A Cowboy Promised to Protect the Woman Who Saved Him — Then He Risked Everything to Stay

…

His canteen had been empty since noon.

His lips were cracked and bleeding.

The Winchester rifle he’d carried for 15 years felt like it weighed 100 lb.

Not like this,” he muttered, though his voice came out as barely a whisper.

Not wandering in the desert like some damn fool pilgrim.

But the desert didn’t care about his preferences.

The desert never did.

He crested a small rise and nearly fell down the other side.

His boots, good leather that had cost him a month’s wages back in Tucson, slipped on loose shale.

He went down hard on one knee, and the impact sent such a shock of pain through his shoulder that black spots exploded across his vision.

For a long moment, Lucas knelt there in the dust and rocks, wondering if this was it.

If this was where the story ended, not in some blaze of glory, not facing down an enemy with his gun drawn, but alone and forgotten under a sun that would bleach his bones white within a month.

Then he heard it.

Water.

At first, he thought it was a hallucination.

Dying men heard things, saw things.

He’d watched his partner, Jake Riley, talk to his dead mother for 3 hours before a Comanche arrow finally killed him.

Lucas had no intention of following suit, but the sound persisted.

The soft, unmistakable burble of running water.

Lucas lifted his head through the haze of fever and exhaustion.

He could see it now, a line of cottonwood trees about a hundred yards ahead, their leaves flashing silver green in the brutal light.

Where there were cottonwoods, there was water always.

Well, he said to no one, “I guess I’m not done yet.

” Getting to his feet took three tries.

Walking in a straight line took concentration he didn’t know he still had, but Lucas Hail had been a stubborn man his entire life, and apparently dying wasn’t enough to change that.

The cottonwoods grew alongside a creek that ran clear and cold over smooth stones.

It wasn’t much, maybe 10 ft wide, shallow enough that he could see the bottom.

But to a man dying of thirst in the Arizona territory, it might as well have been the Mississippi River.

Lucas fell more than knelt at the water’s edge.

He plunged his face into the creek and drank in great desperate gulps, not caring that he was taking in half the water through his nose, not caring about anything except the blessed wetness washing away the dust and heat and death.

He drank until his stomach hurt, then collapsed onto his back on the creek bank, staring up at the sky through the lattice of cottonwood branches.

The fever was worse now, making his teeth chatter despite the heat.

His hands shook when he tried to touch his shoulder and came away wet with something that wasn’t just sweat.

“Well, hell,” Lucas said to the sky.

“At least the view’s better here.

” That was when he heard the voice.

“Don’t move.

” Lucas’s hand went automatically to his revolver, but his fingers were clumsy and weak.

He managed to get the gun halfway out of its holster before a boot came down on his wrist.

Not hard enough to break bones, but firm enough to make the point.

I said, “Don’t move.

” The voice was female, steady, and sure.

I’ve got a shotgun pointed at your head, and I won’t hesitate to use it if you give me cause.

Lucas let his hand fall away from the gun.

He was too tired to fight, and besides, she had him dead to rights.

He turned his head slowly and got his first look at Martha Quinn.

She was younger than her voice suggested, maybe 25, maybe 30.

It was hard to tell with frontier women who’d learned early that softness was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

Her hair was dark brown, pulled back in a practical bun that was coming loose in places.

She wore a simple cotton dress that had been mended more than once, and over it a man’s work shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Her face was sunweathered but handsome, with strong bones and eyes the color of creek water in shadow.

And yes, she was holding a double-barreled shotgun, and yes, both hammers were cocked.

“Ma’am,” Lucas managed.

His voice sounded like he’d been gargling gravel.

“I don’t mean you any harm, just needed water.

You’re bleeding on my property.

Didn’t realize it was claimed.

I can move on.

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it.

The world tilted sideways and he would have fallen face first into the creek if Martha Quinn hadn’t grabbed his good arm.

Don’t be a fool, she said, but her voice had lost some of its edge.

You can’t move anywhere in your condition.

When did you get shot? 3 days ago, maybe four.

lost track.

She muttered something under her breath that Lucas didn’t quite catch, though he got the impression it wasn’t complimentary.

She eased the hammers down on the shotgun and leaned it against a nearby tree, then knelt beside him and started examining his wounds with quick, efficient movements.

Her fingers probed his shoulder and he hissed in pain.

“Bullets still in there,” she said, and from the smell, infection set in deep.

“You’re lucky you made it this far.

” “Don’t feel lucky.

You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s more than most men can say after 3 days in the desert with untreated gunshot wounds.

She sat back on her heels, studying him with those creek water eyes.

Lucas could see her weighing options, calculating risks.

Can you walk? If the alternative is dying here, I reckon I can manage.

Good, because I’m not carrying you.

She stood and offered her hand.

My homestead’s about a half mile upstream.

I’ve got supplies there.

bandages, whiskey for cleaning wounds, and some ludum if the pain gets too bad.

But I need to know something first.

Lucas looked up at her.

What’s that? Are you running from the law or from something worse? It was a fair question.

The territory was full of men running from something, warrants, debts, angry husbands, or just their own past mistakes.

Lucas Hail had done his share of running over the years, though not for the reasons most people assumed.

Neither, he said.

I was hired to guard a cattle drive.

Rustlers hit us at dawn.

I got shot.

They got the cattle.

End of story.

Martha Quinn studied him for a long moment.

And Lucas had the distinct impression she was seeing more than he was saying.

Finally, she nodded.

All right, I’ll help you.

But understand this.

You try anything and I’ll put you down like a rabid dog.

My brother taught me to shoot before I learned to read, and I haven’t missed a target since I was 12 years old.

Yes, ma’am.

And another thing, you don’t ask questions about me and I won’t ask questions about you.

We help each other because that’s what decent people do in this territory, not because we’re friends or have any other understanding.

Are we clear, Crystal? Good.

She offered her hand again, and this time Lucas took it.

Her grip was strong, calloused from hard work.

She helped him to his feet, and though the world swam dangerously for a moment, he managed to stay upright.

What’s your name? She asked.

Lucas.

Lucas Hail.

Martha Quinn.

Welcome to hell, Mr.

Hail.

Try not to die on my property.

I’ve had enough death here already.

The walk to Martha’s homestead took an eternity and no time at all.

Lucas was aware of moving, of Martha’s arm around his waist and his own arm draped over her shoulders, of the cottonwoods passing by in a blur of silver green, but mostly he was aware of the fever burning through him like wildfire, and the growing certainty that he was going to die before they reached wherever they were going.

He came back to himself lying on something soft, a real bed with a real mattress, not the bed roll he’d been sleeping on for months.

The room was small and dim with rough huneed log walls and a single window that let in the last golden light of late afternoon.

A wash stand stood in one corner and on the wall hung a simple wooden cross and a tint type photograph of a young couple on their wedding day.

Martha Quinn moved efficiently around the room gathering supplies.

She’d lit several oil lamps and placed them strategically around the bed, turning the small space into something like a surgeon’s operating theater.

Lucas watched her through half-closed eyes, noting the way she moved.

No wasted motion, no hesitation, each action purposeful and precise.

“I’m going to have to take that bullet out,” she said without looking at him.

“It’s going to hurt like the devil himself is digging around in there, and I’ve only got enough ludnum to take the edge off, not put you under.

” “Can you handle that? Do I have a choice?” “Not if you want to live.

” She turned to face him, and her expression was serious.

I’ve done this before, twice, actually.

My brother got shot during a dispute over water rights, and one of the hands from the Benson ranch took a bullet during a raid.

Both times I got the bullets out, and the men lived.

But I’m not a doctor, Mr.

Hail.

I’m just a woman who’s learned to do what needs doing.

If that infection has spread too far or if I can’t get the bullet out clean, you might still die.

Do you understand? Lucas nodded.

I understand.

And ma’am, thank you for not leaving me at the creek.

Something flickered across Martha’s face.

Surprise, maybe or sadness.

Like I said, it’s what decent people do.

Now drink this.

She handed him a tin cup filled with whiskey and ldnum.

All of it quickly.

The mixture burned going down and tasted like someone had mixed rot gut whiskey with bitter herbs and regret.

But Lucas drank it all, grimacing at the taste.

Good, Martha said.

She rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands in a basin of water, then poured whiskey over a long, thin knife blade.

I’m going to count to three and then I’m going to start.

You can scream if you need to.

There’s no one around to hear it but me and the coyotes.

Ready? Wait, Lucas said.

The ladum was already starting to work, making everything feel soft and distant.

That photograph on the wall that you Martha glanced at the tint type, and her expression hardened.

That’s none of your concern, Mr.

Hail.

You said you and your brother claimed this land together.

One, the wedding photograph suggests two.

I’m just saying if you’re married, maybe we should wait for your husband to three.

Martha Quinn didn’t hesitate.

She pressed him down firmly with one hand on his good shoulder, and with the other she drove the knife into his wound.

Lucas Hail had been shot before.

He’d been stabbed, kicked by horses, beaten in bar fights, and once nearly hanged by a lynch mob that later admitted they’d gotten the wrong man.

He thought he knew pain.

He was wrong.

The knife point scraped against bone, and Lucas heard himself scream.

His back arched off the bed and his hands clenched into the blankets hard enough that he felt his fingernails tear.

Martha held him down with surprising strength, her jaw set with determination as she worked.

“I’ve got it,” she muttered.

Hold still just a little more.

The world was red and white and black, all swirling together.

Lucas could feel sweat pouring down his face.

Could taste blood where he’d bitten his lip.

The ldnum helped, but not enough.

Never enough.

Then suddenly the pressure released.

Got it, Martha said, and her voice was triumphant.

She held up the knife, and impaled on its tip was a deformed lead bullet flattened from impact.

44 caliber.

You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything vital.

Lucas could only groan in response.

Martha worked quickly after that, cleaning the wound with whiskey that burned even worse than the knife had, packing it with clean cloth, and binding his shoulder with strips of cotton bandage.

She checked his ribs, too, cleaning and dressing that wound with the same efficient care.

“The fever will get worse before it gets better,” she said as she worked.

“That’s normal with infections like this.

I’m going to keep you as cool as I can.

Keep fluids in you and hope your body is strong enough to fight off the poison.

After that, it’s up to you and whatever higher power you believe in.

Don’t believe in much of anything,” Lucas mumbled.

The ldum was pulling him down into darkness, but he fought it for a moment longer.

“Why are you doing this? You don’t know me.

” Martha was quiet for a long moment.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, so different from the hard, commanding tone she’d used at the creek.

Because someone has to,” she said simply.

“Because this territory takes enough lives without good people standing by and watching it happen.

” “Because,” she trailed off, then shook her head.

“Get some rest, Mr.

Hail.

We’ll talk more when you wake up.

” “The photograph,” Lucas said, his words slurring together.

“You never answered.

” “That was my wedding day,” Martha said quietly.

“3 years ago.

That’s my husband Samuel and my brother Robert standing with us.

They’re both dead now, killed in a range war that never should have happened.

I’m the only one left.

She stood and gathered up the bloody rags and instruments.

So, no, Mr.

Hail, I’m not waiting for my husband to help.

I learned a long time ago that in this territory the only person you can count on is yourself.

Lucas wanted to say something to offer condolences or thanks or something.

But the darkness was rising up to claim him, and he let it come.

He woke to darkness and the sound of rain.

For a moment, Lucas didn’t know where he was.

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, and the bed beneath him was too soft, too comfortable.

Then memory flooded back the ambush, the desert, the creek, and Martha Quinn with her shotgun in her steady hands and her sad eyes.

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it.

His shoulder screamed in protest, sending white hot bolts of pain down his arm and across his chest.

He fell back against the pillows, breathing hard.

Don’t try to move yet.

The voice came from the corner of the room.

Lucas turned his head carefully and saw Martha sitting in a straight back chair, a piece of needle work in her lap.

How long had she been there? What time is it? His voice was horsearo, raw from screaming.

About 3:00 in the morning.

You’ve been out for almost 12 hours.

She set aside her needle work and came to the bed, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Fever’s down.

That’s good.

That’s How do you feel? Like I got shot and someone dug around in the wound with a knife.

The corner of Martha’s mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile, but close.

That’s because you did, and someone did.

Can you drink? She helped him sit up enough to sip water from a cup.

It was the best water Lucas had ever tasted.

cool and sweet and perfect.

He drank three cups before Martha gently pushed his hand away.

Not too much at once.

Your stomach needs to adjust.

She eased him back down onto the pillows.

Are you hungry? Starving.

I’ll bring you some broth.

Nothing heavy yet.

Your body needs to heal, and that means starting slow.

She moved toward the door, then paused.

Mr.

Hail, thank you for not dying.

I’ve seen enough death in this house.

She was gone before Lucas could respond.

He lay in the darkness, listening to the raindrum against the roof and walls.

It was a good sound, soothing and peaceful.

Through the window, he could see flashes of lightning illuminating the landscape in brief stark moments, the outline of mountains in the distance, the shapes of outbuildings, the endless expanse of territory that stretched in every direction.

Martha returned a few minutes later with a bowl of beef broth and some bread.

She helped him eat, patient when his hands shook and uncomplaining when he spilled broth on the blankets.

“Tell me about this place,” Lucas said between mouthfuls.

“How long have you been here?” “I thought we agreed not to ask questions.

” “You asked me if I was running from the law.

” Martha smiled at that.

A real smile this time, small but genuine.

“Fair enough.

” She settled back in her chair.

My brother Robert and I claimed this land 3 years ago.

200 acres along the creek, good water, decent grazing.

We built this house, started a small herd.

Samuel, my husband, joined us after we married.

He was a good man, steady and hardworking.

We had plans, you know, dreams of building something lasting.

What happened? The smile faded.

There’s a big outfit north of here called the Redstone Cattle Company.

They claimed this whole valley was open range, even though Robert had a legal claim filed with the territorial office.

They wanted us out, tried to buy us out first.

When we refused, things got ugly.

There were threats, then night raids.

They burned our barn, ran off half our cattle.

Robert and Samuel tried to stand up to them, tried to get the law involved.

But the law in this territory belongs to whoever has the most money and the most guns.

And they killed your husband and brother.

Martha nodded, her face expressionless.

Ambushed them on the road to Prescott, shot them both, and left them for the crows.

The territorial marshall called it a ranged dispute and did nothing.

The Redstone men who did it are still walking around free, probably laughing about it over whiskey in some saloon.

Lucas felt a cold anger stirring in his gut.

He’d seen this pattern before.

Big outfits pushing out smaller homesteaders, using violence when money wouldn’t work, hiding behind corrupt law enforcement.

It was the same story across the whole territory, the same injustice repeated over and over.

Why did you stay? He asked.

Most people would have moved on after something like that.

Because this is my land, Martha said simply.

Mine and Roberts and Samuels.

We put our sweat and blood into this place.

We built it from nothing.

I’ll be damned if I let some rich cattle baron scare me off what’s rightfully mine.

She met his eyes, and Lucas saw steel there.

Besides, I have nowhere else to go.

This homestead is all I have left in the world.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the rain.

Lucas thought about all the places he’d been, all the towns and territories he’d drifted through.

He’d never stayed anywhere long enough to call it home, never put down roots deep enough that pulling them up would hurt.

He told himself it was freedom, that independence.

Now looking at Martha Quinn and the quiet determination in her face, he wondered if it had just been cowardice.

The Redstone Company, he said finally.

They leave you alone now? Mostly.

They won after all.

Drove off my cattle, killed my family, made their point.

But lately, she hesitated.

There’s been talk in town.

The Redstone Cattle Company sold their holdings to a mining outfit called the Southwestern Development Corporation.

Apparently, there’s copper in these mountains, and the new owners want the land for mining claims.

They’ve been making offers to buy out the remaining homesteaders.

But not to you.

They made an offer.

I refused.

Martha’s expression hardened.

They said they’d be back.

That was 2 weeks ago.

I’m expecting them any day now.

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