Bloodthirsty

For the second time in only a handful of hours, Buckhorn found himself being ministered to for a gunshot wound. The damage was more serious and the young woman tending it less competent. Not that Lusita’s shortcomings in the nurse department were due to any lack of intensity or well meaning; she simply didn’t have the experience.

Sweetwater’s bullet had passed between two of Buckhorn’s ribs, meaning no lead stayed inside him. During its visit, the slug had torn up plenty of meat, cracked a couple bones, and left rather messily. Apart from the pain, stopping the blood flow at the exit hole proved to be the biggest challenge.

Finally, he sent Lusita to fetch a tobacco plug from Tarvel’s body, took a big cut of it, and chewed it into a softened gob. Using that and a tight bandage they were able to stop the stubborn leakage.

That wasn’t the end of it. Buckhorn knew enough about gunshot wounds to know that his blood loss and injuries—counting the leg wound from earlier—would take a toll on him pretty quickly, especially once they were on the move.

And move they must—for the sake of his injuries and for the sake of their overall safety. It might be days before any more travelers came this way and, when they did, it was a fifty-fifty chance they could be another gang of banditos or scavengers of some other sort who’d hesitate only slightly before slitting their throats and leaving them with the rest of the dead for the sake of their horses, saddles, guns, and the riches they would find in the wagon.

With luck, if Buckhorn’s injuries didn’t slow them too much, they could reach Wagon Wheel in two days. Neither Lusita nor Buckhorn knew of anywhere else in between; at least none where they were likely to find safe haven or the kind of medical attention he would increasingly need.

After quick discussion and agreement, they set about preparing their departure. Lusita assured him she was an accomplished horsewoman but had no experience at driving a wagon and team. With his wounds, Buckhorn figured he was better off sticking with Sarge rather than trying to wrestle the reins himself, so heading out on horseback was their choice.

They had no discussion of burying the dead. Given the matters of time and physical limitations, it was understood as something that simply could not be seen to.

Lusita selected Sweetwater’s horse to ride and Buckhorn picked Kent’s to serve as their packhorse, on which they loaded provisions, key among them being all the water they could gather and combine from various canteens and water skins. Additionally, Lusita added a small bag of her most prized personal possessions from the wagon.

She also took time to strip her husband’s corpse of the money belt he’d worn securely strapped around his waist.

“Money was never part of why I became Mrs. Thomas Wainwright,” she announced fiercely and defensively to Buckhorn. “But given all that has happened and all I have recently learned, I am going after everything I can get out of being the only heir to what is left of Wainwright holdings. I started out as a bargaining chip between Thomas and my father. I’ll be damned if I will settle for merely being that from here on out. Before I am through, my scheming, manipulative father will be called to account, also!”

“I believe you, lady,” Buckhorn told her. “Damned if I don’t.”

They rode out before sunrise.

Buckhorn set Sarge to a steady, moderate pace. At first, he felt fairly comfortable in the saddle, rocking to the familiar gait of the big gray. Gradually, the pain in his side increased while at the same time he felt himself growing weaker.

The sun came up and the day’s heat started to build. At the peak of the sizzling afternoon, they laid up for rest, but only for two or three hours during the worst of it. The horses were unsaddled, watered out of Buckhorn’s hat, and then picketed in some scrub graze.

Lusita checked Buckhorn’s wounds and found the one on his side to be leaking badly again. She methodically redressed it. Before applying the fresh bandage, she doused the tobacco cud with some brandy she’d brought along from the wagon. She tried to get Buckhorn to drink some of it, for the pain, but he refused.

He did drink lots of water, though, and encouraged her to do the same. They had plenty so it was best to keep themselves as saturated as possible, rather than sip it sparingly. For nourishment, they ate jerky and split a jar of canned peaches.

In the middle of the night, when the deep chill of the sunless hours gripped the stark land in sharp contrast to the heat of the days, Buckhorn started to shiver. It didn’t take long before his trembling became so violent that Lusita, looking on, feared it might cause him to spill from his saddle.

Against his protests, she finally called a halt in the heart of a shallow gully where they were protected from a low, cold wind that moaned across the land. She insisted he lie down against one side of the gully where she wrapped him in layers of bedroll blankets.

The blankets did nothing to diminish the shivering. Droplets of clammy sweat stood out on his face and ran down his neck.

Lusita was forced to leave him like that long enough to tend to the horses. Returning, she scraped together fuel and built a close fire for the heat and for the illumination to examine Buckhorn’s wound. It was bleeding once more and his shivering continued.

She set a pot of coffee to cooking, and while it brewed, she redressed the wound. After that, she liberally laced a cup of coffee with brandy and forced him to drink it. Then another . . . but nothing diminished the chills or the shivering, or slowed the clammy sweat.

She heaped on more blankets.

Buckhorn maintained his senses throughout, though there were times he became a bit foggy and thick-tongued. “I’m tougher than this, damn it. I’ve got through worse than this. Just let me sweat this out and I’ll be fit as a fiddle.”

But he continued to sweat and shiver with no signs of improvement.

In the weakening light of the dying fire, Lusita checked his wound again and found no evidence of it bleeding. At least that was a good sign, she told herself.

She leaned wearily against the gully wall, beginning to feel her own exhaustion, not to mention a nagging hint of desperation. She, too, was getting cold even inside her heavy coat. The fire was fading fast and she’d already scrounged all of the fuel to be found anywhere close by.

It was then a thought struck her. A rather bold one, in more ways than one. She regarded Buckhorn, still trembling despite all the blankets she’d spread over him. She considered the chill of the night seeping deeper into her and the fact that sunrise was still two or three hours away, then longer still until the morning’s heat would build appreciably.

She knew a way for her to endure those hours more comfortably but also to put forth another effort toward countering Buckhorn’s suffering. Yes, it was bold. Shocking even. Anyone with proper morals would surely say so.

Yet all the while Lusita was telling herself these things, her hands were busy unfastening her clothing.

In the glow of early dawn, Buckhorn awakened. He was no longer chilled or shivering. And in his arms, snuggled close to him under a mound of blankets, was a nearly naked young woman. He recognized her, of course. Lusita. Achingly lovely, hauntingly beautiful Lusita. Under the blankets. Mostly naked. With him.

Buckhorn couldn’t resist. He leaned to kiss her. Her eyes fluttered open, but she said or did nothing to resist. Their lips met and it was the first of many long, hungry kisses as their bodies pressed together with equal urgency.