EXCERPT:
Kenneth Martine felt himself
slide from his exhausted horse and crumple in a heap on the
hard ground. Home at last. He heard his mother call out “Get
Burt!” to someone he couldn’t see for the blurring
of his bruised eyes. Thumping feet hurried across the wooden
porch and hit the dirt of the yard. He tried to grin but it
hurt too much. Big brother Burt was only five years older,
but he could fix anything. He’d be here soon. Ken rolled
to his left side, facing the house, but that hurt, and the
pain was overwhelming.
Ma stood in the house doorway.
With his one good eye he saw her white apron go to her face
just a moment before she ran out into the yard to reach him.
Ken heard her stifled cry of anguish. Big, sturdy arms lifted
him. That had to be Burt. God, it would be good to see him,
even with the one eye the outlaws hadn’t pounded shut.
“Put him on my bed,”
Ma said firmly to Burt as he hurried at her side. Ma being
such a strong-willed woman, Ken knew she’d take care
of him.
Pain hit him so hard, dark
clouds curled about him. Visions of Carlie’s beautiful
face hovered in the fog smothering him. He groaned, knowing
he’d never see her again. He heard voices, Burt’s
and Ma’s, close above him. They talked across his body
while they laid him on a cloud of comfort. The comfort didn’t
last; it was only temporary compared to the last days, or
could it be weeks, of agony?
“It’s bad, Burt,”
Mother said. “I already smell infection. Kenneth, can
you hear me?”
He tried to answer, but it
required too much effort. He knew his family was hurting by
their broken voices, and he couldn’t help them. He could
tell by Burt’s voice he was furious. That was good.
Burt would take care of things for him. Ken felt like he was
eighty instead of twenty-three. His pants leg was being cut
as he struggled for consciousness. The trouser cloth popped
apart with a snap where the swelling from his bullet wound
hurt so much. The sudden lack of constriction gave momentary
relief.
“Hot water, Burt, and
whiskey.” Lord, it was good to hear Ma’s voice.
If only Carlie could be here, too. She knew about nursing
from working with Doc Pritch.
“That looks bad, Ma,”
Burt said. “Bill has gone for the doctor. If he can
find him sober enough to wash his hands, they should be here
in a couple hours.”
“I ain’t gonna
last that long,” Ken told them. He couldn’t be
sure they heard. “Listen.” His eyes closed. He
struggled to open them. With his one good eye he stared up
through the straggles of his own graying hair, into Burt’s
amber colored eyes, so like his own.
“Listen. Jobe Fetters
did this. Him and his gang.” Ken knew they’d mashed
his nose. He couldn’t breathe very well. He gasped for
air and forced himself to go on. “My wife Carlie is
in Still Creek, Texas. My wife and baby. Bring...her... here.
I promised.”
“Where is Still Creek?”
Burt asked. He tenderly brushed the hair back from Ken’s
face as he turned it on the blessed softness of a feather
pillow.
Ken couldn’t answer.
He struggled against the darkness engulfing him. He felt the
blood-stiffened clothing being slid from his aching body.
“OMIGOD! What’s
this pinned to the skin of his chest?” Ken heard Burt’s
anguished voice as though he were miles away. “A deputy’s
badge! He’s festered all around it. Wash carefully,
Ma, and I’ll pull it free. Poor, damn kid, they’ve
tortured him.”
Excruciating pain engulfed
Ken as the pin was torn from his flesh. He almost blacked
out completely. He had to be able to talk to them. One less
pain now, he thought, but the soreness remained. He sighed
heavily, trying to get his wits about him.
“Look at his wrists,
Son.” Ma said but she still kept scrubbing around the
infected leg wound. “He’s been tied. Oh, my poor
baby!” Her hot tears fell on him even as she worked.
“Cold water now, Burt.
He’s already feverish. He must have ridden a long way
without being tended properly.”
“He must have ridden
a long way tied up, by the looks of this.” Burt spread
a soothing cream on Ken’s swollen wrists. That felt
good. So did the cool cloth on his battered face.
“He’s coming around
again, Ma.” Burt leaned close. Ken felt Burt’s
breath on his face. “Bank money bags,” he told
Burt. Ken felt Burt’s body heat against his arm. Burt
leaned even closer. “Skunk chased at picnic...Ollie
hid... shot rattlesnake... lightning
tree...crevice.” He sighed heavily, glad he’d
gotten out the information he’d refused to reveal to
Jobe; the information it was so terribly important to get
to Burt, because Burt would fix everything and get the people’s
money back to them. And he’d bring Carlie home.
They must have set another
lamp near his head, Ken reasoned. A bright shaft of light
shone all around him. He tried to talk but did anyone hear
him?
“Hello there, Pa. I
ain’t seen you in years. I see you got little Timmy
by the hand.”
* * * *
They buried Kenneth Martine
in his best suit beside his father on the hill up from the
house, in the Martine Triple M cemetery. Little Timothy Martine’s
grave was close by. Once the neighbors had all gone and dusk
had settled over the big Martine ranch house, Burt sat with
his mother in adjoining rockers on the long front porch.
“A promise is a promise,
Burt,” Mother Martine finally said after rocking a while.
“I don’t know where Still Creek, Texas is, but
I expect someone does. Since you so strongly declared you
will not have another child after losing Timmy and Lauretta,
then that baby of Kenneth’s is my only hope for a grandchild.
If you’re thinking about heirs, Kenneth’s child
is the only heir to Triple M. Bring that mother and child
home, Burt.”
“What if she doesn’t
want to come here?” Burt said.
“I’m sure you’ll
find a way, Son. You always do. Bring them home.”
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