There was nothing about the man’s stance or bright hazel eyes that said he was a threat. He could have claimed to be fifty or eighty, and Lou would have believed him. He wore a fringed, oil-stained buckskin jacket, spotted with what might have been dried blood. Dangling around his neck was a leather thong, heavy with bear claws. Strapped to his narrow waist, sheathed within a beaded leather scabbard, was one of the largest knives Lou had ever seen. It made his efficient Spyderco blade look like a toy.

Perhaps, Lou mused, as he and the intruder sized each other up, the woodsman had used the knife to kill the rabbit lashed to his belt. Or maybe he had used the double-barreled shotgun he held loosely at his side. The man’s gun came up just a fraction as he checked out the weapon in Lou’s hand.

“You don’t throw that log at me and I won’t shoot you,” the man said in a thick Southern drawl as languid as his movements.

Lou needed no additional coaxing. He set the stick on the ground and raised his hands.

“No need to go puttin’ yer hands up, neither,” the man said, setting the butt of his shotgun on the ground. “I ain’t gonna shoot you. I just didn’t want you gettin’ clever with that there bat.”

The man took several steps forward and extended a grimy hand to Lou.

“Name’s Floyd. I live and hunt in these here woods. Heard lots of screamin’ and figured someone might be in need of some help.”

Lou’s hand vanished inside Floyd’s calloused grip.

“My friend Cap fell down that ridge. He’s badly injured. Broken bone was sticking out through his leg, but we were able to get it back in place and splinted. He needs water, though. Needs it bad.”

Floyd removed a thin leather flask from his belt and handed it over.

“Not what it looks like,” he said. “Well water. I jes filled it this mornin’.”

Lou cradled Cap’s head and allowed him to take several grateful sips. He aspirated the fourth or fifth one and went into a spasm of coughing, cringing in pain with every one. His carotid and radial pulses were one-ten and thin. The fluid volume he was down was barely going to be touched by what he could get in by mouth.

His skin was cool and clammy. His lips and fingernail beds were disturbingly blue. Continued oozing into the thigh was quite possible despite the tourniquet. There was room in and around the heavy muscles for a couple of quarts, and Lou had once seen a woman bleed out into her thigh from what looked like a simple fractured hip.

“This man looks to be in pretty bad shape,” Floyd said. “I’d say he needs a doctor.”

“I’d say you’re right.”