Saddle Dust

Chapter 2

Late 1865

    Two men ride ahead of a stagecoach on tall, fine looking horses. They are sitting high in their saddles and even when riding seem to be swaggering ahead of the stagecoach as it bounces along the rough dirt road which leads to the Hartford's ranch. The stagecoach is being pulled by an unusually large team of six white horses whose polished black hooves huff dust into the air. The two shotgun riders stop their horses short of the corral and the stagecoach slows behind them.
Frederick Hartford opens the screen door of the house and steps out onto the porch. His thumbs are tucked neatly into the front pockets of his new jeans.
The jeans were specially tailored at Frederick's request, and are quite expensive. Not unlike the rest of his clothing. He is dressed in a freshly pressed white shirt with black embroidery around the pockets and shoulders. His boots have been polished to an army shine. This is all topped off with a glowing white big river style hat. Frederick is cleanly shorn except for a salt and pepper mustache which is trimmed almost as neatly as the one the man stepping out of the stagecoach is sporting.
    The man climbing down from the stagecoach is dressed in black tie attire, his brown travel coat is immaculately spotless. The man's black shoes reflect the sunlight as he turns toward the door of the stagecoach.
He gracefully extends a white gloved hand to a lady who is dressed in a pricey dress and petticoat. A large pink peacock feather hat is perched at a fashionable angle on her head. Three more well dressed figures step out of the stagecoach before the driver turns the team of six white horses to the trough of water sitting outside the corral fence for a quick rest. The two shotgun riders set their horses loose into the corral and set their tack in the shed before walking out to join the cowboy camp in the far field.
The five expensive guests and Frederick walk inside the ranch house and soon, polite chatter and conversation is heard drifting from the front room of the house. Outside, the new spring grasses bow gently in the breeze and the horses graze lazily on alfalfa hay and grass. The stagecoach trundles off across the landscape. Lighter for the load, but jangling with the generous tips provided by its previous passengers.

Thirty-two miles North, Victor and Philip make their evening round of fence checks before turning in for the night.
It's an exciting time of year for Victor and Philip as the cattle are being prepared to leave their winter pastures and make the journey northeast to the train station in Dodge City that will take them to Chicago.
Normally, Victor and Philip would be on the trail already, but this year the winter stayed longer than usual and the trails were still too muddy to attempt.
It had been lucky, well for Victor at least, that they had been forced to wait out the spring a little longer because just a week ago Lily Hartford (now Casey Long) had returned after a nearly ten year absence.
She had visited because she wanted to catch up with Philip, the man who shot her from his horse while Casey was getting a drink at a saloon, before he could finish what he had wanted to do for nearly eighteen years. She had caught up with them both after they had finished their morning rounds, and there the secret of her real parents had been revealed.
Philip and Casey had a shootout, and Casey had shot Philip twice on the wrist of his gun hand causing the gun to go flying, and his hand to flop dully at his side, attached by only a few wires of tendons and strings of flesh.
She hadn't wanted to kill him, and the wound was starting to look...well...it had stopped bleeding. Philip still didn't forgive Casey though, and Victor saw that the injury was clearly causing him pain.
On the few occasions that Philip had allowed Victor to look at the wound, it hadn't looked good. Whenever Victor offered to go get a doctor himself, Philip always refused. Victor tried to convince him to at least go up to the house and get it checked out by Mrs. Hartford, but Philip stubbornly refused. He also stubbornly refused to let Victor help him with his duties, and Victor, understanding that Philip was his own man and could decide for himself what was best, left him alone. After all, if a dog wants to die a dog's death, let him.
Philip had begun to look pale and shaky over the last few hours, but Victor knew that running to get him help would only hurt his pride and make him mad. Besides, it had already been over a week, and Victor knew from experience that you can't do nothing about a wound past two days. It would just have to play itself out.
Victor was just thinking that he would like to have a game of dominos before turning in for the night once they got back to their post's cabin, when he heard Philip cough and then make an odd gurgling sound.
Victor whipped around in his saddle just in time to see Philip slowly tip out of his saddle and flop into the grass below.
"Philip? Philip!"
Victor leaps out of his saddle and runs back to Philip who is still breathing and conscious, but clearly in a lot of pain. Philip's eyes are glazed over and roll back into his skull. He tries to speak to Victor, but only empty air comes out. Victor heaves his arms under Philip and gets him to stand up and lean against him.
"I...I'm fine...really. Let go of—"
"No. You're not. Can you get on my horse?"
Philip nods and, with the help of Victor, manages to get into the saddle of Victor's horse. As soon as he is seated, Philip slumps forward against the neck of the beast, panting heavily. Victor ropes Philip's horse to the horn of his own horse's saddle and then climbs on behind Philip, kicking his horse into a gallop while holding Philip's large bulk up in the saddle with one arm.
"Damn it, Philip, why'd you have to go so long? It's yer own pride that's killing ya! Damnit all to dad..."
Victor steers the two galloping horses in the direction of the outpost cabin. He thinks he'll wait the night out there and see just how bad Philip's wound is. In the morning, he'll take him up to the house and have him looked at. Even if Philip bawls like a calf at the branding iron, he's going to get some real help.
Once they arrive at the cabin, Victor gets out of the saddle and pulls Philip down. He didn't even bother to tie the horses up. Just helps Philip stumble inside the cabin and leads him to his bed in the corner of the room. Once Philip is settled, Victor puts his hand to his forehead. Philip's whole face is scalding to the touch, but he is shivering and his lips are a pale blue. Goose bumps form on his arms and run up his roughly shaven neck. He seems to be aware that Victor is nearby, but not able to see him properly. Philip doesn't want to accept his weakened condition and so he pushes himself up into a sitting position with his one remaining hand almost as soon as Victor leaves him to throw more wood in the stove.
"Vi-c-c-VVvvv..."
Victor whips around. His face is red and tears are hanging onto the edges of his eyelashes.
"DAMNIT Philip, if you don't lie down in that bed like you're supposed to, I'm going to hogtie you so tight you won't be able to move even yer pinky toe one goddamn inch!"
Whether Philip hears what Victor had said or whether his arm gives out, Victor isn't sure. He watches Philip flop back onto the bed and go quickly to that place where people in pain and suffering go: into sweet relieving unconsciousness, and the dark. Victor turns back to the stove. Philip's breathing remains as strong as could be expected in his condition, and eventually turns into a half rasp, half rhythmic sleeping pattern.
Victor takes a pot of boiling water from the stove and unwraps the clumsily tied and fetid bandage from what used to be Philip's right hand and wrist.
Victor himself had been assigned the task of cutting the remaining ties of skin and shards of bone off of Philip's wrist after Casey had shot him and galloped away. Victor still remembers the dull thunk the dead hand had made when it flopped to the ground, now detached from the bloody stump of his arm. The hand had died as soon as the second bullet had ripped through the bone of Philip's wrist.
"Holy shit. Shitshitshitshit...motherof...Dad above..."
Victor sputters as he stares wide-eyed at the mangled blood and pus clotted stump. Where the wound wasn't actively oozing clear fluid or weeping yellow pus and fresh blood, it has formed a crust of hardened, brown-blackish blood which is edged with rings of a greenish, vile looking something.
Infection has already begun to seriously set in, and nothing would help Philip now except luck.
Victor takes a bottle of whiskey from a wooden box on the only table in the room and uncorks it in his trembling fingers.
He dumps half of the bottle on the dirty bandages before taking a swig himself.
One for bravery He thinks before slowly pouring a quarter of the bottle on Philip's wound. He makes as if to set the bottle down, then lifts it to his cracked lips and takes another long swig before finally setting the bottle to the side.
"Here comes the real work now...oh Dad above, hold on partner."
Victor lifts the bucket of hot water and dunks Philip's wound in it. Philip makes a weak attempt to jerk away from the scalding water, giving off a small, choked scream as he does so. But Victor doesn't let Philip pull his arm away from the bucket. Philip's dull hazel eyes shoot open and are sharp and focused for several seconds before glazing over, and drifting to the back of his skull once more. His eyelids flutter shut.
Ten minutes later, Victor pulls Philip's arm out of the water and dries and dresses his wound in the alcohol-rinsed bandages. Tears stand in his eyes. Victor takes a final swig of the whiskey before collapsing against a wall of the cabin and half-fainting, half falling asleep.

Victor is awakened two hours later by pained groaning and whimpering coming from the corner of the room. He slowly staggers to his feet, dragging his eyelids open as he does so. He lifts a candle to the dying flames of the stove to light it and in its light, makes his way over to Philip's bedside.
He sees that Philip has twisted his blanket around his legs and is shivering even more violently while alternatingly crying out for water, a blanket, and an ice block.
Victor understands that Philip is in the grey twilight area of the place where the sick and suffering go between unconsciousness and wakefulness. It is the zone where one talks to the shadow figures one sees walking around in this grey twilight. Some call them ghosts or haunts, and others call them by the names of their family members and friends. They have many names, but they are all really just shadows of the people whom the suffering either wish to see to ease their pain, or wish to twist away from in terror. It is the zone where the sufferer wanders through the desert of the sickened body, completely lost, often in search of a cool drink of water or the comforting hand of a loved one. It is the place where neither relief is found. It is a lonely and fear-ridden place.
Victor staggers over to Philip's side, and feels his forehead again. It's burning hotter than before. His touch causes Philip to bridge the twilight gap into wakefulness, and he is pleased to see that the shadow figure he has been wandering in the desert to see has materialized into the real Victor in front of his eyes. Philip smiles. Victor knows, unconsciously and somewhere deep inside of him, that Philip is dying. He only wonders how long he will hang on for.
"Victo-r..."
"Yes, my dear old friend?"
Victor leans in close to Philip's face so he doesn't have to waste energy speaking up.
"Don't take me up t-to the hou-se ye-et. Pleassse. It...it would mea-an that bBbitchh has won."
"Oh lord, you're not still going on about bloody Casey are yah? Philip, you're going to die if you don't get help soon. You fell off of your horse for Dad's sake!"
Victor is getting tired of Philip's whole ego routine. He is going to die after all.
"Don't do this to me, Phil. Don't do this to the Hartfords. Especially not Maxine and Frederick, after everything they've done for you. You know how much it would hurt Maxine. You can't go dying on them because of your pride. Frankly, I'm sick of this shit. Either you let me drag your sorry ass up to that house come dawn, or you come up with a plan that doesn't involve you wasting away and dying out here."
Victor hadn't intended his words to sound so harsh, but he meant every last one of them. Silence so heavy it feels as if it crushes Victor's lungs fills the cabin. When Philip finally responds, it's in a slow, and purposeful manner.
"I...I realize that no-ow I should have g-one up to the hou-se when I had first been shot by that...that..."
He trails off before resuming in a clearer voice.
"But-t I want-t to keep my honor as a gunman-n too."
"Oh take your honor across lots!"
Victor is actually mad now.
"I'll drag your sorry ass corpse up there if I have to. Cold or still steaming. I'm not goi–"
"No! Wait! I...I'll go. To the hou-ou-se. But not for another four...five days. Please? Let mee see if a l-little rest here can bring me right. Then I can ride up-pp to the house my...myself. On my own horse. I'm my own man. Let me do as I wish. B-besides, there is a slow time for ch-hors for the next week, so you won't miss me much. I can...darn your socks or som-e-mething?"
Philip says this last part with a loose and sad-looking smile on his lips. Almost as if he is trying to make a joke, but gave up halfway through when he realized the weight of the truth behind his own words.
"I...have nothing to say to you. Except that you're a right old mule. But I know that you're a grown man, and can decide for yourself what's right or not. But I'm going to tell you that I will order you up to the house on the second day. Granted, at the end of it, but on the second. Unless your condition severely worsens. Then I'll bring you up immediately. Although I'm not sure it can get much worse than this. But if by some miracle it starts to heal, then I'll give you a full four days before bringing you up to the house. Frederick needs to know exactly what happened. It's his daughter, after all. And you can't go on roping cattle with only one hand, you know that."
Philip is barely able to nod his consent to the arrangement before his eyelids take his vision captive under a heavy black curtain. Victor is relieved that sleep finds Philip so easily. Despite the pain, he seems to slip back into his original rhythmic breaths with no trouble at all. For a moment, fear streaks through victor's thoughts. What if Philip doesn't make it until morning? What if that's why he's sleeping so well? What if...
No. Keep it together. If Philip isn't going to keep his head on straight, then it's got to be you, damnit. No one's going to do any dying around here anytime soon.
This thought straightens Victor's spine, but nevertheless, he stays awake on vigil watch until the first birds begin to prepare for the morning onslaught of chirrups. Victor finally but unwillingly falls asleep just as an icy spring dawn forces its way into the worn body back onto his place on the wall again. He didn't want to sleep in his bed as it didn't give him a clear view of Philip and his breathing.