Free William W. Johnstone by Savage Texas Page A

as could be, under the circumstances. He holstered the weapon.
     
     
    Sam Heller had been wounded a number of times in the past, both before and during the war. He knew that proper first aid often meant the difference between life and death. No medic, he, but he had a working knowledge of the necessities learned on the trail and battlefield.
    He undid the bandanna knotted around his neck and wiped his face with it, mopping up cold sweat. As soon as he wiped it clean, more fresh sweat oozed out to replace it.
    Sam opened the top of his shirt, unbuttoning it, fingers feeling thick and clumsy. Gore plastered the garment to his flesh. He peeled back the fabric, freeing it. The entrance wound in his shoulder was an ugly puckered crater. No exit wound—the bullet was still in him.
    A raw red furrow was plowed diagonally across his rib cage on the left side where Remy’s first shot had creased him. It hurt like hell but wasn’t as serious as the shoulder wound.
    Folding the bandanna into a fat square, Sam placed it against the wound. He pressed down on it. Pain waves spasmed through the numbness, stabbing deep into the inside of his head. Blood soaked into the compress, wetting it, helping hold it plastered in place.
    Sam leaned forward, fumbling open the top of his right-side saddlebag pouch, groping inside it. He pulled out a length of rawhide cord. He knotted a sliding loop in one end of the rawhide strand and stuck his left arm into it, drawing the loop up to his shoulder. Placing it so that it set across the bulge of the wadded bandanna compress, he pulled it tight, cinching it into place.
    He wound the free end of the cord several more times around the shoulder to further secure the compress from slipping. He knotted it in place, careful not to make it so tight as to cut off circulation. No tourniquet, this. Lack of proper blood flow could also be damaging, leading to loss of the arm.
    He checked the rig; it seemed crude but serviceable. Sam sipped some water from his canteen, washing out the inside of his mouth before swallowing. Shadows flitted across his face and eyes. He looked up.
    The buzzards circling overhead were flying low.
    Sam dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and rode on. He continually scanned the walls of brush lining the trail, looking for lurkers, hand resting on the butt of the mule’s-leg.
    The trail plunged west through a half-mile of woods before breaking out into a stretch of wide, open country, rolling hills dotted with trees and brush. Sam paused at the treeline at wood’s edge, surveying the scene. The vast, sprawling landscape seemed empty of any other humans. The hill country lay north, the plains south.
    Sam rode into the open, out of the shade into the hot sun. The openness increased his sense of vulnerability. He followed a course that minimized his exposure, leaving the trail to strike a zig-zag route/path that took advantage of what cover there was. He angled toward a stand of timber, a low mound, a rocky knob. He kept to the lowland, threading the washes and draws, avoiding crossing the ridges where possible.
    Sam knew from previous studies of the map that the main trail west was the Old Mission Road. Hangtown lay to the southwest, more south than west, far from sight. Going to town was his best bet. He needed doctoring. Entering Hangtown in a weakened condition presented its own dangers, but it was still the best worst option.
    He looked back at the woods between him and Swift Creek. The buzzards were slowly but surely descending on the west bank clearing he had quitted.
    He didn’t have to see the scene to know what would happen. The airborne scavengers would soon be at their work, touching down to begin the feast. The big birds would batten on the dead, bringing sharp, tearing beaks into play to rip and tear. Usually they went for the eyeballs first, pecking out the delicacies and gulping them whole. Left undisturbed, they wouldn’t quit until the carcasses were stripped clean