Chapter Three

Nick Barkley knelt next to the young man lying on the ground.   It was by sheer luck the dark haired cowboy was riding by this spot on his family’s ranch.  Sheer dumb luck, the man thought as he turned the boy over.  Used to examining his brothers for similar injuries, the man was gentle as he looked the kid over quickly.  The boy's face was turned away from him.

Nick saw a nasty bullet wound in the right side, soaked in blood all the way to his knee.  The wound made him flinch in empathetic pain.  The kid couldn’t be more than a teenager, nearly the same age as his sister, Audra, and a few years younger than his missing brother, Heath.  There was blood covering the kid’s strange looking pants.  They were made of a sturdy blue fabric Nick had never seen before, kind of soft and absorbent.  Good thing, too, or the blood would have been dripping on the ground.

“Well, boy, whatever mischief you got yourself into hasn’t paid off too well has it?” Nick said aloud.  He looked around, wondering how he could move the unconscious young man without hurting him.  They were miles from the main house, but there was a line shack not far away.  It was pretty clear the kid probably wouldn’t make it back to the main house. Nick was about to pick him up and carry him over to his horse, Coco, when the boy moaned and turned his face to Nick. 

Nick fell back on his haunches. “Heath!” he cried. Lord Almighty, the kid sure looked like a younger Heath, like the Heath he never knew.  “Geez, boy, you sure know how to scare a man.”

“What?  What’s going on?” Lucky gasped.  He lifted his head slightly, trying to see where he was. He groaned grabbing his side and thigh.  He fought to stay awake, desperately grabbing at Nick’s shirt.  “Help me!   It hurts,” he cried. 

“What did ya expect?  It’s gonna hurt more before it hurts less.  I’m going to have to move you up to that line shack over there, unless you figure you can ride a horse back to the ranch.”

“Ranch? Horse?” The look on the younger man’s face made Nick almost snicker.  The boy’s hands were smooth and lily white.  It was obvious to the hard working rancher the boy in front of him was probably a city slicker.  Still he’d give him the benefit of the doubt for now.

“Can you ride?”

Lucky opened and closed his mouth, but no words would emerge.  

Nick chuckled. “Boy, I think we’ll just take you up to that there line shack.  Then we’ll get a better look at you.”  Nick picked him up as gently as he could, but the boy cried out. Nick ignored him. With the sun beating down on them, he knew he had to get him out of the heat.

Lucky feebly kicked out, but Nick merely brushed his foot aside.

Lucky groaned every time the horse walked forward, making Nick wince. He finally laid the boy down on a mattress in the one room shack. The shack was old and rickety, constructed of weathered wood, but it would have to do. Nick pulled a lit kerosene lamp on a table next to the narrow bunk. 

Lucky looked frightened.  “Please,” he said. “What’s happening?” 

“Boy, don’t you remember?  You got shot.  Surely you remember that now, don’t you?”

“Faison,” Lucky muttered. 

“Faison? What kind of funny name is that?  Look. I gotta check that wound. I’m gonna have to pull down your pants…” Nick started to pull down Lucky’s pants and then jumped back, surprised at how quickly the boy gripped the fabric in protest.

“No you’re not!” the boy cried. “Leave me alone.”  For a second it was as if the kid had come back to life.  He acted just like Heath would have.  Pride goeth before a fall, Nick thought. That’s what his mother would say.  He slapped lightly at Lucky’s right hand.

“Boy, the way I see it, you got two choices. One is to let me fix you up or the other is to let you lie there and bleed to death, 'cause I guarantee that’s what’ll happen.”

“Hospital!” Lucky begged with gritted teeth. His blue eyes were so pathetic and so similar to Heath’s, it about tore Nick apart.  He shook his head.  He couldn’t give into the worry he was feeling over Heath’s disappearance.  This boy needed help now or he was definitely going to die. 

“Boy, you are on a ranch.  The nearest hospital is in Sacramento, and that’s four hours away by train, a good 160 miles. You nuts?”

“No…need a doctor...and surgery!”

“You need a surgeon all right, but guess what? You just got me.   Dr. Merar is in Stockton. No time for that. If I go get him, you’ll die.  So I’m going to take care of this wound.  Not that I want to.  Where is my mother when I need her?” 

Lucky stared at Nick. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.   “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Nick shook his head. "Gotta get this bullet out.  Usually my mother does this kind of stuff. That’s why I wish she were here, but she won’t be home until evening.”

Lucky hissed in pain. “You sure you're a doctor?”

“Me? Heck no! I’m Nick Barkley. I run the family ranch or I do with my brother Heath or I did…oh forget that. What’s your name, boy?”

“Uh, um, Luu…ckyyy,” the voice trailed off.

"Nope. I wouldn't call you lucky," Nick snorted. He could tell the kid was getting weaker. The boy’s eyes flickered shut, and his hand grew limp, falling off the side of the cot. 

Nick went over to the other side of the room where the sink was.   Cabinets lined one wall of the shack, filled with canned goods and the pots and pans they needed to use when he or Heath or one of the hands got stuck up here after mending fences.  He pulled out a pot and filled it with water from the rusty pump in the sink.  He went outside to the woodpile to get some kindling and wood.   After bringing it inside, he filled the stove to set it up for a fire, adding some old newspapers they kept nearby.  He’d have to start a fire in the fireplace to boil some water; but for now, he just wanted to get that bullet out of the boy’s side. 

“Dad!” Lucky suddenly cried. “Dad, help me!” 

Nick threw a lit match in the stove and slammed the door of the wood stove closed. 

Lucky thrashed on the bed as he tried to get up and off the narrow bunk. 

Nick grabbed his arms, easily pushing Lucky back down.  “If you keep moving, you’re gonna bleed to death.” he warned him.  “Now I’m trying to help ya.  Would ya just calm down?” 

Lucky tried to relax. “It hurts,” he groaned.

“It told ya, it’s gonna hurt more.  So just take it easy.”  Nick went back to his work as Lucky moaned on the bed, holding his hands against the oozing, bloody wounds.  Nick brought over his jackknife and the hot water with some soap and towels.  There wasn’t much else he had to use.  He also found some whiskey from the cupboard under the sink.  He poured a little in the water, remembering Dr. Merar telling him about the germs that caused infection.  They’d always used whiskey to clean out wounds.  Maybe putting some in the water would help.  He placed the knife in the steaming water and let it soak as Lucky stared at him with dazed eyes. 

“Take the pants off, boy,” Nick ordered. 

Lucky shook his head, causing his sweaty bangs to cover his eyes.

Nick simply lifted Lucky’s hips and pulled down the pants, covering him with a blanket and leaving his side and injured thigh exposed.

“Wha…what are you doing?”  Lucky's speech was slurred, barely understandable.

Nick handed Lucky his crop.  It was good leather and would withstand quite a bite he figured. “Use that to bite on when it hurts.”

“NO!” Lucky cried. 

“Boy…do I have to tie you down?”

“An...ane...anes...thetic,” Lucky pleaded. "Don’t. No."

“Whatever you want, we don’t have any.  Use the blanket to grip with your hands and bite down on the crop. I’m sorry, boy.  That’s all I can give you.”

“No, no,” Lucky gasped.  The kid’s glazed blue eyes were shocked. 

Nick shook his head.  What did the kid expect, an operating theatre miles from nowhere?  This was the west. You made do with what you had and hang the consequences.  This wasn’t the first time he’d been in this position, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last.   Nick Barkley forged ahead.

“Yes."  Nick proved his point by sticking the knife carefully into Lucky’s side.  Lucky screamed and tried to jerk away.  Nick didn’t flinch.  He held the boy down with one strong hand and continued to dig for the bullet with the other one.

Lucky choked and coughed, his eyes rolling around the room.

Nick kept a hard hand on the boy while he dug with his other hand, and tried to watch his patient at the same time.  Sweat broke out on his forehead from all the exertion. 

Lucky screamed again and again or else bit on the crop, but he remained deliriously awake. 

Nick couldn’t help admiring the young man.  Most burly ranch hands would have passed out by now.  Finally, he hit the buried lead with the knife.  Lucky’s screams went unnoticed now as Nick Barkley, rancher, brother, son, and now doctor concentrated on snagging his quarry.  He guided it up the skin and pulled it out as Lucky gave his last gasp. 

Nick held the bullet up in the air triumphantly in a bloodied hand. The kid had finally fainted. The sight of all that blood on his hand must have been the final straw.

Nick shook his head. “You should have done that sooner, boy.   It sure as hell would have been better for you and easier on me.  But then, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.  You’re one strong fella.  Kind of remind me of my younger brother, Heath. Now, let’s see if you can handle this.”  Nick poured a generous dollop of whiskey into the open, raw wound.  Lucky's body jerked, but thankfully he didn’t waken. 

Exhausted by his own ordeal, Nick raised the rest of the bottle to the air. “Here’s to you, Brother Heath, wherever you are.  I hope you’re doing a whole hell of a lot better than I am!”  Nick drank the rest of the bottle right where he stood while Lucky lay still on the cot, bloody and senseless. Nick toasted him. "I need some more of this before I dig that second bullet out of your leg, boy."