Chapter Fourteen
"...I'm...goin'...I'm...goin'!" Jim Crown moaned and groaned repeatedly, and tossed his hat-covered head slowly from side-to-side.
"Wake up, Windrider!" John Two Rivers urgently urged him, "Quickly! You must leave this place--or you will die!"
The moaning man let out another long, involuntary groan and obediently opened his eyes. He stared up into pitch blackness for a moment or two and came to the conclusion that, either he had gone completely blind...or there was something covering his face. He groaned again and started reaching for whatever that something was. A sharp cry escaped from his parched, tightly-pursed lips as a white-hot pain suddenly shot through his right arm and shoulder. At the same time, another even whiter, even hotter pain exploded in his chest. He would have cried out again, but his breath had already been taken away by then. His pain was slow to lessen, and his breath was slow to return. And--to make already miserable matters even worse--Grey Dog had gone back to beating him with his stick. "I'm...goin'!" he gasped breathlessly, "...plea-ease," he pleaded desperately, "...jes' leave me be-e!" Then, something bumped him up along side of his head and his hat fell from off of his grimacing face. He squinted blurrily up into the now not so pitch blackness. Something large and ominous-looking was looming over him all right! Only it wasn't a 'Grey Dog', but a 'black horse'! And it wasn't 'hitting him with a stick'--it was 'nuzzling him with its muzzle' and 'nudging him with its hard head'!
A strange look gradually replaced the grimace on the Marshal's face as something--besides pain--finally registered in his confused and tired brain. Things like where he was...how he came to be there...what had happened to him. What HAD 'happened' to him? Oh, yeah. He was on his way back to town--when he suddenly stopped a bullet...and then the bullet had stopped him. No wonder the smell of damp earth was so strong! He was lying there--all sprawled out on it!
The still, night air was crisp and cool. And, lying out in it--for so long--had caused his limbs to stiffen up some. Fact is, he had no feeling at all in his hands and legs. The numbing cold had completely paralyzed his already weakened muscles. The rest of him was pretty cold, too. So incredibly co-old that it seemed to add a whole new meaning to the term, 'chilled to the bone'.
The fact that he couldn't seem to move didn't seem to bother him though, because--at the moment--he had no intentions whatsoever of 'moving'! By just barely breathing--and by keeping all other movements to an absolute minimum as well--the Marshal found that he could at least 'keep a handle' on the horrendous hurt being caused by that chunk of lead that had been lodged in his chest.
That is, until the horse rammed its hard head right into his right rib cage!
A scream exploded from the lawman's tightly-pursed lips as once again that white-hot pain exploded in his chest! He grimaced and gasped and involuntarily grabbed at his injured right side--with his left hand. No doubt about it, he'd definitely lost some ribs, all right! For--in addition to the already intense agony of bullet grating against bone--there was that unforgetable, unmistakable, unbearable, unbelievably agonizing sensation of broken bone end grating against broken bone end. A groan now escaped him with each shallow exhalation. And with each inhalation, he winced.
The hand that was still being involuntarily held over the hole in his injured right side was beginning to register some sensation again. And the first message that it sent to the Marshal's brain told him that the area over and around the wound was warm. The next message told him that it also seemed wet. He pulled his hand away just enough to form a fist and then rubbed his half-frozen fingers across his palm. It was wet all right. His hand was smeared with blood. He placed his bloodied appendage back over the hole Lucas Hampton had put in him. It was then that he discovered just how small the damp area actually was. Why, it was only about the size of his open palm. Of course! Katelyn's bandages must be keeping pressure on his wound. Katelyn's bandages had, quite probably, kept him from bleeding to death. Katelyn...the memory of her caused a slight smile to play for a moment on the Marshal's pursed lips. Oh--if only his horse hadn't been so set on getting back to Cimarron--he might have been able to make it back to the canyon. But he hadn't even tried heading back in that direction. Because he knew it would've been totally useless. Lancer would have fought him every inch of the way. And Crown was in no condition to do battle.
Speaking of doing battle--and fighting with Lancer...
Crown was in no condition to take another jolt--like the one he'd just received--either. So he snapped his eyes open and glanced around him in the darkness. His scream had apparently caused the horse to bolt. But he was finally able to discern the enemy's new position.
His attacker was now standing about ten yards off to the left of him--and was busy attacking some short shrubbery.
He watched while the animal innocently nibbled away and saw that the sinister, dark form was, in fact, eating its way back over to him! "You keep away from me, yah hear!" the Marshal shouted rather painfully.
At the sound of its rider's voice, the animal stopped chewing and alertly picked its head up.
"Yea-eah! You-ou!" the lawman gasped breathlessly. "Yah big, ugly, black...bunch quitter!" he added annoyedly and then ended his verbal counter-attack with a grimace and a gasped groan. He was obviously not in any shape to be shouting, either.
And, for all the good it did him, he would have been better off if he'd've saved his breath, because he could hear his attacker just keep right on approaching in the dark. The next thing he knew, the animal was nuzzling the left side of his face with its warm, soft muzzle. "Go on!" the Marshal shouted, shoving the horse's head away,"I sai-aid ta GIT!"
But the animal obviously remained unconvinced, for it didn't 'go' or 'git'. Instead, it nickered encouragingly for its no longer motionless rider to keep moving and 'git' himself up off'n the ground. And, when the nicker failed, the horse gave the man another encouraging nudge with its head.
The already incredibly hurting lawman let out another anguished cry as the animal's hard, bony head slammed into his left side--this time! It took the grimacing, gasping, moaning, groaning man quite a while to recover from this latest attack enough to retaliate. "Go...on!" the Marshal ordered angrily, through tightly-clenched teeth and took an angry swing at the object of his anger.
But the horse simply raised its head up out of swinging range and stood its ground.
The lawman gasped in frustration and then started tossing his head back and forth between gasped groans. "Why cain't you jes'...go away...an' leave me be-e?!" he demanded in a rather hollow, deeply hurting tone--which had all the ring of an unconditional surrender to it.
But Lancer was apparently taking no prisoners--for he proceeded to ram his head into the man's ribs with so much force that it rolled his rider completely over, this time!
Another scream escaped from the Marshal as his already intense agony suddenly increased, by ten-fold! As the non-breathing lawman lay there--with his pain-stricken face partially buried in the sand--he could feel his attacker now nuzzling him in the back! Obviously preparing for another attack! THAT did it! Crown could feel his 'agony' gradually giving way to 'anger'. If the animal was going to insist on a 'fight to the death', he was just going to have to oblige it!
The next thing Lancer knew, his rider was on his knees--with his gun in his hands--and the gun's barrel was aimed point-blank, right at him. The animal didn't seem too concerned. But then, it wasn't the first time that the man had pointed his gun at him...
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Lancer had originally belonged to an old man that the Marshal had found--dead--along the trail...about six or seven months back. The old man appeared to haved died in his sleep and had apparently been dead, for several days. The Marshal shoo-ed the vultures off and then buried what was left of the poor fellow. But the buzzards kept circling overhead. So the Marshal decided to check out the area surrounding the old man's campsight. He didn't have to venture very far to find the reason for the vultures' continued presence. The old man had left his horse tied to a tree--just the other side of a little rise.
The horse was down--and it hung from the tree to which it was still tied by its haltered head. The animal wasn't dead. Though, by all rights, it should've been. The horse had gone a long time without food or water...too long a time. The animal was in a real bad way.
In fact, it appeared to the man to be in its final 'death throes'.
The look in the animal's eyes said it all. They spoke of a gentle, willing nature...of blind trust...of a quiet acceptance of its fate...a-and of unspeakable suffering.
It tore at the Marshal's heart to see the animal in such a bad way. And he was going to put a quick and merciful end to its misery. But as he pulled out his pistol and started to draw a careful bead down its barrel, the look in the horse's eyes suddenly changed.
A fire burned in them, no-ow! A 'spark' of life blazed up brightly and spoke to the man of an indomitable spirit--and a defiance of death.
Crown watched, in amazement, as the completely prone animal suddenly heaved itself up somewhat and then gave him a look which seemed to say, 'Hey! I ain't been hangin' around here--all this time--jes' so's you could come along an' put a bullet in my brain! So, don't jes' stand there--pointing that thing at me! Untie me from this tree and then help me up!' The Marshal's head told him to go ahead and pull the trigger. His heart--and the look in those big, trusting, brown eyes--told him that the animal deserved--had earned one, last chance at life. The lawman went with the majority and decided to give it that chance. It was a decision he hoped neither he, or the horse, would ever come to regret.
Following days of constant straining and struggling, the horse had only succeeded in tugging the knots too tight now to ever be untied. So the Marshal had to saw through the thick rope that was fastened to the animal's halter--and tied about its neck--with a rather dull pocket knife.
The horse lay perfectly quiet and waited patiently for the man to complete his task. Finally, the rope fell free of the animal's neck and--because the man had unbuckled its halter--the animal's head fell free of the tree. The horse just lay there for a while. Then it grunted and attempted to heave itself up again. It didn't make it very far.
The Marshal's heart sank as the animal sank back down onto its side with a groan. 'Maybe a little water would make gettin' up a little easier?' The man turned around and started heading for his saddle--and the canteen that was slung over its horn.
The horse lifted its head and nickered--as if to call him back.
"Relax, Son!" the man advised him, "I ain't leavin' yah. I'm jes' goin' over here ta git yah some water..."
The Marshal returned--as promised--and poured the entire contents of his canteen into his Stetson. Then he stooped down and offered the water to the horse.
But the animal refused his offering.
"Come on! Drink up!" the man ordered, "I didn' go gettin' my hat all wet for nothin'!"
And, after shoving the water up to the horse's muzzle a few more times, the Marshal eventually did coax it to drink.
In fact, once it realized what the man had to offer, it drained the hat dry and then nickered for more.
So the Marshal retrieved the old man's canteen and gave the horse his water as well. "Sorry, Son," the man said as the animal finished its second hatful and then nickered again, "that was the last of it. But, if you'd care ta get up, I kin show you where there's a whole river full a' this stuff. Where you kin drink ta yore heart's content!"
Once again the animal neglected to take the man up on his very tempting offer.
The Marshal slapped his water-soaked hat back on his sweat-soaked head and got stiffly to his feet. So-o...the spirit was willing, but the body was weak. 'Maybe if it had a little somethin' ta eat?'
The man gathered every piece of edible vegatation within a hundred square yards of the tree and deposited it within the horse's easy reach. Then he sprawled out in the shade beneath the tree and pulled his hat down over his face--to take a well-deserved 'siesta'.
The Marshal had no idea how long he'd been asleep--before something woke him up. His right hand cleared the gun from his holster while his left hand cleared the hat from his eyes. There, standing--directly over him--was the biggest, blackest, homeliest 'something' he had ever seen! "Well, what do yah know!" he said, shoving his hat back even further up on his head and smiling broadly. Then his smile vanished and he rolled to his right as the towering, tottering giant took a staggering step forward--and then very nearly toppled over on him! The Marshal scrambled to his feet and stepped quickly out of harm's way.
But 'ha-arm' seemed to have it in its head that it was going to follow him.
"Whoa! Easy, Son!" the man urged as the animal took a few staggering steps in his direction and then very nearly did a nose dive into the ground again. Getting the horse back on its feet had been one thing. Keeping it on its feet was gonna be another thing--all together! The Marshal looked around and suddenly realized where he was. He was standing about a mile from the north end of the Old Rimrock Trail--which meant he was only about five miles away from Old Grimey's place. If anything could be done to keep the horse on its feet, 'Mr. Mordecai Grimes' would be the man who could do it! "Stay put!" the Marshal told the poor, staggering, pathetic-looking creature. "I'll be right back!" he added, snatching up his horse's reins and vaulting into the saddle.
The big, black horse watched helplessly as the man rode off and then disappeared in a cloud of dust. The animal nickered and then started to follow after him. It made it close to a hundred yards before its weak, wobbly legs collapsed--clear out from under it.
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Then, true to his word, the man returned. The Marshal had no problem getting back to the horse. The circling vultures pinpointed the animal's exact location for him.
Grimey climbed stiffly down from his supply wagon and then circled the poor, completely prone, apparently dying, obviously suffering critter--a few times as well. The old horse trader didn't say a word. He didn't have to.
The Marshal could tell, by the look on his face, precisely what he was thinking. Grimey was thinking that 'The Marshal must a' been a' standin' out in the sun without his hat on for too long--or somethin'!' And, as Crown stood there, staring down at the horse--lying there all sprawled out and looking so pitiful like--the Marshal started thinking that maybe he HA-AD! "We-ell...?" the lawman wondered, following another full minute of complete silence on the part of his 'expert'.
"O-Oh, I reckon I could do somethin' for 'im, all right," Grimey told him, "But it ain't so much a question a' what could be done as it is a question a' what should be done. The animal's in a real bad way. Looks like he's seen more'n his share a' sufferin', already. It appears ta me that the kindest thing would be ta put 'im down."
"Agreed!" the Marshal told him.
"Well, then why'd yah haul me all the way out here?! You got a gun!" Grimey reminded him. "An' I believe you know how ta use it!" he added, his growing annoyance giving way to sarcasm.
The Marshal sighed and then stepped up to the horse's head, "Wa-atch," he simply said, pulling out his gun and pointing it at the prone, pathetic creature.
And Grimey did watch--in amazement--as the animal suddenly heaved itself up onto its stomach...and then lunged itself back up onto its unsteady legs. So-o, they were both ready to kill it--it just wasn't ready to be killed. Grimey turned to the lawman and smiled--an understanding smile. "I'll do what I kin for 'im, Marshal!" he vowed.
And then--as promised--Grimey proceeded to do what he could.
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And Old Grimey could work wonders with horses! Why, some hot mash here...a poultice there...and two days of devoted doctorin' later--the horse was alive and well and resting quietly--and quite comfortably--on a bed of straw in a corral back at Grimey's place.
Crown still smiled whenever he recalled the conversation he and the old horse trader had had concerning which of them was to be the horse's 'legal' custodian.
Grimey approached the Marshal--who was busy saddling his 'other' horse, "You headin' back ta Cimarron, are yah?"
"Eh-yeah. I make it a point ta show my face there every few days. That way, people kin see that I'm still alive, an' I kin see that the town's still standin'."
"Well, what do you intend ta do about yore horse?"
"My horse? That animal don't belong ta me-e!"
"Well, he don't belong ta me-e, neither!"
"Well, don't look at me! I don't wan' 'im!"
"Well, I don' wan' 'im, neither! Now you're the Marshal so--legally--the animal is yore responsibility."
"An' jes' how do yah figure that?"
"Well, ain't the law s'posed ta see ta it that a person's property gits ta 'is 'next a kin' when 'e dies?"
"An' jes' how do yah figure the law is s'posed ta do that when the person didn' have any 'identification' on 'im?"
"I dunno. That's yore problem. I figured things this far. Now--it's up ta you ta figure out what yer gonna do with 'im."
"Okay. I figured it out. The 'law' has jes' decided that the horse should go ta you."
"An' jes' what am I s'posed ta do with 'im?"
"You make a livin' tradin' horses, don't you?"
"So-o?!"
"So-o...SELL 'im!"
"There ain't nobody that'd be willin' ta pay good money for that poor critter an' you know it!"
"Well, then do like I jes' did--GIVE 'im away."
"There ain't nobody that'd TAKE 'im! Besides, I cain't start givin' horses away! It'd be ba-ad fer business. Now, since you 'found' 'im, I'd say that makes 'im yore horse."
"Yeah. But he wouldn' even be alive right now if it weren't for you. You-ou 'saved' 'im! An' I'd say that makes 'im more yore horse. Besides, I got ta get back ta town. An'--as you kin plainly see--that poor animal is in no condition ta travel."
"Fi-ine! Then I'll jes' board 'im for yah 'til yah kin git over this way again. An'--at fifty cents a day--I reckon I'll be seein' yah again...rea-eal soon. The way I see it," Grimey reminded the Marshal, "it's finders KEEPERS!"
"Yeah...Well, I'm the law," the lawman reminded him as he mounted, "an' the way I see it--POSSESSION is still nine-tenths a' the law!" he added, reminding the old horse trader who's corral the animal was resting in. The Marshal smiled victoriously, then tipped his hat to the man and started riding off.
But Grimey wasn't the only one watching the lawman leave. The horse in question suddenly leapt to its feet and went racing around the corral. Then, since it couldn't find an opening, it went sailing effortlessly up over the top rail--which was a good six feet off the ground--and quickly began closing the gap between it and the man who had freed it from the tree.
Hearing the sound of pounding hooves approaching, the Marshal glanced back over his shoulder and groaned.
Grimey grinned, seeing that the horse was now in the Marshal's 'possession', "An' I learned--a long time ago--that a person should never argue with the law!" he shouted victoriously. Then the grinning man turned back towards the house and enjoyed a good, long, hearty laugh--at the la-aw's expense.
The 'law' turned back towards town--with his big, black, homely horse tagging along behind him--and silently reminded himself that 'One a' these days, he was gonna have ta learn ta stop listenin' ta his heart!'
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Fortunately for the horse, that day hadn't come yet. The Marshal still couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. The lawman gasped in surrender as agony quickly took the place of his anger. "So-o, you're gettin' even with me, huh!" he said and slowly let his arms drop, "I didn' give up on you...so you ain't givin' up on me...Is that it?"
The horse nickered and then nuzzled the lawman's now hanging head with its muzzle.
Crown gasped again. Only this time--it was more in exasperation than in pain. The Marshal knew what Mr. Lundquist knew: Lancer would never leave him alone. And the animal wasn't going to leave him alone, neither! The horse would just keep right on trying--and trying to get its rider to get up off'n the ground. There would be no end to his increased agony. Unle-ess...Crown stared cooly down at the glistening barrel of the weapon in his hands for a moment and actually contemplated giving up on himself. The lawman squinted as the pain suddenly clouded his vision.
The pain! The pain! The pai-ain! It was unbearable. One thing was certain, the Marshal may have been worse hurt. But he had never hurt worse in his entire life! And he had grown so weary of feeling nothing but pain that all he longed to feel now was nothing...nothing at all!
"There's no point in yer killin' yerself!"
He heard Mac say and lifted his head up to look around. The pain seemed to be clouding his mind as well, for he seemed to be 'hearin' things'.
"Yah have no' been thinkin', lately!" his friend continued, "At least, no' too clearly!" Mac added annoyedly.
And the Marshal was forced to smile, as he realized the 'voice' he was 'hearing' was coming from inside his own head. For some reason or other, his pain-racked brain was suddenly recalling bits and pieces of the conversation he had had with Mac that morning.
"Keep yer attention focused on the long line a' laddies out there who are bent on killin' yerself for yah'!" Mac went on to advise him.
Then, a strange look came over the lawman as the reason for recalling his friend's 'words of wisdom' suddenly became apparent. He'd done it again! Fi-irst, he had allowed emotional pain to interfere with his clear thinking. And now, here he was again! Letting physical pain interfere with his thinking abilitity, this time. For the moment, pain seemed to be the only thing that his tired, slightly-boggled brain was capable of registering.
He was just going to have to force it to think of something else. He smiled again as the mental image that he had made of 'Jamie's mommy' was the first thing that came to his mind. Then his smile slowly broadened as a plan slowly began to form--and to push its way past the ever present pain that was trying to regain complete control of his brain.
He had promised Dulcey that he would do 'everything within his power' to make it back. And he had used every ounce of his strength just to make it this far. But he had not done 'everything within his power' to make it back. Because it was still within his power to use his head! He'd've been back by now--if only he had relied more heavily on brain power! His Indian friend was right. He had to leave this place--right away!
He slipped his gun back into its holster. He wouldn't be using it. His other friend was right, too. There was no 'point' in him killing himself. Not when he could ride into Cimarron and have Mareck's 'horde' of bush-whacking back-shooters do it for him! The Marshal hated to kill anything. He had such a high regard for the sanctity of life, in fact, that he even hated having to kill animals for food. Besides, he had never killed anyone in 'cold blood' before. And he had serious doubts about 'himself' being the first. After all--when it came time for him to face his Maker--Crown intended to do so with a clear conscience. And he didn't reckon he could stand before the Almighty's throne, come Judgement Day, and claim to have taken his own life in self-defense. At least, not with a straight face he couldn't. No, if he was going to die--his death was going to have to be on some 'other laddy's' conscience. And, if he wasn't gonna die--well...there was always the chance that Francis had made it back...and had brought a doctor along with him--who could dig the bullet out for him. Either way, his suffering would soon be over.
Getting back to Cimarron presented no real problem. Lancer would see to it that he got back, all right. The real problem would be getting up on and then staying up on Lancer's back. The Marshal's freshly thought out alternative plan for escaping his pain included several possible solutions to that particular problem, as well.
Crown clutched at his injured side with his injured arm and then used his remaining limbs to crawl--right under his horse. The lawman moved slowly and carefully. Slowly because his muscles were still extremely weak and shaky. And carefully because the crawling movement caused his already extremely hurting right side to 'smart'--considerably!
He pushed his pain aside and pulled his crumpled tie out of his front vest pocket. It was hard work, but--somehow--he managed to reach up and loop one end of the tie through his right stirrup. He looped the other end through his left stirrup. Then he brought both ends together and tied his stirrups loosely together with a tight knot.
After restin' a spell, the Marshal crawled back out and slapped his Stetson back on his head. Crown just knelt there, swaying slightly and squinting up through the darkness at his goal. The horse stood at just under seventeen hands. But--with the shape he was in--it might just as well have stood at a hundred! The seat of his saddle seemed a thousand miles away! Oh well...he'd either read--or heard it said--that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. The lawman knelt there a while longer...trying to muster up enough courage to take that first--bound to be incredibly excruciating--step. He realized that the usually completely effortless task of mounting his horse was now gonna take more effort than his badly weakened body had to expend.
But that's where brain power was gonna come in. The concentrated power of the human mind was awesome! If Crown could concentrate hard enough, he knew he could literally 'think' himself up onto the horse's back. After all, hadn't the adrenalin rush of his anger just brought him to his knees? Since he couldn't seem to get his right arm to raise itself up to--or past--shoulder level, he used his left hand to place his right hand high up on his saddle rigging. His left hand snatched up a dangling rein and then latched on to whatever it could. The lawman held his breath and slowly started hauling himself up off the ground--concentrating real hard on completing the task he'd just undertaken--at all costs.
"Remember?" he heard Dulcey say, "I told you how much I was counting on you being here tonight?"
The Marshal hurt bad--real ba-ad! But, the thought of letting Dulcey down hurt him even worse. And, by concentrating on keeping his promise to her, he managed--somehow--to make it to his feet. But he still couldn't seem to get his knees to lock. So he just hung there for a while...resting...clinging to his saddle rigging and leaning up against his horse--for support.
Now was gonna come the 'tricky' part. The lawman got a firm hold on the horn of his saddle and started hoisting himself up into his seat.
"Ah thought that if you knew how important this particular party was--what it means ta the lass--that you'd be particularly careful out there and maybe make an extra effort ta get back here in time," he heard the Scotsman say.
Crown knew that--if he didn't make it back--Mareck would probably go after Mac. And, by concentrating on that grim fact--along with grimacing and grinding his teeth--the lawman was--somehow--able to lift his leg and guide his left boot into his left stirrup. But the soles of his boots were damp from the evening dew and so--his foot slipped.
Again a scream issued forth from the Marshal as his boot hit the ground--hard--and painfully reminded him of how his leg bone was connected to his hip bone...which was connected to his back bone...which was connected to his rib bones...one or more of which were--no longer--connected. The agony of the 'end result' was unreal! And the jarring impact 'jarred' his breath away. The lawman lost his concentration for the moment and felt his grip begin to slip.
"Have you ever seen what happens to a man when he steps in front of a moving train, Marshal?" he heard Mareck say.
And, his determination to keep Mac out of the path of Mareck's 'train', gave him the strength to hold on long enough to regain his breath and his composure...a-and his concentration. Crown put forth that 'extra effort' Mac had asked him to, and was 'particularly careful' as he planted his foot in the stirrup this time. He made a rather feeble attempt to pull himself up. The attempt was feeble because his terribly tired arms were suddenly protesting the constant strain he had been placing upon them.
The Marshal felt his pain growing more and more intense and himself growing more and more light-headed. His 'outer' strength was now completely exhausted. He would have to rely solely on 'inner' strength from this point on. But it was getting harder and harder for him to concentrate. So he filled his mind with thoughts of 'Jamie's mommy'. Crown found that it was real easy for him to think of her. Yes, sir! Concentrating on Katelyn required no real effort--at all. The Marshal made it the remainder of the way by reminding his aching arms of how much worse they would hurt if they could never hold Katelyn in them again--ever. Then he told them to pretend that 'Jamie's mommy' was--at that very moment--sitting up top-side...waiting for him.
Even with all that additional concentrated motivation, it still took the lawman a ridiculously long time to complete the climb. Dragging his damaged mid-section across his saddle had caused him to double up in agony. And he stayed there, draped over the neck of his horse, until he could 'rest up' a bit.
His mission was only half accomplished. No-ow was going to come the trickiest part of all. Crown was going to have to 'fix things' so that he wouldn't fall out of his saddle. He couldn't fall out of his saddle!
And Lancer seemed to sense that. Either that, or he had a real good memory and really hated getting dizzy. For the animal hadn't moved a muscle for the past ten minutes. And he just continued to stand there--absolutely stalk still!
The Marshal appreciated the horse's cooperation and he gave the animal a grateful pat on the neck before slowly straightening himself up in his seat.
Moving hurt. But then, so did lying there with his saddle horn jabbing him in the stomach. Crown reached carefully behind him and fumbled with his saddle straps with numb fingers. Eventually, he was able to get his black, canvas duster off the back of his saddle and onto himself. Then he shakily raised his canteen to his lips and took a couple of long, lo-ong swallows. A little rest...a little warmth...a little water--and he was ready to continue.
The Marshal had only one rein in his hand, so he had to retrieve the other one from high up on the horse's neck. He ran both of them back through the hole in the pommel of his saddle before tying them together in a knot. Then he looped the tied reins up over his saddle horn. Next, he fumbled back around in his saddlebags for a while until his hand found what it was looking for--his handcuffs. Crown cuffed his own left wrist to the horn of his saddle. Then he shoved his feet into his stirrups as far as they would go. The lawman reached behind him one last time and wound his right hand up in the two-foot long tie strap that dangled from the back of his saddle.
He glanced down. The ground now seemed a thousand miles away. He smiled as he suddenly realized that the Scotsman was wrong. There were times when--with a little help from his friends--a man could do better than his best!
"Okay, Lance..." the Marshal whispered, "...take us home, Son."
The animal lunged forward.
The lawman slumped forward.
Lancer kept right on trudging towards home--completely unaware that his passenger had passed out from the pain of that first jarring step.