I must be crying because West groans, “Sammy,” in his exasperated way. Andy ties up Franny, and I help West to the ground. We prop him up with blankets and unbutton his blood-soaked shirt.
I dry my eyes. The wound curves over his shoulder and down to his chest on the right side. My stomach cramps at the sight of so much blood, but this is not the time for girlish vapors. I mop up the blood with West’s bandanna so I can inspect the wound. I see bone.
“Your needle,” I say to Andy.
She rushes to get her saddlebag.
Another shot explodes from behind me, and I jump. The black stallion drops to the ground under the bur oak.
“No.” I groan. Peety kneels by the stallion and bows his head.
West moans, and I slide my arm around the back of his shoulders to listen to his breathing, coming in short gasps.
“‘Breathing is underrated.’” I repeat Father’s words. Then I draw in deep breaths for him to mimic.
He turns his face in to my neck and inhales.
Andy returns with her sewing kit and rags. She offers Peety’s flask to West, but he clamps his mouth shut and returns to my neck. After she cleans the wound, she sews, her hand steady and fleet.
West gasps at the first poke, his nose grazing my ear. Then he falls silent. When she finishes, my face is wet on the side where I hold him. He has gone limp, and I gently set him back to the ground.
The other boys settle the remuda and now stand over West, Cay with his hands in his pockets, and Peety staring down, his face tight.
“We can’t stay here,” says Cay. “The vultures will come soon, and they’ll spook the horses.”
“We can’t move him,” I protest. I won’t risk losing him now.
“We’ll move him farther upstream, away from these dead stallions.” Cay squints at the dark heaps in the distance. “No one can sleep with a dead horse nearby. Trust me on that.”
Everyone looks at me. Andy bobs her chin ever so slightly.
I let out my breath and nod.
“Maybe we say something for those caballos before we going,” says Peety, wiping his brow.
We all remove our hats.
“Dear God, we’re sorry we had to return your stallions to you earlier than you expected,” Cay says. “They couldn’t help being who they are any more than we can, I s’pect. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and all the rest.”
“Amen,” adds Andy. “Let’s go, then.”
Peety strings up the remuda while we carefully position West on a blanket. Then we each lift a corner.
We carry him up the stream until the stallions are out of sight, then camp under a pair of cottonwood trees that lean toward each other, providing a green canopy. Andy helps me remove West’s bloody shirt, then she takes it to the stream. I press some rags to his chest, still oozing blood. He may require more stitches. But not now.
Peety sets about the currying, staring at nothing. Cay also falls silent. The one who takes charge is Andy.
“You, blondie, you thinking of growing roots? Pick up some sticks. And you, brownie, you’s brushing those horses bald. Haul some water.”
Cay decides to ride out to Fort Laramie that night. We need a doctor, medical supplies, and food. His green eyes shine too bright against his ashen face.
“Wait until morning,” I say in a low voice as he packs up Skinny.
He digs a knuckle into his temple. “We’ve done night rides before.”
“You’re tired, and so is Skinny.” I hope I don’t sound too motherly.
He gives me a lopsided smile and kicks off.