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.”
    â€œWolf Riker makes the demands on this drive. You’ll learn that soon enough.” He turned toward the dirtiest of the drovers. “Won’t he, Cookie?”
    â€œThat he will. That he will,” Cookie cackled. “Rest of ’em’s all dead. One with an arrow in his Adam’s apple and the old geezer with a broken neck. All dead but him and her.”
    He pointed to Flaxen.
    â€œAll right, Doc,” Wolf Riker motioned toward Flaxen. “Get her into a wagon where there’s some light and see what you can do.”
    Riker inhaled from his sloe-black cigar and walked away followed by an older man who limped.
    I had seen the look of naked lust in the eyes of Cookie and the rest of Riker’s men gazing upon the exposed form of Flaxen as she lay on the ground.
    In case she survived, I wanted to afford her some semblance of dignity and if possible, protection from that look and what might come after.
    I managed to get to her before the others and in the dark, break off the chain from my neck, remove Flaxen’s glove, and place the diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand.

CHAPTER VI
    The inside of the wagon was lit by two lamps illuminating the faces of Wolf Riker, Dr. Picard, me, and Cookie, whose filthy, scrawny hands still quivered from the feel of having helped to carry Flaxen, now lying on a makeshift operating table, still unconscious, and only partially covered by her torn and disarrayed dress.
    I placed a sheet over her body and breasts.
    â€œThere’s not much I can do,” the doctor said.
    â€œYou could sober up,” Riker remarked.
    â€œI’m . . . I’m afraid,” the doctor stammered, “she’s not going to survive.”
    â€œYou say that about all your patients,” Wolf Riker nearly smiled.
    â€œShe’s lost a great deal of blood . . . there’s a splinter lodged near the pulmonary artery . . . one slip and she’ll die.”
    â€œShe’ll die anyway,” Riker shrugged. “She’s a lady, delicate . . . not one of the hearty breed.”
    â€œDoctor,” I pleaded. “If there’s any chance at all . . .”
    Dr. Picard held up his right hand. It was trembling.
    â€œJust pretend,” Riker said, “that she’s one of those corpses you practiced on at medical school.” He left the wagon.
    â€œCookie,” Pickard ordered. “You can go now.”
    Cookie left after one last look at Flaxen.
    â€œDoctor,” I breathed. “Please.”
    â€œI’ll try,” Dr. Picard whispered.

CHAPTER VII
    The dawn spread slowly across five fresh graves.
    I had spent the night in the wagon which had served as a makeshift operating room, with Dr. Picard and of course Flaxen Brewster.
    The doctor’s hand had steadied as he removed several instruments from a scuffed medical bag. A look of determination crept across his face. And it seemed as if a different set of reflexes took over his brain and body after Wolf Riker left the wagon.
    If Dr. Picard had not become a sober man, then I had never seen one.
    I watched, fascinated, as he went about the intricate procedure: removed the splinter—actually splinters—stanched the bleeding, and sewed the wound.
    We kept vigil through the night, sometimes nodding off, while Flaxen Brewster teetered between life and afterlife, until the scale seemed to balance in her favor. When I stepped out of the wagon into the dawning camp I beheld the strangest sight I had ever seen—up to that time.
    Five freshly dug graves, several men with picks and shovels, the belongings of the dead in a pile nearby, and most of the drovers from the drive standing by, some drinking coffee from tin cups, others smoking morning cigarettes, pipes, and cigars.
    And as far as the eye could see—cattle—cattle—cattle—grazing and moaning.
    The names of most of the men were unfamiliar to me then, but names and men I would get to