Beneath Red Tail Wings Discovery

Beneath Red Tail Wings
Table of Content

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Discovery
by Patricia I. Williams

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1877 Colorado Rockies

Discovery

Matt dangled from the end of the rope, his chest scrapping against the side of the cliff. He would have more than a few abrasions after this was done. Sweat from exertion and the sun baked rocks stung his eyes. He was pretty much climbing blind, depending on his pony to get them up. The man hitched to his back was shorter than he, but at least twenty to thirty pounds heavier. That he was unconscious added to the problem of getting him back up to the narrow trail. Blood from a bullet wound in the man’s shoulder soaked the back of Matt’s shirt.

He braced his legs once more and pulled himself up another foot. His old pony continued to take up the slack, holding steady against all the cropped eared evidence suggesting he was a killer to anyone fool enough to mount up. Matt’s gloved hands scrabbled for a hold onto the crumbling edge of the drop off. He was suddenly dragged over the top a few feet more before Cobby snorted in relief and returned to nipping at the sparse grass. He lay for a moment gasping for breath, the man a dead weight on top of him.

After a minute or two, Matt squirmed out from under the body. He got his canteen from Cobby’s saddle and used a little to moisten the man’s parched lips. The bullet had passed through the body so Matt poured a little of his last few swallows of whiskey in the holes then used his one clean bandana and a few strips of rawhide to tie down for a bandage. The man had lost a lot of blood and his face was pale and sweaty with shock. Now they were up here, Matt hoped that the darkening sky wouldn’t bring a storm before he found some place to hold up with his unconscious charge.

Cobby snorted and pranced away as Matt pulled him over to the body. His legs were no longer trembling from the climb, so he figured he could hoist the man into the saddle and get moving. The old pony’s notched ears were flat and teeth bared. But he stood perfectly still under the weight and didn’t kick Matt in the head as he tied the man’s wrists to the saddle before mounting up behind him. There wasn’t any sign of a horse running down the trail ahead of him, so Matt wondered where the man’s horse could have gone. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He knew a night in the rain would probably end the man.

They journeyed for maybe an hour before the first icy drops fell. Matt covered the man with his slicker and put his own wool lined jacket and gloves on. The temperature dropped abruptly. If he had to make do with the sparse trees they would both probably get struck by lightning. Thunder echoed around the mountains and Cobby threw up his head and refused to move another inch.

“Come on you mule headed nag. You won’t stay dry standing around out here.”

Dismounting, Matt grabbed the bridle and halter alongside Cobby’s jaw and pulled him along the narrow trail he had been following. The old horse kept baring his teeth and snorting all the while but didn’t kick or bite. The trail was too wide to be an animal track, so perhaps there was a cave or cabin at the end of it. At this point a cave would be grand as long as it was free of bears.

Lightning cracked overhead, scaring the hell out of man and horse. Some distance away a tree sizzled as it burst into flames, but the sudden torrent of rain thankfully overwhelmed the fire. The first flash of light left the impression of some kind of structure ahead. Relief was quickly replaced by caution. Whoever ambushed the old man could be hold up there. For the first time in months, Matt pulled his gun.

He took time scouting the area thoroughly before approaching the building. Just because he didn’t see any lights didn’t mean a killer couldn’t be watching from the dark windows. Someone wanted this man dead. They could still be around. It wouldn’t be the first time and the thought of that incident made him shiver. His mother used to say someone was stepping on your grave when that feeling crawled up your spine. So he made himself wait until his nerves settled before he circled the cabin and eased along the west wall to the door.

He nudged the door open with his gun barrel. Rusty hinges resisted the intrusion, but the door swung back against the wall. He eased down and went in low, the pounding rain covering his first cautious entry. Lightning lit up the night and the sudden flare exposed no other intruders, though it was a near thing not to fire his weapon at the shadows! Matt holstered his gun. He had the impression of a table with a lamp atop it. He hoped there was oil. A crude fireplace was the last image from the lightning flash. It would do. So he hurried out to bring the wounded man in.

First he carried the old man inside and laid him on the floor nearest the fireplace. Matt stripped the saddle and his meager supplies from the pony. He hobbled old Cobby in the wind protected space between the cabin and the rock wall that rose up behind it. He hoped the battered overhang resembling a back porch would be enough shelter from the lightning. Matt wanted to take him inside the cabin, but Cobby hated barns, stalls and men in general. He tied on the feed bag with the last of the oats he’d bought in Silverton. He left the horse rolling his eyes and staring him down with laid back notched ears. There would be hell to pay come morning for leaving him out here, but having a right fit thrown inside and stomping on his patient wouldn’t do.

Matt felt his way to the fireplace, finding fairly dry kindling already laid and a rusted crane and trivet. He took flint and steel from the inside pocket of his coat and set to work. He was relieved when smoke disappeared up the chimney and the tiny flame grew. Thank goodness there was wood already stacked against the wall. He was dogged tired and still needed to bed down his feverish patient.

Matt removed the man’s outer garments and boots. He discovered a crude bunk and took the dusty blankets for a good shake in the open doorway. He dragged the bunk over to the fire, then lifted the old man atop it, tucking him in against the damp. A further search of the single room turned up kerosene and a few cans of beans and peaches. Someone obviously used the place from time to time. The cans weren’t old and the blankets weren’t moth eaten. He filled the lamp and lit it. Unpacking his gear, Matt got coffee going with collected rainwater. After checking the shutters were secure, he latched the door. When the room warmed up he shucked off his coat and hat. After a while the scent of frying bacon and potatoes filled the room.

He checked the old man’s wound, cleaning the holes out by lamp light.  All that time lying in the open and then the ride just might do him in.  Matt hadn’t heard any shots the last days riding in the mountains. He would have thought the sound would have carried to him. The fact that a fat roll of bank notes and silver dollars remained in the money belt around his waist, was a sure indication of why the old man was bushwhacked.  But Matt couldn’t just leave him. Nobody should have to die alone.

Exhausted, Matt finally set down to the unsteady table to eat. The crude chair rocked on its uneven legs until he sat in it. A can of beans and peaches bulked up his meal. Those rare peach slices were much appreciated. There wasn’t any money left for pleasures like these right now.  The bread, cheese and the rest of his meager stores would have to be rationed until he could get out of this situation. Matt needed to get a job before his last few dollars were gone. He wasn’t always welcome at smaller homesteads, because of his worn clothes and nightmare pony. He usually worked the ranches as he traveled, but steered clear of the mining operations. The rowdy mining camps were filled with rotgut and greedy men scrabbling over silver and the few women that dared to try and survive there. A law abiding man had to keep close watch on his property and worry too much about a bullet in the back. Those places brought back bad memories.

Luck graced him once more when he discovered a thick bar of wood leaning in a dark corner of the room which he used to keep the door firmly shut. The latch was no more than tattered rope over a nail. Now there would be warning if those bushwhackers showed up. He built up the fire considerably before he bedded down on the floor, hopefully to get a full night’s sleep without dreams. Mindful of that money belt, he tucked it in next to the man. He didn’t need to be accused of theft. The old man had been shot from the front. He wasn’t wearing a gun. The horse and rifle he should have had was gone without a trace. Matt slept with his rifle close at hand by the fireplace. Contrary as ever, dreams did not disturb his rest at all during the remainder of the stormy night.

The rain pummeled the cabin for three days. Random holes in the roof left puddles on the floor. Matt had to move his bedroll twice to avoid the irritating splashes of cold water startling him from sleep. The old man’s fever worsened and for a while Matt was sure he wouldn’t make it, but he was a tough one alright. For the time being his fever was down and his breathing deep. Maybe he would wake up soon and tell Matt where he should take him. Right now his most dangerous task was seeing to his right irritated pony. No, Matt didn’t shiver as he cautiously made his way across the muddy track to the back of the cabin.

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