Outlaw Hearts(7)

He headed Outlaw through a thick growth of trees and into a clearing, halting the horse and just listening for several minutes while he pressed a neckerchief to his wound. He heard no sound but the wind and birds. The morning rain had finally cleared, and it seemed as though it might warm up a little. He urged his horse to a grassy rise so he could see better. When he reached the top, he scanned the horizon in all directions, seeing no sign of anyone following. In the distance he could see what looked like a cabin and an outbuilding, as well as a larger building that had been burned. He winced and grasped at his belly, again cursing. He knew he had to get help or die. Maybe someone at the farm below could help him—if not willingly, then at gunpoint.

He urged his horse down the hill, pulling a revolver from its holster as he came closer, waiting for someone to come out and greet him—or shoot at him. Everything was quiet, and no one made an appearance. He approached the cabin. “Hello!” he called out, watching the windows carefully. One of them was broken out and boarded up. No one answered his call. He carefully surveyed the entire area, seeing no wagons, no cattle, no horses. In the distance, fencing around what appeared to be a freshly plowed field was knocked down, as was more fencing around what was once apparently a corral. He rode toward the burned-out building, which he could tell had been some kind of barn. Disaster had most certainly struck here, and from all appearances it had been a man-made disaster.

“Raiders,” he muttered. He knew the signs. He had done some of this kind of work himself when he rode with Bill Kennedy and his gang; but those days were done, and Bill Kennedy and his whole bunch, or what was left of them after Jake’s shoot-out with them, were also after Jake’s hide. “I not only have the law after me, but outlaws too,” he muttered to his horse.

He felt himself growing weaker, knew he at least had to lie down somewhere; and Outlaw also needed to rest. He managed to dismount and he led the horse to a nearby shed, opening the door cautiously at first. Inside were three empty stalls and some feed. “Here you go, boy,” he said quietly to Outlaw. He led the horse inside. “I’m sorry I can’t unsaddle you, but at least you can eat.” He holstered his revolver and took a knife from its sheath on his belt, slitting open a sack of oats and grunting with great pain as he managed to hoist it to a feeding trough and dump it in. He stumbled against the stall then, again cursing his luck.

He removed his heavy, wet slicker and threw it over the side of the stall, then made his way back outside, closing the shed doors so his horse would not be spotted. He headed toward the cabin, then stopped for a moment at the sight of what appeared to be a fresh grave out behind the house. So, someone had died in the raid. He tried to remember when he himself had stopped killing only those who challenged him in a gunfight and had allowed himself to use his guns on innocent people. Well, he hadn’t really, had he? They had all been shooting back at him at the time they died. Still, it was his own raiding and robbing that had made them raise weapons against him.

Why it bothered him lately to wonder about such things, he wasn’t sure. It irked him to no end, and he thought maybe it had something to do with a man getting older and leaving the wild ways of his youth—if thirty could be considered old. Deep inside, whenever he pulled a gun on someone, he felt fourteen again, and the person staring back at him and his gun was his father. Maybe that was why he couldn’t stop killing. Each man he shot was like killing his father all over again.

He mounted two low steps to the front porch of the cabin, again taking out a revolver. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. He carefully opened the door, seeing a tidy but somewhat barren main room. Apparently the raiders had taken plenty, and whoever was left behind had straightened things up as best he or she could—most likely she, from the looks of the braided rugs on the floors and the ruffled curtains at the windows. Even the window that was boarded up still had curtains hanging on it. He figured the glass had been shot out by the raiders, or by someone shooting back at them.

He studied the room: a table and two chairs, a narrow bed in one corner, where a man’s clothes hung on hooks. He spotted what looked like a doctor’s bag sitting on the bed. On weakening legs he walked over to open it, seeing a doctor’s instruments inside. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. Maybe he had picked the right place after all. A doctor would be more likely to help him rather than try to hurt him or even turn him in; but why would a doctor be living way out here on a failing farm?

For the moment he could not afford to stand around and wonder. He could only hope whoever lived here would come back soon and would help him, either out of the goodness of their hearts, or at the point of a gun. He’d have to take the chance. To try to keep going would mean certain death.