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Max would dedicate his life to drinking this crap was beyond her.
    Chet returned with the water, and she wet a cloth and gingerly began to dab at her face. The coolness revived her some, but her touch triggered waves of pain. Meanwhile, with her other hand, she kept a cloth pressed to the slice on her brow.
    Chet looked on helplessly. “Ma’am, I knew there was trouble. Killer was kickin’ up a terrible fuss outside the bunkhouse and nearly scratched his way through the door. What happened here?”
    “Max beat the shit out of me. That’s what happened.”
    “Your . . . uh . . . chest seems to be bleeding something fierce. Did he knife you?”
    “No.” She decided not to elaborate and embarrass the old cowboy.
    “Where is Max?”
    “He died. He’s in the bedroom.”
    “Oh Jesus.” Chet began to shuffle his feet nervously. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’m at a loss here. I want to help, but I ain’t much of a doctor, especially for women folks. You’re going to have to tell me what I should do.”
    “I’ll be okay for a while. Do you know where Cam Locke’s place is?”
    “I sure do. About three miles southeast of here. Less as the crow flies.”
    “I want you to saddle up and ride as the crow flies as fast as you can. Tell him what’s happened here. Then do whatever he asks.”
    “But I can’t just go off and leave you like this. You could bleed to death.”
    “And what are you going to do about it?”
    “Well, I can do something if you’ll tell me what you want done,”
    “Chet?”
    “Ma’am?”
    “Can you stitch a chewed up tit?”
    “I’m on my way.”  

7

    C AMERON L OCKE HEARD what seemed to be a frantic pounding on the thick door of their expansive two-story, stone house. He rolled out of bed, pulled on his undershorts, groped for the oil lamp on the table next to the bed and lit it, turning the glow up only a bit, so as not to awaken Pilar. She had apparently been oblivious to the knocking as she slept in naked, sated bliss on the opposite side of the bed. Oh, well, she’d damn sure earned her rest.
    He slipped his Army Colt from the holster that hung from the peg next to the bedroom door and made his way down the stairs that led to the entryway on the main floor. With only brief pauses, the knocking continued. When he reached the door, Cam yelled, “Who is it?”
    “Mr. Locke? It’s Chet from the C Bar C.”
    Cam opened the door and lowered the revolver. He stepped aside, waving the cowboy in. “God, Chet, it’s just after four o’clock. What’s going on?”
    “Miss Kirsten’s had the livin’ shit beat out of her. Bleedin’ like a stuck hog all over the place.”
    Cam closed the door and turned and hollered up the stairway, “Pilar, I think you’re going to be needed. Get dressed for riding and rustle Myles out of bed.”
    He swung back to Chet. “What happened?”
    Chet shrugged, “I don’t rightly know, Mr. Locke. Miss Kirsten sent Killer—that’s her dog—to get me up to the house, and when I got there she was sittin’ in her rocker, blood runnin’ down her mashed up face and soaking up her gown at her . . . her chest.”
    “Her chest? Was she shot? Or stabbed?”
    “Uh, no sir. Think she was bit or something. Talked about being chewed on.”
    “You’re not making sense, Chet, but we need to get over there. What about her husband?”
    “Think he’s dead. That’s what she said.”
    “What happened to him?”
    “Don’t know about that neither. Miss Kirsten just said he died. I didn’t see him.”
    Pilar Locke moved quietly down the stairway, followed by a sleepy-eyed Myles Locke, their fourteen-year-old son, who showed no enthusiasm for being awakened at this early hour of the morning. Cam turned to his wife, a slender Mexican woman who was seven years younger than his own forty-two. She was a stunning beauty even at this hour of the morning, Cam thought. Damned if he wouldn’t like to take her back upstairs for another go. He quickly shook off the