Rain Shadow(3)

Able passengers led the wounded to a designated area well away from the  teetering cars. Occasionally, an animal or person escaped an overturned  railcar unaided.

Overwhelmed, Anton slid from his horse. Behind him someone moaned in pain.

"We need more help." Doc, a beefy Norwegian, dragged his bag across the  grass to the next patient. "I sent the Von Goethe boy for another  doctor, but it'll be dark before he can get here."

"Neubauer! Over here!"

Collecting himself, Anton loped to where the townspeople had formed a  team and joined them. Dividing, they methodically checked each car for  trapped survivors.

The afternoon passed, and three men were discovered dead-two whites and  an Indian. Those in need of a doctor had grown to an alarming number.  Toward the rear of the train, a metallic sound caught Anton's attention.  He followed the noise to one of the overturned stock cars and climbed  the bottom of the car, heedless of the grime already covering him.  Squatting at the opening, he peered down.

A young red pony lay dying. Its exhausted body jerked reflexively, one  hoof occasionally striking a tin bucket. A cage of chickens had spilled  open, feathers and strutting chickens everywhere. Anton paused, blinked  the sting of perspiration from his eyes and wiped sweat from his temple  with his shirt-sleeve.

Another sound came from below.

Human.

Feet first, he lowered himself inside the car, swung suspended for a  moment, and then dropped to the metal side with a loud clash of his  boots. Squawking chickens disbanded in a dozen directions. He climbed a  mountain of feed bags, many burst or split, and discovered tumbled  crates, scattered harnesses, snaffle rings and bridle bits. Beneath the  rubble, he spotted a hand. Anxiety sparked a cold shiver through his  overheated frame.

It was a small, dark hand.

A sleeve.

Shoving aside a saddle, he made out an Indian boy, his leg pinned  beneath a trunk. The boy laid unconscious, dark fingers of blood tracing  his brow. Anton lifted the trunk, and the boy groaned. Immediately,  something inside him locked in on the boy's pain, and he touched the  narrow face tenderly. Just a little boy...a boy like his own.

Running his hands over the child, he checked for wounds, finding none  save the cut on his head. The boy's leg, however, twisted at an  unnatural angle.

Out of crates he built a passable stairway and kicked open the car's  trapdoor. The child was longer than Nikolaus, but surprisingly lighter.  Both arms occupied, Anton scaled the shaky pile and crouched in the  opening, taking great care not to move the injured leg more than he had  to.

Anton reached the doctor's makeshift quarters, and the boy awoke, pain  contorting his face. He grimaced and fought tears, then fell back and  shuddered.

"Doc!" Anton yelled. He squeezed the child's thin shoulder through his  buckskin shirt. "The doc'll fix you up. It'll be all right. Hold on.  Doc!" Gently, he lowered the boy to the grass.

"Hang onto your britches, Neubauer. What've you got here?" Doc gave a cursory examination. "Leg's broke. We'll hafta set it."                       
       
           



       

Anton jerked his head up. We?

The doctor took a vial and a syringe from his bag. "What's your name, boy?"

The child's black eyes widened, and his dark skin paled. He stared at  the needle and swallowed. "S-Slade. What're ya gonna do with that?"

"Make you sleep so we can fix your leg."

Admiring the boy's composure, Anton took Slade's chin firmly in one  large hand and turned the boy's face away from the needle. He was barely  older than his own son. Nikolaus would likely be screaming his head off  in pain and fear about now. Slade met his gaze and held it. His Adam's  apple bobbed twice, and he jerked as the needle pricked his skin.

Sleepy lids drooped over black, black eyes. "Grandfather will be proud," he muttered before losing consciousness.

Anton nodded. He'd be proud if this were his boy.

* * *

Annette pulled a coverlet up under Slade's chin and turned to Anton, her  tawny eyes filled with sympathetic tears. "I wonder where his parents  are. Did he ask for them?"

In the lantern light, Anton studied the dark-skinned boy, so small and alone, asleep in his bed. "He mentioned his grandfather."

"His grandfather could be one of the injured or..." His sister-in-law's  voice trailed off. Tendrils of russet-colored hair had come loose from  the love knot she always wore, and curled prettily around her face. She  had prepared rooms, freshened linens and assisted the men in bedding  down their unexpected houseguests.

A motherly lady with a shoulder injury occupied one bedroom. Two Pawnee  Indians, one with a head wound, the other with his foot stitched up,  rested in another.

When Anton had offered to bring the boy home, it had seemed only right  to bring a few others, too. Butler residents and neighboring farmers had  taken home as many Wild West passengers as they could. The huge old  farmhouse he rambled around in with his father and son held extra beds,  and could easily accommodate three more people.

In the morning he and his brothers would head back to help bury and burn  the dead livestock, a staggering prospect. "Tomorrow I'll ask around  for his grandfather."

Annette nodded. She knelt over the pallet on the floor and ran her  fingers through Nikolaus' pale blond hair, her sweet face reflecting her  love. She had helped Anton care for Nikolaus since Emily's death when  he was barely a year old. "Didn't take your little Deutschmann long to  fall asleep after all. He's fascinated by Slade."

"Pretty exciting having an Indian sleeping in your pa's bed," Anton said, grinning.

"You'd better get some rest, too, Anton." She smiled and stretched on tiptoe.

Anton leaned forward, accepting her sisterly kiss on the cheek. She  smelled of lilac water, as always. "What about you? Your family will be  up early."

"I'll head home as soon as I clean up the kitchen." The door's soft  click behind her roused Slade, and he sat up quickly, wincing.

"Whoa, pardner." Anton touched his shoulder. "It's all right. Lay back  down and rest." The boy's fathomless, obsidian eyes revealed a  combination of pain and fear. "Remember me?" Anton asked in hopes of  soothing him. "I brought you home. Doc left some medicine to help you  sleep tonight."

He fed Slade a spoonful and patted the child's hand comfortingly.  Practically the same age as Nikolaus, and yet so different. He was dark  and slender where Nikolaus was fair and robust. He had prominent  cheekbones and full, bow-shaped lips. Though opposite in every way, he  was as handsome a child as Nikolaus.

Anton pictured the two side by side, Slade half a head taller. What  would they say to one another? Would Slade take an interest in Nikolaus'  carved horses? How would they entertain him while his leg healed? Anton  touched the boy's narrow hand and a deeper concern filled his thoughts.  How would he comfort him if he couldn't find his family?

The little guy had obviously had a traumatic scare when the train  derailed. Anton couldn't help wondering about those long, terrifying  minutes. Had he been knocked out, or had he lain in pain until he passed  out? He imagined Nikolaus seriously hurt and separated from family-from  him. His son would be frightened, just as this boy was, even though  he'd probably try his best to conceal it. Anton's chest tightened.                       
       
           



       

"Mister?"

He met the drowsy gaze. "I'm Anton."

"How's my pony?"

Anton studied the tiny cut above Slade's eyebrow, avoiding direct eye  contact. What could he say? A hard knot of sorrow lumped in the pit of  his stomach, and he met the waiting gaze. "Your horse died, son."

The drug Doc had administered seemed to have dulled the pain in the boy's eyes. "Thanks."

Thanks? Wordlessly, Anton nodded.

Slade's black-lashed eyes closed. His narrow chest rose and fell  rhythmically. What kind of boy was this? What kind of family did he come  from? Anton couldn't begin to imagine a life in the Wild West Show. How  was Slade schooled? Was he learning the same things as Nikolaus? Anton  gave a brief prayer of thanks that the boy had not been killed, and  prayed, too, that his grandfather or whatever family he had was still  alive.

Slade slept.

Anton rifled through a stack of dime novels, selected one with Buffalo  Bill on the cover and settled into the chair. The book was an exciting  story of an Indian attack, but one he'd read before. Minutes later, his  weary eyes closed.

* * *

An undefinable whisper of fabric or soft leather against the floorboards  woke Anton. He sat up with a start, the book falling to the floor.