened to you?”
There was a long minute as though the man were having difficulty concentrating. Then: “Outlaws. Jumped me late yesterday afternoon. Gave them the slip but caught a couple of bullets … Thought … thought you were one of them.”
Jordan examined the man’s breast. It was a bad wound, one that left nothing to be done. Death could be only a matter of hours.
“Not me,” Ben said, pulling the jacket into place. “Got trapped in the storm. Lost my horse over a cliff when lightning hit close by. I was looking for shelter when I saw your cabin.”
“Don’t belong to me,” the wounded man said. “Like you … come across it after I got hit … and was looking for a place to hole up. Name’s Woodward …Walt Woodward.”
Jordan reached for the man’s hand, shook it gently. He glanced about the cabin. It was bare, and apparently had not been lived in for some time. Several insistent leaks drip-dropped from the ceiling and the glass in a window high on the rear wall had been broken out.
“Little heat would feel good,” Ben said, his eyes pausing on the fireplace and a scatter of split wood and pine knots near it. “I’ll get a fire going, then we’ll see what we can do about those wounds of yours.”
Woodward smiled weakly. “Be a waste of time,” he said. “Been around, seen how these things go.”
Jordan was busy at his chore. “We’ll give it a try, anyway. Never can tell.”
But he knew there was little point to it. Not even the expert attention of a physician could help Walt Woodward now. Not only had he lost far too much blood, but the bullet in his chest had damaged his lung.
When the fire was going well, Jordan turned, began to prowl the cabin. He located a gunny sack, stuffed it into the gaping window, closed out the driving rain. The storm still raged, slamming against the cabin in fitful gusts and blasts.
The flames in the fireplace mounted, filled the room with warmth and light. Jordan kneeled beside Woodward again. The man was propped in the corner, his back resting against a pair of saddlebags. Ben pointed to them.
“Any grub in there? Coffee?”
Woodward shook his head. “No. No food. Could sure use a drink of water. You got any?”
Jordan said: “No. Lost everything when my horse bolted. But I can fix you up.”
He found a tin can left by some previous tenant. Holding it beneath one of the steady drips, he rinsed out the dust, then allowed it to fill. He handed it to Woodward.
“May taste a bit rusty …”
Woodward seized the can, drank greedily. When he had finished, he set the container on the floor beside him. He studied Jordan with bright, feverish eyes.
“From Mexico, eh? You a ’breed? Don’t look like a Mexican.”
Ben, faintly angered, said: “No, I’m neither, not that it makes any difference. Just happens I grew up down there.”
“Headed for where?”
“Northeastern part of the territory. Going to work for Tom Ashburn, the Lazy A Ranch.”
Except for the suffering Woodward, it was pleasant in the cabin, out of the shrieking storm. The room had warmed, and was now filled with the soft glow of the fire. Ben took up the can, and filled it again with water, and then set it near the flames to heat.
“Let’s get some hot water. I’ll see what I can do for …”
“Forget it,” Woodward said. “Just not in the cards for me.”
Jordan stared into the dancing flames. “You mentioned outlaws … what happened? They try to hold you up?”
Woodward shifted his position slowly, painfully. “Fire feels good,” he murmured. Then: “Yeah, four of them, four men. Tried to rob me. Made a run for it. Got away except … except maybe I didn’t really get away after all.”
Jordan was silent, wondering why outlaws would attempt to halt Woodward unless the man were carrying something of value. He did not appear to be a man of wealth. And if there were other reasons …
“You’re … you’re wondering why,” the wounded man said, reading Jordan’s thoughts. Lightning crashed somewhere back up the slope, briefly filling the room with a lurid white light. Woodward waited until the roll of thunder died. “I’ll tell you why, Jordan. Money … cash money. Quite a lot of it. That’s what they wanted.”
Ben glanced up in surprise. “Why tell me? Aren’t you afraid I’ll …?”
“Afraid you’ll take it from me, that what you’re trying to say? Maybe, but I don’t think so. You’re not the kind to rob a dying man of all he’s got … not when he has a wife at home waiting for him to show up.”
Woodward paused, out of breath. He managed a half smile. “The truth, Jordan … I was on my way home … carrying the money I got from selling a ranch of mine … down Arizona way … every cent I have in the world … it’s here in these saddlebags. Twenty … twenty thousand dollars.”
“Twenty thousand dollars,” Ben echoed softly.
“Figure you’re a man I can trust,” Woodward said, his voice sinking lower. “I want my wife to have that money. She needs it. Something to keep her the rest of her life. No country for a woman alone … broke. There’s a thousand in it for you if … if you’ll see to it …”
Jordan frowned. “I don’t want any of it.”
Woodward forced a smile. “Knew you’d say that. Reason I’m asking you. As a favor, Jordan … to a dying man. Will you see she gets it?”
Ben stared into the flames. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Not sure I can, or want to. I’ve got a job waiting for me. I ought to be there now. And I’ve lost my horse.”
“Won’t be out of your way none. And I give you my horse. He’s in the shack behind the cabin. Maybe not in too good a shape … but he’ll take you where you’re going.”
Jordan considered. “Where is your wife?”
“Town by the name of Langford … about a day’s ride on the other side of the Lazy A outfit.”
“You know Ashburn?”
“No. Heard of the Lazy A, that’s all.”
Woodward paused, coughed deeply and softly. Ben dipped a finger into the can of water. It was just beginning to warm.
“There’ll be no problem,” Woodward continued. “Just ride in. Ask somebody … anybody where Ollie … Olivia …Woodward lives. They’ll show you. Give her the saddlebags and … that’s it. I want you to keep a thousand for your trouble.”
Jordan said: “No, but the horse will be a favor.”
“He’s yours … along with the gear … good saddle … rifle … pistol, too. I see yours is missing.”
“Lost it fording an arroyo.”
Woodward nodded, waited. “You giving me your promise?”
Ben said: “My word on it.”
Walt Woodward sank back gratefully. He wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. “One bit of luck …” he murmured, “having an honest man show up here. Could’ve been somebody who would’ve taken the money and rode on. I’m obliged to you, Jordan.”
“Forget it,” Ben said. “I appreciate the horse and gear. Losing mine was a blow.”
“I’d like to say one more thing … about the money. Don’t trust anybody. Hand it over to my wife … nobody else. I want your promise on that, too …”
“You’ve got it.”
Woodward sighed heavily. His fingers tugged at the edge of his sheepskin brush jacket. “Might as well have this, too. Won’t do me any good … where I’m going. And you’ll need it. Gets cold in these hills … at night.”
Jordan said, “Thanks, again,” and let it drop.
Woodward pulled himself around, seeking more comfort. “I want to warn you about those outlaws. Four men … got on my trail outside Tucson. Never shook them until yesterday.”
“How’d they find out you were carrying all that cash?”
“Who knows? Must have got tipped off by somebody … but it’s what they’re after … no other reason. Recognized them. A man named Bart Crawford’s the leader. Big fellow … riding a black horse … and Cleve Aaron. He’s one of them. He’s on a bay. Arlie Davis is forking a bay, only it’s a small horse … like an Indian pony. Fourth man will be on a gray. They call him Gates.”
“Sound like you know them pretty well.”
“Ought to … I’ve been up against them before. Real hardcases, every one of them. When you pull out of here, keep your eyes peeled. They’ll still be looking for me.”
“I’ll watch,” Jordan said.
The water in the can had begun to simmer. Picking up a small stick, Ben pushed it away from the fire. He glanced at Woodward. “Is there any extra shirt or something in your saddlebags? I need to make a bandage.”
Woodward said: “Never mind, Jordan. I’m feeling all right. Doctoring won’t do me any good now … could use another drink.” Ben started to empty the can. The wounded man said: “Leave it … being warm, maybe … it’ll melt some of the ice … in my belly.”
Jordan picked up the container. It was cool enough to hold. He passed it to Woodward who wrapped his hands about it.
“Feels good,” he murmured. After a moment he began to sip the tepid water. “Little whiskey in this … sure would … help.”
Ben tossed the remainder of the wood on the fire. He was dry now, and beginning to grow drowsy. He yawned, stretched out full length before the flames. He glanced at Woodward. “Sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”
“Nothing,” Woodward replied. “Reckon I’d … better let you get … some sleep.” He reached out his hand. “Want to say it … again, Jordan. Obliged to you.”
Ben took the man’s fingers into his own. They were cold despite the warm can he had been holding. “It’s all right. And don’t worry. I’ll see that your wife gets the money.”
“A … great relief,” Woodward said, sighing. “Good night … Jordan.”