Page 5 of At Love’s Command

“Shoulder shot, Captain. My gun arm’s useless, but I don’t think I’m headed to the pearly gates just yet.”

The strain in the kid’s voice belied the lightness of his words.

Another shot rang out, this time from the opposite direction. A cry echoed in the trees, followed by a soft thud as something heavy hit the dirt. Hopefully a gun.

“The man told ya to drop yer weapons.” Preach’s voice. He must have circled back after the ranchers got the cattle clear of the box canyon where the rustlers had stashed them. “Better do as he says and come out with yer hands in the air. I ain’t exactly the patient sort.”

One by one, the rustlers emerged, hands raised. One fellow only lifted a single arm, holding the other pressed against his left side where a bullet had creased him. Another two came out as a pair. The one carrying Matt’s bullet in his leg limped and leaned heavily on his partner for support.

Keeping his gaze and his gun trained on the rustlers, Matt stood, shifted left, and backed up until his spine hit the shed wall. Then he slid down the wall into a crouch that brought him even with Wallace. A quick glance confirmed his suspicion. The wound was bad. Mark had propped himself up into a sitting position and shoved a field dressing against his shoulder, but blood had already soaked through it. The kid’s face had lost all color, and the mouth famous for charming ladies with a roguish smile and flattering tongue was pulled down into an agonized grimace that boded ill.

Wallace needed a doctor. Fast. But they were in the middle of nowhere with nothing around but ranches and a ragged handful of buildings pretending to be a town. The closest city of consequence was San Marcos, ten miles away. Chances were good Mark wouldn’t survive the trip there, and waiting for someone to fetch the doc would take at least two hours, if not more.

As soon as Jonah and Preach came into view from opposite directions, herding the rustlers between them, Matt holstered his weapon and focused all his attention on Wallace.

“The kid hit, boss?” Jonah asked as he took charge of the man who seemed to be the gang’s leader, tying his hands behind his back with a strip of rawhide.

“Yep. Right shoulder,” Matt answered as he changed the field dressing with one of his own and wrapped a bandage as tight as he could manage around the underarm and torso. “I’ll patch him up best I can, but he’s gonna need a doctor. Sooner rather than later.”

“I need the doc too,” one of the rustlers whined. Probably the one with a bullet in his leg, not that Matt made the effort to look up and check.

“Dalton,” Preach called out, “where’s the closest doc?”

Matt did look up then. Terrance Dalton, owner of the Circle D, stepped into the small clearing behind the line shack. Apparently Preach wasn’t the only one to circle back. The local ranchers had pooled their funds to hire Matt’s crew, but Dalton owned the largest herd and therefore had the most at stake. It spoke well of him that he cared enough for the lives of the men he’d hired that he’d leave his stock to lend his gun to the fight.

“Dr. Joe can tend ’em,” Dalton said. “Got an office right here in Purgatory Springs. Across from the post office. Less than a mile away.”

Best news Matt had heard all day. “Great. I’ll get Wallace to Purgatory. Preach, you and Jonah take that bunch to the sheriff in San Marcos.”

“What about me?” the whiny rustler complained. “I’m bleedin’ all over the place.”

“Preach?” Matt looked to his second-in-command.

Dalton moved in closer, gun at the ready while Luke bent to examine the criminal’s leg.

“Looks like a through-and-through, Cap. I’ll give him a few quick stiches and bind it up. He should make it to San Marcos.”

“I don’t want you stitchin’ me!”

Luke straightened and shrugged. “All right. Cauterizin’s easier anyhow.” He unsheathed his overlarge hunting knife and held it up between them. “Just need to light a fire and get this blade red-hot. Shouldn’t take too long.”

“N-n-never mind. Stitchin’s fine.”

Matt hid a grin and turned back to Wallace. The pain etched on the kid’s face killed his amusement in a blink.

“Can you stand, soldier?” Matt hunkered down and lifted Wallace’s left arm over his shoulders, then wrapped an arm around his waist.

Mark nodded, grimacing as he strained with the effort of standing.

The kid might be a mere twenty-seven, ten years Matt’s junior, but he was no reedy youth. He had the lean, muscular build of a cavalryman, and it took all of Matt’s grit to get them both upright.

Matt whistled, and half a minute later, Phineas trotted out of the trees. Wallace’s gray trailed behind.

“Come on,” Matt ground out as he moved them both toward the horses. “Let’s get you to Purgatory.”

“If it’s all the same to you . . . Captain”—Wallace groaned as Matt jostled him—“I’d prefer . . . Paradise for my . . . final rest. Better company . . . you know? Gets a little . . . hot . . . in Purgatory.”

Matt scowled at the poor jest and took on more of Wallace’s weight, practically dragging the young man now. “There’ll be no final resting today, soldier.” He lifted Wallace higher, as if making him look like he was strong enough to walk would actually cause it to be true. “That’s an order.”