“Well, I ain’t afraid.” The youth’s eyes gave away his intention just before he brought up a pistol and pointed it toward Rusty.

Rusty muttered, “Oh hell!” and triggered the rifle. Through the smoke he saw young Oldham jerk back as if kicked by a mule. In reflex the youth fired his pistol. The paint staggered and fell, dumping Oldham on the ground. He had shot his own horse.

Tanner shouted, “Don’t anybody make a bad move. I still got a load in this gun.”

Clyde Oldham left the saddle quickly and knelt over his younger brother. “Buddy!” he cried. The dying horse was kicking. Oldham dragged the youth away from the flailing hooves.

The other three men stared as if they could not believe what they saw. Tanner said, “You-all throw them guns to one side before you get off of your horses.” They complied.

Rusty was momentarily in shock. He had acted by instinct. He had not had time even to take good aim. Now he saw the blood and knew it was of his own doing. He felt sick.

Tanner calmly told him, “We’re still deep in the woods. You better reload that rifle or draw your pistol.”

“I hope I didn’t kill that kid.”

“If you didn’t, you taught him a hell of a lesson.” Tanner moved slowly from behind his horse, keeping his rifle trained in the direction of the brush men. Clyde Oldham had laid his rifle on the ground. Tanner tossed it away and did the same with the pistol the younger Oldham had dropped. He leaned over the fallen youth, then looked up at Rusty.

“You hit him in the arm. It’s a hell of a mess.”

Rusty gathered his wits and reloaded his rifle. Oldham had ripped his brother’s sleeve to expose the wound. The arm was shattered. The youth groaned, his face draining white in shock.

Oldham cried, “He’ll bleed to death.”

Rusty handed his rifle to Tanner. “Not if I can help it.” He wrapped his neckerchief above the wound as a tourniquet. He twisted it tightly until the blood slowed. Anger began to rise. “Damn it to hell, I didn’t want this. But he was fixin’ to shoot me.”

Oldham showed no sign that he had heard, or if he heard, that it made any difference. “Little brother, don’t you go and die on me. Don’t do it, I say.”

The only answer was a deep groan.

Rusty managed to choke the blood flow down to a trickle. “I don’t suppose anybody in your camp claims to be a doctor?”

Barlow said, “There’s a preacher comes to see us now and again, but he ain’t there right now.”

“A preacher?” Rusty felt a sudden hope. “Would his name be Webb?”

“That’s him. You know him?”

“From as far back as I can remember.”

The more he looked at young Oldham’s smashed arm, the more he despaired of saving it. At this point he would not wager two bits that the youth would even survive. “Ain’t much more we can do for him out here. You-all better get him back to your camp.”