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Authors: William W. Johnstone
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about it, though. I took the Winchester with me.
Pausing on the little gallery in front of the house, I called, âHola, amigo! Are you hurt?â In that part of the country there was a good chance the fella was a Mexican, so thatâs the way I greeted him.
He didnât say anything, but the horse turned its head toward the sound of my voice. I walked toward it, watching for any sign of a trap or an ambush.
The horse shied away from me. The man in the saddle swayed back and forth like he was about to fall off, and I realized that he might be unconscious. I knew a man could pass out and still manage to remain mounted. Iâd done it myself a time or two.
I spoke softly to the horse, but it danced farther away and the rider swayed even more. I could tell he was about to lose his balance. Without thinking about what I was doing, I jumped forward to catch him as he pitched out of the saddle.
He was lucky I was there and lucky as well that his foot didnât catch in the stirrup, because the horse ran off toward the barn. I caught my mysterious visitor, staggering a little under his weight even though he was slender. Because I was still holding the rifle at the same time, hanging on to him was awkward. As carefully as I could, because I felt a sticky place on his shirt that had to be blood, I lowered him to the ground.
His hat fell off as I did so, and in the light from a half-moon that hung over the hills, I saw that his face was familiar. The last time Iâd seen it was right here in front of the ranch house as I gave him those wrapped-up biscuits to keep him from starving.
The young fella Iâd been convinced was on the dodge had come back to the Fishhook, and now he had at least one bullet hole in him.
CHAPTER 8
O ne good thing about living an active life is that not many things take you completely by surprise. No matter what happens, thereâs at least a chance that youâve run into it before. For example, this wasnât the first time Iâd had a wounded man land on my doorstep.
So this didnât exactly throw me for a loop. The first thing I did was straighten up and listen. Any time youâve got a wounded man, thereâs a good chance somebodyâs chasing after him. I listened as hard as I could for the sound of rapid hoofbeats.
The night was quiet, though. Could be heâd given the slip to whoever shot him. But just in case somebody who wasnât friendly might show up in the near future, I decided Iâd better get him into the house.
I leaned the Winchester against one of the posts holding up the thatched awning over the gallery. Then I bent and got my hands under the wounded manâs arms. I lifted him, my back protesting some as I did so, and slung him over my left shoulder. I took him inside, balanced him precariously while I took the blanket from the bed and threw it on the sofa, and then lowered him onto it. He was out cold and never stirred or made a sound.
I fetched in the rifle, hung it on the wall, and lit the lamp. The glow from it told me that the young fella was still alive. His chest rose and fell in a shallow motion.
His horse was still out there and needed to be dealt with. I left him there on the sofa and went outside again. The horse was still skittish, but Iâd had practice catching animals that didnât want to be caught. When I had hold of the reins I led the critter into the barn, put him in an empty stall, and took the saddle off him. It was just a well-worn old saddle, nothing really to distinguish it, so I stuck it in the tack room.
With that taken care of, I went back to the house, pausing on the gallery to listen again. The night was still quiet.
When I stepped inside, I found myself looking down the barrel of a gun.
My visitor had come to and rolled onto his side. He lacked the strength to get off the sofa, but he had been able to pull a small revolver from his pocket. I knew that must be where heâd gotten it,
Pausing on the little gallery in front of the house, I called, âHola, amigo! Are you hurt?â In that part of the country there was a good chance the fella was a Mexican, so thatâs the way I greeted him.
He didnât say anything, but the horse turned its head toward the sound of my voice. I walked toward it, watching for any sign of a trap or an ambush.
The horse shied away from me. The man in the saddle swayed back and forth like he was about to fall off, and I realized that he might be unconscious. I knew a man could pass out and still manage to remain mounted. Iâd done it myself a time or two.
I spoke softly to the horse, but it danced farther away and the rider swayed even more. I could tell he was about to lose his balance. Without thinking about what I was doing, I jumped forward to catch him as he pitched out of the saddle.
He was lucky I was there and lucky as well that his foot didnât catch in the stirrup, because the horse ran off toward the barn. I caught my mysterious visitor, staggering a little under his weight even though he was slender. Because I was still holding the rifle at the same time, hanging on to him was awkward. As carefully as I could, because I felt a sticky place on his shirt that had to be blood, I lowered him to the ground.
His hat fell off as I did so, and in the light from a half-moon that hung over the hills, I saw that his face was familiar. The last time Iâd seen it was right here in front of the ranch house as I gave him those wrapped-up biscuits to keep him from starving.
The young fella Iâd been convinced was on the dodge had come back to the Fishhook, and now he had at least one bullet hole in him.
CHAPTER 8
O ne good thing about living an active life is that not many things take you completely by surprise. No matter what happens, thereâs at least a chance that youâve run into it before. For example, this wasnât the first time Iâd had a wounded man land on my doorstep.
So this didnât exactly throw me for a loop. The first thing I did was straighten up and listen. Any time youâve got a wounded man, thereâs a good chance somebodyâs chasing after him. I listened as hard as I could for the sound of rapid hoofbeats.
The night was quiet, though. Could be heâd given the slip to whoever shot him. But just in case somebody who wasnât friendly might show up in the near future, I decided Iâd better get him into the house.
I leaned the Winchester against one of the posts holding up the thatched awning over the gallery. Then I bent and got my hands under the wounded manâs arms. I lifted him, my back protesting some as I did so, and slung him over my left shoulder. I took him inside, balanced him precariously while I took the blanket from the bed and threw it on the sofa, and then lowered him onto it. He was out cold and never stirred or made a sound.
I fetched in the rifle, hung it on the wall, and lit the lamp. The glow from it told me that the young fella was still alive. His chest rose and fell in a shallow motion.
His horse was still out there and needed to be dealt with. I left him there on the sofa and went outside again. The horse was still skittish, but Iâd had practice catching animals that didnât want to be caught. When I had hold of the reins I led the critter into the barn, put him in an empty stall, and took the saddle off him. It was just a well-worn old saddle, nothing really to distinguish it, so I stuck it in the tack room.
With that taken care of, I went back to the house, pausing on the gallery to listen again. The night was still quiet.
When I stepped inside, I found myself looking down the barrel of a gun.
My visitor had come to and rolled onto his side. He lacked the strength to get off the sofa, but he had been able to pull a small revolver from his pocket. I knew that must be where heâd gotten it,
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