The Rough Rider (28 page)

“Got any ideas?”

“Well, my main idea is to stay alive.”

Aaron grinned at the Texan. “So, unless we take this hill pretty soon, none of us will make it out of here alive.”

“Yeah—well, if we’re gonna bust them greasers up, we better scatter as much as we can.” Jones studied the terrain of the hill, then nodded. “When we move out, we dodge around like jackrabbits. Give them birds less to shoot at. They’re worse shots than Mexicans!”

“I figure if we can keep them busy for five minutes, Miller can get his men behind them.” Aaron and Jones talked for a few minutes, then he said, “Let’s tell the men what to do—then we do it.”

After making certain that the men knew what the plan was, Aaron took a deep breath, then said, “All right—here we go—!”

Shoving himself over the lip of the coulee, he looked up at the rim of the hill. Sweat ran into his eyes, but he caught a glimpse of a white garment. Throwing up the Krag, he got off a shot and saw the man go down. A shout ran along the Spanish line and he heard the sound of bullets. Dodging to one side, he saw a geyser of dirt erupt at his feet. The flat retorts of the Krag rifles punctuated the air, and a quick glance revealed that the men were all in the clear—all dodging and firing as they ran up the incline.

Small puffs of dust rose all around the Rough Riders as the Spanish threw a fusillade of angry gunfire down the hill. A slug smashed the head of Al Delgardo to Aaron’s left. He felt the stab of grief there’d be for the death of the young man who’d left New York for a bit of adventure. He’d been engaged, but his young fiancee would now have to face life without the curly-haired man she loved. His mother and father would weep, and there would be no grave to stand beside. For the rest of their lives, the word
Cuba
would be a bitter sound, a reminder that the baby boy who had grown up to be a man was no more.

A ricocheting bullet whined like a great bee past Aaron’s ear, but he didn’t flinch. Climbing the hill had become a chore, and he worked at it like a man building a box. Run forward, throw a slug up at the line of riflemen, dodge violently to the right—then to the left. Aaron stopped once to reload, and as he rose, he noticed that Sam Jones had emptied his rifle and was firing a .44 as he charged upward. The Texan was screaming his version of the Rebel yell, and the shrill, yelping sound grated on Aaron’s nerves.

The top seemed to recede as Aaron struggled upward. His breath came in great gusts, his lungs seared from the tropical heat and the effort from climbing over rough terrain. Sweat poured down his face, and his legs trembled as he stumbled forward. The fight picked up tempo and more of the men were left in the dust, some of them bleeding and kicking. Others lay still, bundles that seemed to have fallen from a great height.

Finally the survivors were whirled into an irregular grouping, and without warning they crashed through the first line of the Spaniards. Aaron found himself facing a brown-skinned man wearing a white shirt and pants. He was attempting to load his rifle, and the shell clicked into place as he looked up to see Aaron not five feet away. He had a narrow face and his eyes were filled with fear as he began taking aim.

To Aaron it was like moving in slow motion. His own rifle was empty and he moved forward, watching the muzzle of the Mauser as it rose. His movement was synchronized with the lifting of the rifle, and he knew that either he or the Spaniard would be dead in a few seconds. Strangely enough, an image of a woman’s face flashed into his mind—and he knew it was Gail Summers.

Then the muzzle of the Mauser was halfway up, but he lifted his rifle and drove the butt into the face of the small man. As the blow struck, making a sound like a hammer hitting a melon, the Mauser went off and Aaron felt something tug at his side. He felt no pain, and as the force of his blow
killed the Spaniard and knocked him to the ground, Aaron looked down and saw that his belt had been split by the bullet.

Nearly got me,
Aaron thought, but he had no time to pause. Reloading, he saw that the line of enemy riflemen was falling back. A sudden crackling of rifle fire shattered the air, and Aaron thought,
That’s Miller.
Aaron turned toward the rest of the men and yelled, “Come on, we’ve got them running!”

For twenty minutes the battle raged, but with the arrival of Miller to crumple their flank, the Spaniards were confused. They gave ground, and then Miller yelled to the troops down the hill, “Come on—it’s okay!”

Aaron paused only long enough to see that the hill was secured, then threw his weapon down and ran to the iron kettle. Plunging into the shelter, he saw Lieutenant Baines propped up, his back against a bank. His eyes were dull, but he managed a grin. “Glad to see you,” he whispered. He turned to Lewis, who was lying on his stomach. “He saved my bacon—I thought I was gone.”

Aaron fell on his knees beside his brother. He saw that blood soaked Lewis’s back. Carefully, he rolled him over. “Can you hear me, Lewis?” he asked, but he could detect no movement on his brother’s pale lips.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Baines whispered. “But he’s alive. I don’t know about Sergeant Massey—”

Aaron quickly stripped off the shirt, made a bandage of it, and placed thick pads on Lewis’s chest and back to try to stop the bleeding. He was cold and afraid, and looked up at Baines. “I’ll go get something to take you back to the hospital in, Lieutenant. I don’t think the doctors are close.” He paused long enough to see that Massey was hit in the side, and a bloody gash had been ripped out of the right side of his head. He shook his head but said, “He’s alive—I’ll go get some help and be back.”

Leaving the shelter at a dead run, Aaron ran back to the trail that the troops had followed up the side of the hill. He spotted an ammunition cart pulled by a mule. “I’ve got to
have this wagon,” he stated flatly to the corporal who was holding the harness.

“Why, I can’t do that!”

Aaron reached out and ripped the sidearm from the startled soldier. His eyes had a cold glint as he cocked the piece and jammed the muzzle into the stomach of the tall soldier. “I don’t have time to argue, corporal. After this is over, you can have me court-martialed—but for now, throw that ammo out and help me load three wounded men. I’ve got to get them back to the doctor!”

The tall soldier blinked, then grinned. “Why, shoot! You don’t have to be so hard-nosed about it! I ain’t got no dogs in this fight! Where are these fellers?”

“Up that hill beside the big kettle.”

“Well, let’s go—but don’t point that gun at Rufus here.” He slapped the blue-nosed mule on the shoulder fondly. “If he got stubborn, he’d let you shoot him ’fore he’d do what you wanted. But I can handle him. My name’s Ira Pickens. I’m from Arkansas. Now—let’s get this here thing done!”

****

Deborah sat bolt upright, startled by a banging on the door. “Wait a minute—” she called out. Pulling on the thin robe hanging over a chair, she groped for a match and lit the oil lamp on the table. Gail was also struggling to get out of bed, her eyes foggy with sleep. “Stay where you are, Gail. I’ll see what it is.” Picking up the lamp, Deborah walked barefooted to the door, opened it, then walked through the large room they’d filled with rough cots. The door was bolted, and Deborah lifted it, then leaned it against the wall. Pushing it open, she saw the form of a man but could not make out his features. “Yes. . . what is it?”

“Hello, Deborah.”

Deborah blinked with surprise, then exclaimed, “Aaron! Come inside!”

“It’s Lewis, Deborah. He’s been wounded pretty bad and is in very poor shape.”

A coldness seemed to fall over Deborah as she stood holding the oil lamp. The yellow beams fell on Aaron’s face, highlighting the sharp planes of his features and throwing the hollows of his cheeks and his eye sockets into darkness. He looked old and tired, and there was an angry expression twisting his lips into an ugly shape. “I’ll get Dr. Burns,” she said. “Can you get him inside?”

“Yes.”

Deborah turned at once and went to the hallway. Burns had changed a small side room into his bedroom, and when she knocked on the door, his voice responded, filled with sleep, “What is it?”

“It’s Lewis. He’s been wounded.” She stood there until the door opened, and Burns came out buttoning his shirt. “Aaron brought him in. He says it’s bad.”

Burns nodded, and the two moved into the ward, where they found Aaron and a tall soldier carrying Lewis’s limp body. “Put him right here,” Burns ordered. “Light all the lamps, Deborah.”

“We’ve got two more wounded men for you, Burns,” Aaron said bleakly.

“Bring them in. Deborah, get my instruments ready.”

Aaron and Pickens carried Baines and Massey in, and when they had laid them on the beds, Aaron turned and said, “Thanks, Ira, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Aw, glad I was handy. Want me to hang around?”

“I’ll be going back to the fight as soon as I get a word from the doctor. Why don’t I see if one of the nurses can rustle up some grub?”

“I’m agreeable. I’ll see that Rufus gets a bite of something and some good water. That mule, he’s
extra
good, ain’t he, though?”

Aaron asked Gail if she would find someone to get them something to eat, then he sat down on a chair in the rough
clinic, his eyes cloudy and his lips thin. His thoughts were bleak and he tried not to think of how seriously hurt Lewis was. Finally Gail came to stand beside him, and he looked up at her. She was wearing a white blouse, and there was a softness on her lips as she said quietly, “I’m glad you’re all right, Aaron.”

Her words seemed to touch some chord inside him, and he remembered the charge up the hill. He leaned his head against the wall and studied her face. “When I was in the thick of it. . . I thought about you.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I don’t know why. It’s funny the things a man will think of when he’s staring death in the eye.” He was so exhausted that his speech was slurred, and his whiskers gleamed like spikes as the soft light of the oil lamp caught them. Looking over at Burns as he bent over Lewis, Aaron said bitterly, “Nothing helps. I’ve lost one friend . . . and now I’m going to lose my brother.”

Compassion touched Gail, and she whispered, “Don’t say that. Dr. Burns is a very good doctor.”

A fatal cloud hung over Aaron Winslow. He seemed beaten down and defeated. He had never gotten over the death of Jubal, and now he shook his head angrily at the sight of his brother lying there. He said nothing, but allowed his chin to drop on his chest. His fists were clenched, and Gail was swept with pity for this strong man who was bearing a burden he had no way of lifting. “We have to trust in God, Aaron,” she said quietly. But he gave no response. Finally, she turned and began working on the two wounded men while Burns attended Lewis with Deborah’s assistance.

Time crept by—like a slow-moving glacier—for Aaron. He was like one of the wounded himself, though his wound was in the spirit, not in the flesh. When finally one of the nurses set a plate of food in front of him, he was hardly aware of it. He sat there picking at it with a fork but tasting nothing.
Finally after many hours had passed, Burns appeared, his thin face grave as he spoke.

“It’s a good thing the bullet didn’t puncture a lung,” he said. “It angled away from it, but I can’t tell what other damage it may have done inside.”

“Is he going to die?” Aaron asked abruptly.

“I can’t say. He’s lost so much blood—too much. His life is in God’s hands now.” He caught the resentful spark reflected in Aaron’s eyes and knew he was wasting his words. “We’ll do the best we can for him, Aaron. Will you stay here?”

“No. I’ve got to get back. How are Baines and Massey?”

“Baines is going to be all right. It’s too early to say about the sergeant.” Burns studied the face of Aaron Winslow, adding, “Baines told me that Lewis saved his life—and Massey’s, too. He’s very grateful.”

Aaron nodded, then said, “Do your best for him.” He turned and left the room, leaving Burns with a worried expression.

The doctor went back to check on Lewis and found Gail sitting beside him. “I’m worried about Aaron. He’s taking this hard.”

“Yes, he is.” Gail lifted her face, which was pale and marked with fatigue. “He’s bitter over this. If Lewis dies, he’ll never be able to forgive.”

“The Spanish?” asked Burns, wiping his tired brow.

“No, not them.” Gail shook her head. She reached out, brushing back the lock of hair that had fallen over Lewis’s brow, her lips broad and maternal. “It’s God he blames, David—and he’ll never find peace until he discovers that
he’s
the one who needs forgiveness, not God!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Deborah’s Patient

The black mosquito sang a shrill, monotonous chorus, lighting on the smooth cheek of the sleeping young woman. Balancing on her Queen Anne legs, she pierced the skin with surgical precision—but did not live to enjoy the rich red blood of her victim.

“Ouch!” Deborah jerked herself upright and slapped her cheek sharply. Staring at her hand, she saw no blood and nodded with grim satisfaction. “You won’t bite anyone else!” Wiping her hand on her blouse, she leaned forward and lifted the mosquito netting she’d rigged to cover the still form lying on the bed.

Lewis’s face was flushed and he was hot to her touch.
Fever’s down some—but he’s still in some sort of coma. . . .
Dipping a cloth in a jar of tepid water, she carefully dampened his face and upper body. The fever had been severe, at times raging like a miniature furnace inside the wounded man. The only thing that seemed to help bring it down was soaking him in water, and so she applied the cloth again and again. When she finished, she paused for one moment and looked down at his still face. Reaching out, she placed her palm on Lewis’s stubbled cheek, her touch light and gentle. For a moment she remained motionless, then she bit her lower lip and replaced the netting. Sitting down on the wobbly chair beside the bed, she took up her vigil, but instantly grew sleepy.

“Got to stay awake—!” Arching her back to ease the ache, she blinked her eyes, then picked up the notebook that lay
on the wooden packing crate beside the bed. Opening it, she ignored the gritty sensation in her eyes and began to write slowly: