MONTANA STEADIED HIMSELF, clutching at the side of the wagon box, shaken. These latter days had been overcrowded. But the unguided horses were still running.
He made his way to the front of the wagon, past and over a jumble of the gathered freight which was being shaken and spilled. Somehow the heavy wagon had taken the bumps and jolts, and thus far they had avoided disaster. The wilder hills were behind, a flatter land opening ahead. Flatness, however, was comparative in such country. Hazards lurked at every turn of the wheels.
Exhaustion was slowing the horses, where nothing else could. The reins had been trampled and broken, leaving nothing for guidance or control. Montana shoved the brake to the last notch, and at the sudden heavy drag the horses slowed to a stumbling trot. He had them stopped and was beside the leaders when he heard the pounding of hoofs and swung wearily to look, then relaxed with relief as Kate’s anxious voice called.
Beside her, riding grimly, came Jeb Bowen. They had circled and forded the stream and finally caught up. With one hand, Bowen held hard to the saddle-horn. The fingers of his other hand unloosed, and the reins fell to the ground as his blowing horse stopped, more than willing. His face was a death mask as he swayed, then spilled to crumple on the ground.
Kate had been looking at Montana. She gave a cry and flung herself down, then was kneeling beside Bowen, cradling his head in her lap, her wail anguished.
“Oh, Bill, he’s hurt—shot! And I never realized!”
Montana knelt as well. Battlefields, public and private, had given him a great deal of experience with gunshot wounds.
Jeb Bowen had taken the forty-five slug in the shoulder, and there had been a lot of bleeding. Except for the loss of blood, it was less bad than it might have been. If it had been a little lower and more to the side, that could have made all the difference.
Between them they affixed a bandage, cleared a space in the wagon box and loaded him in. Montana answered the appeal in Kate’s glance.
“He’s as hard and tough as rawhide. Notice the ride he made, with that wound—”
“And I never guessed!” Kate wailed. “I asked him to come along—and he came!”
“And he’s still alive. With good care and a little luck, he’ll come out of this as good as new.”
“He’ll sure have all the care I can give him,” Kate promised. Her glance was tender. “We’ve been friends a long spell, Jeb and me—”
As though to confirm Montana’s prediction, Bowen’s eyes opened. He stared a moment, blankness giving way to disbelief, then to pleased rapture.
“To wake up … lookin’ into the face of an angel—” he breathed. “Sure I must be in heaven!”
“You be quiet and save your strength, Jeb darlin’. Heaven’s not for you yet a spell, or you for it!” Sighing contentedly, he accepted her verdict, then opened his eyes at a new thought.
“I’m mighty sorry that I messed things up so, Montana. Even after you warned me, they caught me off guard, and I guess I wasn’t much help—”
“Don’t let that fret you,” Montana reassured him. “It was you, almost alone of everybody over this way, who remembered that when there was a smell of skunk, there had to be a polecat in the vicinity. Thanks to you, and what you did, the ranchers will get back what they were almost cheated out of, and so will a lot of other people. Those neighbors who figured you for a fool will have some second thoughts.”
Others were coming, a straggling line of horsemen, Mike McNamara riding in the van. They were excited and angry, but had ridden without much hope. Relief was on every face as understanding came.
“If they’d made it over into the maze of the Black Hills, as would have happened but for you, we’d never have caught them,” McNamara admitted honestly. “I’m afraid there’s no grateful board of directors of a railroad to pay you properly for what you’ve done, Montana—but you’ve made a lot of friends!”
“There’s no greater wealth,” Montana returned, but his glance was toward the west. When another morning came, it would be time to ride again. No one could more quickly wear out a welcome than one who, however inadvertently, had made others look and feel foolish. Better to ride while gratitude held the warmth of the last suns of summer.