talk faded. The next thing Joe became aware of was a damp cloth sponging his face, wiping away something sticky. Was it blood? It seemed he’d been shot. That would explain the pain. Pain everywhere . . . and a strange numbness setting in. Was he dying?
“This one’s not much more than a kid,” Rusty said. “I’m bettin’ he fell in with some bad company. Maybe we oughta try and save him.”
“You could try. But he looks pretty near gone. And even if he lives, it’ll only be to hang.”
“I could wrap him to slow the bleeding. The head wound’s just a crease. But the other two . . .” The sponging paused. Joe could feel himself coming around, but the pain was getting worse. “If the bullets are still in him, he’ll need a doc,” Rusty said.
“Not much chance of that. With so much stock to round up in the morning, we won’t be in Ogallala till late tomorrow at the soonest.” Jesse’s voice came from somewhere close. “He won’t last long enough to—” The words ended in a sudden gasp. “Oh, my God!”
“What—?”
“Rusty, that’s Joe Dollarhide!”
There was a beat of silence. “Couldn’t be,” Rusty said. “That kid got killed in the big stampede two years ago. Remember?”
“Sure. But we never found the body. The boss and I saw his horse, dead in a wash. I wanted to go down for a closer look, but Benteen needed to round up his cattle so we left. Lord, the kid could’ve been down there somewhere, still alive, and we just left him.”
“Are you sure it’s Joe?”
“Hell, yes. I remember that little scar on his chin and the way one ear kind of stuck out farther than the other one. He’s grown some, but it’s him. It’s got to be.” A strong hand gripped Joe’s shoulder, shaking him, triggering jabs of hot pain. “Dollarhide! Can you hear me?”
Joe groaned. Summoning all his strength and will, he managed to open his eyes. What he saw, in the lantern light, was Jesse’s shocked face staring down at him. “Hurts . . .” he muttered. “Hurts like hell . . .” His eyes closed again. He lay in a cloud of pain, struggling to piece together what his ears could hear.
“So what now, boss?” Rusty asked. “Don’t forget Dollarhide was shot helping his buddies steal cattle.”
Jesse exhaled. “I owe this man. I could’ve saved his life two years ago, and I rode away. If I’d gone down into that wash and found him, he wouldn’t be where he is now. Patch him up as best you can. Load him in the chuckwagon and run him into Ogallala—it shouldn’t take you more than two or three hours. If Dollarhide makes it there alive, leave him with a doctor and come back.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Leave the body with the sheriff and tell him we’ve got a couple more he can have.”
“We’ll need to unload the bedrolls for the men. And what about breakfast?”
“Anybody can make coffee,” Jesse said. “We’ll manage till you get back. I’ll get the wagon ready while you wrap Dollarhide’s wounds. And get some whiskey down him. He’s going to need it.”
“I’m already ahead of you.” Rusty was shuffling items in what Joe remembered as the medical kit he carried on the chuckwagon. The elderly cook raised his head and tipped a glass bottle to his lips. Whiskey. Joe swallowed all he could without choking. Its heat burned through his body, warming his flesh but dulling his thoughts.
“One more question.” Propping Joe’s upper body, Rusty pressed a wad of sheeting to his bleeding side and began to wrap it with long strips. “What do I say to the sheriff, or to anybody else, who asks me why a wounded cattle rustler would be worth getting to a doctor?”
Jesse’s answer, when it came, was muted by distance. “Just tell them what I’m telling you. This man is one of ours.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
JOE CLENCHED HIS JAW AGAINST THE PAIN THAT RIPPED THROUGH HIM with every jolt of the chuckwagon wheels over the rough prairie ground.
No talking. Not a word.
He repeated the message in his mind. Stay silent. If he couldn’t speak, he wouldn’t be questioned. If he couldn’t be questioned, he wouldn’t be forced to lie about who he was and how he’d been shot.
If he lived.
He lay on the thin blanket that had been used to lift him into the wagon bed. Beneath it there was nothing but hard boards. He could feel the blood seeping