Pierre gently laid her onto the bedroll, carefully tearing at her garments to find the wound. He removed her tattered dress, leaving only the petticoats. He chided himself for looking at her breasts. He was attending to her life, not sating his desire! He gently turned her on her side, looking at her lower back. The bullet had gone clean through, and he offered a silent prayer of thanks. If it had been lodged in her stomach, it would have caused further damage. He did not have the tools, or the training, to remove it.
He grabbed his pack, and removed his medicine kit. He poured iodine over the wound, grimacing as the dark liquid stained her belly and back. He laid a clean cloth bandage upon the bedroll, and rolled her onto her back. He then pressed another bandage upon the left side of her stomach. He had no bandage long enough to hold them in place, so he stripped off his shirt and tore it into a long tourniquet. He gently wrapped it around her waist, holding the bandages in place. Pierre sat back on his heels, wiping his brow with a blood stained hand. He observed her now, her face pale and drawn in pain. Her lips were purple, yet a slight breath emerged from them. He covered her with his blanket and left the cave.
Pierre emerged from the cave to the settling dusk, it would soon be dark. He brought a canteen out to the horse, and gave it a long drink. It was still lathered up, covered in sweat. Pierre stroked Rusty’s nose as he drank, murmuring words of thanks for saving their lives. He freed Rusty’s reins after slipping a note under the saddle blanket, asking for help and their location. He undid the bridle, and gave the horse it’s freedom. Rusty neighed at Pierre, asking why he did not climb aboard. Pierre slapped his rump, and clicked his tongue.
“Git, Rusty!” Pierre yelled.
The trees, while concealing the cave, would not hide his horse. He knew if he gave the horse it’s head, it would make it back to the ranch house. He climbed up the hill, his eyes sweeping the horizon. He saw no sign of the two criminals, and went back inside the cave. Pierre gathered the branches he kept in a corner of the cave to conceal the entrance. After it was camouflaged, he retrieved his saddle bag. In it he carried a flint, and lit a fire at the rear of the cave. A smoke hole had been made years ago, and the fire soon lit up the cave. He knew it was safe to have smoke curl into the sky at night, but not during the day when it could be spotted. He was glad he had had the foresight to fill the cave with wood this spring.
He heard a moan from the girl, and went to kneel at her side. She was covered in perspiration, and writhed in pain. He checked the bandages while he murmured words of comfort, and replaced one of them. The blood was slowing down, and he was relieved. He did not have a lot of bandages, or iodine. He got out his whiskey flask, and put it to her lips. She pulled her head away at the taste, but he coaxed a few drops into her mouth. Soon she slept easier, numbed by the bitter alcohol. Pierre settled back on his haunches, and sighed.
He felt hope come over him, sensing that she would be all right. He hoped she could avoid infection, he should know by morning. He went to the fire and made some coffee and soup, using dried vegetables and meat from his pack. Luckily he had filled his canteens recently, and had a few days worth of water. Once the soup was simmering, he took a cupful of broth and let it cool. After he ate, he brought the cooled broth to the girl, and coaxed some into her. A few minutes later she sighed, and fell into a deep sleep.
Pierre watched her sleep, perched in a corner of the cave, sipping coffee. The fire warmed them both, and flickered light and shadow over the girl. Pierre scratched his head, and tossed his Stetson nearby.
Damn, he thought. This is one hell of a mess.
He uncoiled his long, muscular legs, and ran his hands through his wavy black hair. His bare chest reflected light and shadow, as the firelight played with the night. He took off his cowboy boots, worn and patched, spurs tinkling in the quiet. He looked for a place to lay down, and realised he only had one bedroll and blanket. It was close to summer, but the nights were still cool.
He went over to the girl, and laid beside her. He brought a cup of water with him, in case she needed a drink during the night. He wiggled closer, trying to share the blanket and pad, without touching her. He thought of his wife as he laid there, listening to the girl’s steady breathing. Tara was a caring woman, and they were dear friends. Unfortunately, that was the extent of his feeling for her. Theirs was a marriage arranged by their parents, and had been eight years in length so far. Pierre enjoyed Tara’s company, yet their lovemaking, when he could bring himself to do so, was infrequent. They had yet to sire a child, though the subject was rarely discussed. Tara was busy with committees, fundraising, and such, while he ran the ranch. It was a peaceful, yet passionless marriage. Pierre shook his head to clear it. Divorce was unheard of, and he respected Tara too much to have an affair behind her back. He knew when he married her what he was getting into, yet at times he felt regret.
Moving closer to the girl, though still not touching her, Pierre slowly drifted off to sleep. He slept fitfully, dreaming of milky breasts covered in crimson blood, intertwined with visions of Tara and his loveless marriage.
Pierre jerked awake, tense and ready to spring into action. He reached for his rifle, and heard the sound again. It was the girl, moaning and writhing. Pierre added a log to the fire, so he could see better. As he knelt near her, he could see perspiration on her brow again, she tossed her head restlessly, and emitted moans of pain. Pierre lifted the blanket, leaving her chest covered, and removed a bandage. He drew in a sharp breath, and sat back. Pus was oozing from the wound. It had become infected, as he feared. He slowly and gently turned her on her side, and lifted the cloth bandage. It was fine, so he put her on her back again. He got more iodine from the pack, and the last bandage. He would need to wash and boil the used ones, as she would need more. He wiped away as much pus as he could, and poured the last of the iodine on it. She jerked in pain, still sleeping fitfully. He replaced the tourniquet, and covered her up. He wet her lips with water from the cup, and she licked them. He did this several times, until she seemed to sigh and settle into a deeper sleep. Pierre poured himself an old, strong coffee, and sat near the fire.
He put on some water to boil, using a full canteen. That left only three, and there was no water nearby. Pierre sent a silent message to his horse, urging it home to deliver the message. Help could reach them in two days if the horse went straight home. As the water simmered, Pierre sat back and watched her sleep. She had waist length chocolate hair, now matted and dirty. He could see curls in it, and wondered if it was naturally curly. Her hair framed her head in a pillow of brown, spilling all around her. Her eyelashes fluttered with a dream, and he wondered what it was about. Her skin was still pale, faintly tinged with alabaster. Her complexion was unlined and without make up. Pierre liked that, he was not one for the made up ladies. He liked women who were themselves, not what they thought a man wanted them to be.
The water boiled, and he tossed in the used bandages. He had rinsed them some, but the boiling water turned an angry red. He dared not use more water, so he lifted them out with his knife, which he had let sit in the coals to sterilize first. He placed them to dry on a rock heated by the fire pit, and hoped they were free of germs. They were a pink colour, but should be safe, he thought.
Pierre tossed the water and rinsed the pot. Settling back beside the girl, he wet her lips some more, helping her to drink more water. She seemed at peace, so he laid down again. He did not let himself think, only listened to her breathing, the crackle of the fire, and the sizzle of the bandages drying on the rock.
