By the time he reached the Brazos and located a shallow place for crossing, Taylor felt feverish, and his shoulder throbbed. The long night had seemed endless, a nightmare he could only fully believe after repeated glances back at Barclay’s body. He was relieved to finally see the water tower of the Patricia settlement ahead.
Jeb Donovan, straddling one of his mules, rode to meet him. “Didn’t expect seeing you boys back so . . .” He reined his mount in when he saw the body draped across the horse.
“I’m in need of some help,” Taylor said. “You might want to ride ahead and tell your wife and the boys to remain inside the house until I can get us into your barn.” He watched as Donovan rode ahead and ordered the boys from the yard, then hurried toward the barn to swing open its door. Once he’d joined him, Taylor slowly dismounted.
“I must say, you look a bit worse every time you arrive,” Donovan said as he noticed the large red stain on the rider’s shirt. “Best let my wife take a look.”
Taylor shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be needing to get on my way as quickly as I can.”
“What is it I can do for you? You being followed?”
“I recollect you’ve got a good amount of coal left by the train,” Taylor said, “and I’d appreciate the loan of some of it. And maybe some salt if your wife’s got it. As you can see, my friend here’s dead and I plan on taking him home for burying. What I need to do is pack his body proper so the wolves and coyotes don’t pay him undue attention along the way.”
Donovan considered the situation. “You’ll be needing a wagon as well. That, or maybe we can fashion a sled of some kind that can be pulled along behind your horse.”
“I’ll not take your wagon,” Thad said, “but the other idea seems a good one.”
“You go on up to the house and get yourself tended to. I’ll see to things here.” He placed a hand on Taylor’s good shoulder. “Don’t worry about frightening the boys. Just be forthright and tell ’em what you feel’s right about what happened. They’re grown enough to understand.”
Patricia Donovan was already waiting on the porch as Taylor slowly made his way toward her. She helped him into the cabin, then directed him to sit at the kitchen table and remove his shirt. She cleaned the wound and examined the holes where the bullet had entered and exited. “What we’ll now need to do is going to be a bit painful,” she said, “but necessary if you’re to avoid infection.”
She placed her sewing basket on the table and began to thread a needle. Then she handed Taylor a wooden spoon. “You’ll want to bite down on this.”
The boys watched in silence as she stitched the wounds shut with small, steady hands. When she finished, she gently rubbed salve over her handiwork and found a clean cloth that she tore into bandages.
Taylor looked across the room at the two youngsters. “We met up with the folks we’ve been seeking,” he said, “and a good deal of shooting took place.”
“Where’s your friend?” the oldest asked.
“I’m sorry to say that he’s dead.”
After a long silence the other finally asked, “Were the bad people killed as well?”
Taylor nodded.
Except for the time he spent tending the trains, Donovan busied himself in the barn. He removed Barclay’s body from the horse and laid it on a sheet of canvas on which he’d spread a thick layer of coal. He shoveled more coal atop the body until it was covered. He went into the house only long enough to get a small sack of salt from the kitchen and poured its contents over the coal. Finally he wrapped the body tightly with rope.
Inside, Taylor had forced himself to drink a cup of tea Patricia had prepared before falling into a deep sleep on the Donovans’ bed.
By the light of a lantern Donovan worked late into the night. With small trunks cut from saplings, he fashioned a sled on which to lay the body, lashing the poles with strips of leather and greasing each knot to ensure that they would not work loose. He cut rope the proper length to allow it to be connected to the saddle. Then he gently rolled Barclay’s body onto the cradle-looking bed and bound it tightly.
“Mr. Barclay,” Donovan said, “it was a pleasure knowing you. I believed you’re now ready to continue your travels.”
The Donovans were on the front porch the next morning when Taylor appeared in the doorway. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon. Jeb, tired from his long night, nodded and said, “I hope you’re feeling better.”
Thad forced a smile. “I appreciate all you folks have done. My friend would as well.”
The two men walked toward the barn, where Magazine was already saddled and the sled attached. “Want me to saddle the other horse, or will you allow him the comfort of traveling bareback?” Donovan asked.
His sons had followed, and the stood in the doorway. Taylor looked back at them. “These young’uns can’t be riding mules all their lives,” he said. “This here’s a fine animal, strong but gentle, and I think my friend would be pleased for them to have him. The saddle as well.”
They ran toward where Barclay’s horse was tethered. Donovan smiled at Taylor. “You’re sure on that?”
“I know they’ll give him good care.”
From the end of the barn, the eldest called out, “What’s his name?”
“Odd as it might seem, he ain’t got one. But I’d offer a suggestion.”
“What’s that?”
“You might think on calling him Tater.”