and stagecoach on its side came to a stop in a swirl of dirt while the raiders went about their businessâkilling Slimâcutting the horses looseâpicking up Baldyâs rifleâand then before they had a chance to get to the passengers, dead or alive, inside the broken Concordâmore shots from a distanceâand other ridersâmaybe a half dozen, saddled and well armedâcharging toward the coach as the Indians scatteredâbut not before I saw the leader of the rescuers fall from his horseâand thatâs the last I remembered as I fell into a black pit, which at the time, I thought could be death.
But it wasnât.
CHAPTER V
How much later I did not know.
From out of the stillness, depth, and darkness of what I had thought was death, slowly through a vinculumâsounds, erratic, divergent, unintelligible, but forebodingâanimal noises, hooves movingâand human voices murmuringâthen one voice in particularânot murmuringâcursing.
At me?
I wasnât sure.
And didnât care.
âStupid son of a bitch . . . bastard . . . charging in like some crusading cavalier . . . risking your life and the lives of my men and for what . . . damn idiot . . . Donavan, you damn fool.â
I finally managed to open my eyes, but the world was out of focus.
I closed my eyes, then tried again. Better. I was on the ground and near me lay Flaxen unconscious, her dress tattered, her breast smeared with blood.
More than a dozen of the fiercest specimens of mankind in an uneven semi-circle, and at the front stood the man who cursed at the fallen rescuer who had led the charge.
Bending over him was another man, trembling.
One word came to my mind as I gazed at the man who cursed.
Power.
At least six feet tall, but from my position, he was a giant.
Dressed in western garb, all blackâbut it might as well have been a suit of armorâand smoking a cigar black as his boots.
A face carved out of granite, eyes without a soul, a mouth without mercy. A serrated scar on his forehead just below the brim of his black hat. Boulder shoulders, a broad chest tapering to a narrow waist with a holstered gun strapped on his right side. The belt that sustained the gun was black and the brass buckle that sustained the belt was oval with the raised letters CSAâa buckle worn by officers of the Confederate States of America.
The man, even while standing still, exuded energy.
âWell . . . doctor ?â
âBa . . . bad . . . very bad . . . I donât think . . .â
âYou donât think! Never mind thinking, you damn drunk. Do something!â
âToo . . . too far gone, Mr. Riker, I . . .â
Mr. Riker kicked the fallen man viciously with his pointed boot.
âDamn him and you, too, Doctor Picard.â
There came a painful gasp from the wounded man.
I had managed to move closer to Flaxen, touch her, and determine that she was aliveâthen struggle to my feet.
âSir. Mr. Riker . . . she, sheâs badly hurt. Canât the doctor . . .â
âNo!â Riker bellowed. âThe doctor stays with Donavan.â
âBut surely . . .â
âSurely my trail boss is more important than some . . . piece of fluff.â
âMr. Riker . . .â
He reached out and roughly, but effortlessly, slammed me against the wheel of a wagon.
There was a last coarse gasp from Donavan. His chest heaved, his eyes rolled upward, and his head fell to one side with a flush of finality.
âHeâs dead,â the doctor said without looking at Riker.
As Donavan had died, the sun settled beneath a distant saw-tooth peak, and darkness spread across the plain.
I regained my balance and composure and staggered toward Riker.
âSir, thereâs nothing more the doctor can do for that man, may I . . .â
âWhat are you, a preacher?â
âI am a gentleman,â I replied. âAnd that is a lady and I demand . .