It had to have been McClary, Clint thought, but it could well be blamed on Rafe.He had to keep Randall alive to talk.He ran outside, shouting for the two men who had ridden in with him.Both came running.
“John, go for Russ Dewayne.Caleb, ride like hell to Casey Springs for a doctor.”
“What happened?”
“Mr.Randall’s been shot.”
“Them outlaws?”
Clint shook his head.“I don’t know.Get going.”
He hurried back inside and knelt once more next to Randall.What in the hell had happened here?
Randall’s color was excessively pale, his pulse weak.
Clint thought back to the war, to what he’d seen done on wounded men, to what they’d had to do for one another.
Loosen clothes, provide fresh air.Dash cold water on face and chest.Compress wound to stop the bleeding.Remove foreign matter.
Clint removed Randall’s shirt.The bleeding seemed to have stopped on its own, but bits of the shirt were stuck to the wound; threads were visible in the blood.Randall had been damned lucky.An inch down, and he would be dead.The assailant had probably thought he was.
He went to the kitchen.Randall’s cook had left several weeks earlier with her horse-wrangler husband.The men had been foraging for themselves, and the kitchen was a disaster.He found a relatively clean towel, however.He filled a bowl with water from the pump and went back into the office.
Clint opened the windows; it was hot as hell in the room.Stuffy.The smell of whiskey and old tobacco ashes permeated the room.Where was McClary?
He washed away blood from the wounds and plucked cloth from the hole in Randall’s shoulder.Rut Randall needed a doctor with the right instruments.He moved, groaning, but his eyes didn’t open.
Clint went upstairs, found some sheets, and ripped one into long strips.He returned to the office, pressed a couple of wads tightly to the wounds, then bandaged Randall’s head and chest and shoulder, binding the arm so it would be immobile.He had done all he could.
He washed Randall’s face, hoping he would wake and tell him something before the others arrived.The only thing Clint knew was that Rafe had nothing to do with the shooting.The captain had been clear as to exactly what kind of justice he wanted, and it had nothing to do with a quick death.
He heard several more riders coming in.Nate, perhaps.Clint went to the door and gestured to the foreman.
“The boss has been shot.I need some help.”
“Bad?”
Clint nodded.“I’ve already sent for the doc and Sheriff Dewayne, but I need help getting him upstairs.”
Nate dismounted and quickly followed Clint to Randall’s side.He stooped and felt Randall’s clammy face.“Any idea who did it?”
Clint hesitated.He didn’t want to say anything that might give him away, but neither did he want blame to fall immediately on his friends.“Randall’s horse was here when we rode in, and several minutes later it was gone.Whoever did it was probably here when we rode in.”
Nate nodded.“Mr.Randall say anything?”
Clint shook his head.“He just mentioned the name ‘Sara.’”
“Let’s get him more comfortable.I wish we had a doctor closer.”He shook his head.“I can’t help but think it has something to do with those robberies.”
Clint felt a noose tightening around his neck.He couldn’t claim now that there had been no violence connected with those robberies, not if the law wrongly connected them to the recent murders of miners.He shrugged.“McClary was here earlier, according to one of the hands.I’ve never trusted him.”
“Maybe,” Nate said dubiously.“Maybe we can find out from Mr.Randall.Let’s get him to his bed.”
Clint, who was the stronger, took Randall’s shoulders, while Nate took the legs.They had just settled him in the bed when they heard more riders coming in.
“That must be the sheriff,” Clint said.
Several minutes later Russ appeared in the doorway, followed by Kate.She gave Clint a tentative smile; it almost was the breaking of him.“I thought I might be able to help.I’ve taken care of three men with assorted injuries.”
