gesture worked, for the man very carefully put both hands on the bar, away from his gun. "It ain't my fight," he said hoarsely. "I'm just with him."
Val backed to the door, aware of the quiet-faced man at a table near his own, who had sat watching him. Had he seen that man before? Who was he?
Val stepped out and let the doors swing to. His horses were right down the street. He turned and walked swiftly toward them.
When he glanced back the man with the quiet face was standing outside the saloon, lighting a cigar. Val mounted, and swung his horse.
He reached the cabin on the mountain near dusk, and drawing his horses into the shadow of the aspens, he watched it for some time. There was no smoke from the chimney, no sign of life. When half an hour had passed and it was nearly dark, he rode forward.
There was no horse in the corral, no fresh manure on the ground. He tied his horses and went to the cabin, taking the thong off his six-shooter. He was almost at the door when he noticed it was slightly ajar, and there were dark spots on the split logs that formed the steps. He touched one of them, and it seemed to be damp.
Whoever was in there must have heard him at the corral, and he spoke quietly. "I am friendly. You want to strike a light?"
There was silence.
All was darkness within. For several minutes Val waited, then moved closer. He heard breathing, and stepped up to the door. The breathing was uneven, the breathing of someone injured, he was sure.
With his left hand he pushed the door wide, but nothing happened.
Then deliberately, he stepped in and to the right against the wall. There was no reaction.
"Who's there?" he asked. "Who is it? I am a friend."
There was still no response, and taking a chance, he struck a match.
Beyond the table which occupied the center of the room a man lay sprawled on the floor. A gun lay not far from his hand. The bunk from which he had fallen was bloody.
The match burned down, and Val struck another and lit the coal-oil lantern on the table. Then he went around the table and stared down at the man. The back of his buckskin jacket was bloody, and torn by a bullet. Carefully, Val turned the man over. It was Tensleep.
There was a cut on his scalp that looked to be several days old, and the blood from the bullet wound had dried.
Val straightened up and looked around the room. Tensleep, several years before, had been riding with Henry Sonnenberg, and despite what Val had heard about Sonnenberg, Thurston Peck, and Hardesty, Tensleep might have been one of them.
Never before had Val been faced with anything of this kind, although more than once he and Will had taken care of wounded people. But it had always been Will, decisive and sure, who had taken command and had known what to do.
The first thing was to take care of Tensleep. He straightened the bed, then slid one arm under Tensleep's hips and put the other around his body under the arms, and he picked him up.
Val was strong, but the wounded man was limp, and like a dead weight. Maybe moving him was the wrong thing, but Val got him on the bed, and unbuttoned the bloody shirt. The sight of the wound turned him sick at his stomach.
Turning from it, he put sticks together in the fireplace, started a fire, and put water on to boil.
Then he went outside, stripped the saddles from the horses, and turned them into the corral. He found a stack of hay, scarcely enough for two days, and pitched some to the horses. After that, he carried his gear into the cabin and dumped it on the floor.
The water was boiling, and he carried some of it to the table and with a clean handkerchief he bathed the dried blood away and cleansed the wound as best he could. He made a pad of another of his handkerchiefs and bound it in place over the wound. He did the same at the point of exit, and then washed the blood from the wound on the scalp.
He shaved some jerked beef into a tin and, adding water, made a thin broth. He didn't know whether he was doing the
Val backed to the door, aware of the quiet-faced man at a table near his own, who had sat watching him. Had he seen that man before? Who was he?
Val stepped out and let the doors swing to. His horses were right down the street. He turned and walked swiftly toward them.
When he glanced back the man with the quiet face was standing outside the saloon, lighting a cigar. Val mounted, and swung his horse.
He reached the cabin on the mountain near dusk, and drawing his horses into the shadow of the aspens, he watched it for some time. There was no smoke from the chimney, no sign of life. When half an hour had passed and it was nearly dark, he rode forward.
There was no horse in the corral, no fresh manure on the ground. He tied his horses and went to the cabin, taking the thong off his six-shooter. He was almost at the door when he noticed it was slightly ajar, and there were dark spots on the split logs that formed the steps. He touched one of them, and it seemed to be damp.
Whoever was in there must have heard him at the corral, and he spoke quietly. "I am friendly. You want to strike a light?"
There was silence.
All was darkness within. For several minutes Val waited, then moved closer. He heard breathing, and stepped up to the door. The breathing was uneven, the breathing of someone injured, he was sure.
With his left hand he pushed the door wide, but nothing happened.
Then deliberately, he stepped in and to the right against the wall. There was no reaction.
"Who's there?" he asked. "Who is it? I am a friend."
There was still no response, and taking a chance, he struck a match.
Beyond the table which occupied the center of the room a man lay sprawled on the floor. A gun lay not far from his hand. The bunk from which he had fallen was bloody.
The match burned down, and Val struck another and lit the coal-oil lantern on the table. Then he went around the table and stared down at the man. The back of his buckskin jacket was bloody, and torn by a bullet. Carefully, Val turned the man over. It was Tensleep.
There was a cut on his scalp that looked to be several days old, and the blood from the bullet wound had dried.
Val straightened up and looked around the room. Tensleep, several years before, had been riding with Henry Sonnenberg, and despite what Val had heard about Sonnenberg, Thurston Peck, and Hardesty, Tensleep might have been one of them.
Never before had Val been faced with anything of this kind, although more than once he and Will had taken care of wounded people. But it had always been Will, decisive and sure, who had taken command and had known what to do.
The first thing was to take care of Tensleep. He straightened the bed, then slid one arm under Tensleep's hips and put the other around his body under the arms, and he picked him up.
Val was strong, but the wounded man was limp, and like a dead weight. Maybe moving him was the wrong thing, but Val got him on the bed, and unbuttoned the bloody shirt. The sight of the wound turned him sick at his stomach.
Turning from it, he put sticks together in the fireplace, started a fire, and put water on to boil.
Then he went outside, stripped the saddles from the horses, and turned them into the corral. He found a stack of hay, scarcely enough for two days, and pitched some to the horses. After that, he carried his gear into the cabin and dumped it on the floor.
The water was boiling, and he carried some of it to the table and with a clean handkerchief he bathed the dried blood away and cleansed the wound as best he could. He made a pad of another of his handkerchiefs and bound it in place over the wound. He did the same at the point of exit, and then washed the blood from the wound on the scalp.
He shaved some jerked beef into a tin and, adding water, made a thin broth. He didn't know whether he was doing the
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