Defiant Read Free

him.”
    â€œThis man? You’ve never seen him before?”
    Jeff shook his head.
    A shiver snaked down Mary Jo’s back. She wished there was a man around, that she had not let the last one go when she’d found him drinking in the barn. The fact was, no one else was around to help. The next ranch was hours away, and the only decent doctor was over a hundred miles away.
    Her lips pressed together. Maybe Jeff was exaggerating the extent of the man’s wounds. She felt a chill, a blast of suddenly cold wind, and she looked up. The sky was almost black. The storm wasn’t far away. She urged the horses to a faster pace, looking frequently at Jeff for guidance. He gestured at a turnoff, and the wagon creaked and jostled in protest as she drove away from the road.
    Mary Jo saw the buzzards wheeling in the sky, and she snapped the reins. She heard Jake’s anxious bark, then Jeff’s cry, “Over there.”
    She saw the horse, then the man several hundred feet away. The animal was obviously dead, and she gave it scant notice. She pulled up the wagon next to the still form on the ground and jumped down, followed by Jeff. Jake was running back and forth excitedly.
    â€œStay near the buckboard,” she told Jeff as she leaned toward the back and retrieved the canteen.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œIf you want to help,” she said, “get Jake.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œPlease, Jeff.” He nodded reluctantly and whistled for Jake who reluctantly slunk over to him.
    Mary Jo knelt down next to the man and felt the pulse in his neck. He was still breathing but just barely. Blood was everywhere, covering and stiffening what once must have been handsome deerskin shirt and trousers.
    She’d seen men in deerskin jackets before, but none in trousers trimmed with rawhide lacing. And around his neck, he wore a rawhide string of black beads with a silver eagle inside a seven-pointed star. Mary Jo’s gaze moved to his hips, to a well-used gun-belt. The holster was empty, but there was a knife in a sheath.
    As her eyes skimmed over his body, she noted the lean strength of him, the corded muscles apparent under the shirt and tight trousers. His hair, longer than what she became accustomed to seeing at the Ranger station, was matted with sweat and dirt and blood. Pain had etched furrows in a face that was hard-looking and deeply browned by the sun. She had no time to notice more. She moistened his lips with water from the canteen, then she shook him gently.
    A groan of protest escaped his lips.
    Mary Jo swallowed. He was a big man. His present condition did nothing to eliminate the impression of strength. And the two bullet wounds did not recommend him as an upstanding citizen. Neither did the clothes, which looked more Indian than white. Did she dare bring him into her house?
    Mary Jo quickly brushed aside the momentary hesitation. He was obviously too weak to harm anyone. She could send Jeff to the next ranch and ask that someone summon a marshal.
    Getting him home was the first concern.
    She had to be careful. Any jostling could start the blood flowing again, and he had already lost a substantial amount. She checked his arm. The wound was ugly, with the bone partially shattered. Particles of it mixed with the blood, some of it blackened, some glistening white amid the red.
    She tore a piece of cloth from her petticoat, dampened it and washed around the wound. She bound it with yet another piece, then bound the arm to his shoulder to stabilize it.
    Her attention shifted to his leg. There was a hole in his trousers, but she couldn’t see the wound. She took his knife and, with the wicked-looking blade, cut the trouser leg. A quick examination showed the bullet had passed through without the kind of damage his arm had suffered. She bound that wound, too.
    Then she eyed the man again, wondering how to get him into the buckboard. She splashed water on his face, tried to jar him back to