Norton, Andre - Novel 15 by Stand to Horse (v1.0) Page B

be eternally beaten down and down.
                   Ritchie stumbled into the man who had been in
front of him. Mechanically the boy began to edge around him, thinking that he
had given out from trail-making. But the man caught at him as he brushed by.
                   "Look—" His voice quavered, and he
blinked rapidly. "Can yo' see them, too?"
                   Ritchie tried to shake free. Then he heard
something— a confused shouting. And above it rang the call of a bugle. Across the
drifts, coasting up and down like a ship beset by a rising sea, came a sled
pulled by a four-ox team. But spurring ahead of this plodding bulk was a knot
of mounted men, the snow dashing up like foam around the stamping hooves of
their horses.
                   As if something had pulled all the stiffening
out of him, Ritchie dropped where he stood. He could not wink his eyes free of
a swimming film which blurred the world, and salt burned across his cracked
lips. He heard a voice from far off saying with emphasis:
                   ''They sure brought all their sand with
'em!"
                   It was heaven to lie flat in the ox sled, even
if his head and shoulders were supported by another uneasy body and someone's
long legs crowded his. He drifted off into a shadow world which had little
connection with reality and never remembered their arrival at the stage station
or the second journey on to the fort.
                   A stab of familiar pain brought him back at
last. Overhead was a roof of strips of dusty canvas. He lay on a hard cot, and
working on his hand was the post surgeon who tut-tutted sharply at what he had
found beneath the bandages. Turning to reach for an instrument he encountered
Ritchie's open eyes.
                   ''Awake are you?"
                   Ritchie muttered assent.
                   "Well, you're a lucky young man, I can
tell you. You'll bear a nasty scar for the rest of your life. But thanks to
those mates of yours and their treatment, you'll still have your hand—which is
more than poor Winters — And Velasco will have his
feet, too—even if he'll have to favor them awhile—"
                   He broke off abruptly and hurried through his
job, as if to avoid questions.
                   Ritchie struggled to one elbow when his hand
was released. "What's the matter with Winters ?"
                  "Frostbite!" The surgeon picked up his kit and was gone before Ritchie could ask another
question.
                   "Yeh, tough on Winters ."
From the next cot came Kristland's voice.
                   "What happened?"
                   "Ain't happened yet, but it's goin' to.
They're gonna take off his feet—gangrene. If he's lucky, he'll die. Wonder how
Herndon feels— Winters won't be forgettin' him!"
                   "Shut up!" Ritchie turned his head
and looked at the rough 'dobe wall. The pain in his hand seemed to feed the
ache behind his eyes. He closed them, but his thoughts still went around and
around. It wasn't Herndon's fault that Winters had
been too stubborn and contrary to report his feet soon enough. Of course it
wasn't! But where was Herndon now and what devils must be plaguing him in his
particular dark!
     

7
     
Cold-Pork Christmas
     
                   Through the wavy glass of the small window
Ritchie could see across the barracks square. From the flagpole the Colors were
forced into a stiff bar by the force of the wind, a wind which also scoured and
broke down the drifts it had but moments before built. Dark figures were
performing the evolutions of drill veiled with swirls of driven snow. He
fancied he could hear the guttural snorts with which Kristland warmed up the
mouthpiece of his instrument before he attempted to play the calls.
                   "Who is here?"