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“I’m sorry.” Rusty’s voice wavered hoarsely. “It was a stray shot … o
r a ricochet.” A tear slipped from his eye as he bowed his head, his shoulders shaking silently.
“No.” Lorna shook her head, trying to be very firm. “He’s just …” But as she reached to lift Arthur from his arms, her fingers felt the sticky warmth of blood.
A clawing, wild pain ripped her chest apart. She gathered his limp little body into her arms and pressed him close, as if to give him life again, as she had once before when she carried him inside her. With shattering disbelief she scanned his beautiful face for some small sign of life.
“No. No.” She wasn’t conscious of murmuring the protest over and over again. Pressing her cheek against his, she closed her eyes and rocked back and forth.
“God in heaven, but it isn’t right,” Rusty declared thickly.
“What’s the matter with Arthur?” Webb tugged on her pants leg, but Lorna was beyond hearing him.
Rusty sniffed loudly and wiped briskly at his nose. “Come with me, son.” His voice was gruff, but not unkind.
Slowly she sank to her knees and cried softly, barely making any sound. She just sat there, holding him tightly and rocking, unaware of the hush in camp, the soft-walking cowboys with pain in their eyes, and the darkness that filled the sky.
It was left to Rusty to answer Webb’s questions and put him to bed. “Why is Mommy holding Arthur and crying?”
“Because he’s going away.” He tucked the quilt around the little shoulders.
“Am I going too?”
“No, you gotta stay here and take care of your mother.”
“But where’s Arthur going?”
“Away. Far away. But you’ll see him by and by,” Rusty said. “Now, close your eyes.”
“Can we look for my rope in the morning?”
“Yes. In the morning, but first you have to sleep.” He sat with the boy until sleep came, then stole quietly out of the tent.
A fire was burning brightly, keeping a lone vigil with the woman holding her child for the last night. Rusty gathered up a quilt and walked over to put it around her shoulders. She gave no sign of being aware of him. Rusty felt very old. He’d seen too much. He lifted his eyes to the night sky. The endless sky. Cowboys and sailors saw too much of it, whether it was the rolling plains or the sea they rode. He’d seen too much of it.
It was early dawn when Benteen approached the camp. They’d finally caught up with the main herd being chased north by the Indians. There had been a brief running gun battle before the raiders gave up their prize. Outside of two minor crease wounds, none of his men had been hurt. It had taken them another two hours to get the cattle bunched and quieted down. He’d left the rest of the men with the herd in case another try was made for them.
At first, it was the uncanny silence of the camp that struck him. There was no grumbling among the riders as they drank their morning coffee. Then it was the way their eyes shifted away from meeting his.
When he spied Lorna wrapped in a quilt and rocking little Arthur, his tiredness lifted. He swung down from his horse at the chuck wagon and let the reins drag the ground. As he took a step toward Lorna, Rusty moved into his path. A frown flickered across his face at the old cook’s rheumy-looking eyes.
“Ain’t no easy way to say it,” Rusty began. “One minute I had him safe …” His shoulders lifted. “A stray shot …” Then he glanced in Lorna’s direction. “She’s been sittin’ with him like that all night.”
There was a roar of pain inside him. Benteen pushed Rusty out of the way and covered the ground to Lorna with long, reaching strides. When he stopped in front of her kneeling form, his breathing was labored and deep. His eyes burned from the vision of his lifeless son. He swayed, undermined by an agonizing grief.
When he felt her gaze lift to him, his mouth opened, but no words came out. He lowered himself into a crouch before her. His hands and arms felt so empty.
“You can cry, Benteen,” Lorna murmured. “It’s all right.”
He pressed a hand across the front of his eyes and gritted his teeth together. “I’m sorry.” Guilt weighed on him—for unknowingly putting them in danger, for not being with her.
“Did you get the cattle?” she asked.
“Yes.” It was a brutally painful admission.
“You had to go after them, Benteen,” she said in a calm voice. “There was nothing you could have done for him if you had stayed. You had to go.”
When he finally lowered his hand, there were tears in his eyes. He looked at her for a long minute, then reached for their son. “I’ll take him now, Lorna.” His voice was thick.
