Chapter 22 Safe Again
Honey stirred slightly, trapped in the hazy twilight world between
wakefulness and sleep. She seemed to hear a voice, a man's voice, but a gentle
voice, speaking to her. Could a man's voice be gentle, she asked herself
doubtfully. It seemed a lifetime since she had heard one that was.
"Miss Wilson! Miss Wilson!"
Had it all been a dream? As Honey came to, she felt a familiar coarse
fabric covering her from the shoulders down. Her eyes, which had been rendered
sightless by a piece of that same blanket, tried to get used to the bright
sunlight. The golden sun was once again high above a few wispy white mares'
tails that interrupted the seemingly endless blueness of the west Texas sky.
But it had been no dream. She hurt all over. But she was alive, and, as
if in answer to her prayers, the face above her was Red's. Good old Red, the
ranch foreman, in his ancient stetson, that was said to have been cream-colored
a decade ago, but years of sun and rain and dust had darkened it to a dirty
beige. But Honey was never happier to see anything in her whole life than she
was to see Red's dusty old hat.
The burly foreman was bent over her, a worried look on his face. "Casey!
Give me your damn flask, and I'll have no Irish nonsense about it."
Michael Casey gave Honey a friendly blue-eyed wink and produced a bottle,
leprechaun-like, from what seemed like thin air and handed it to Red, who
accepted the bottle, and spoke softly, "Here, Honey, take some of this. Just a
sip, now." Red offered her the amber-colored liquid, and Honey swallowed a
little. She choked a little on the strong brandy, but it felt good going down.
"My Lord, Honey, what in tarnation happened to you?"
Honey could see some of the other hands, back from the cattle drive,
standing around behind Red. Thank God! To finally see friendly faces again.
Slim, the jokester, and the hard-working Virginian, Tom Jackson, who was always
telling whoppers about being the son of Stonewall Jackson. She recognized
Dexter, the Yank from New England, who spoke with that funny accent. And Buck
Williams, the one who'd made a grab for her at the party. And Michael Casey,
who hailed from Killarney, as he was proud to tell every man he'd ever met. And
old Lester, Lester Jefferson, the good-natured Negro, his ever-present harmonica
almost falling out of his shirt pocket as he peered down at her with kindly
eyes. And one or two others as well.
"Oh, Red!" Honey began, "These two men came, and they ..." but she couldn't
go on, and Honey wrapped her arms around his neck and sobbed convulsively into
his broad chest.
"Now, Honey, that's OK. Don't you worry yourself about it none, right now.
Do you think you can stand up? Boys, turn around while Honey gets up. She don't
need you all a-gapin' at her!"
Honey gave Red a smile as the shame-faced hands turned away, allowing her
to climb painfully to her feet, and to wrap the blanket securely around her
nakedness while the gentlemanly foreman also averted his eyes.
As she got up, she looked around and realized that the Comanches must have
dragged her off into the grove of trees near the pond, whose blue surface
glimmered brightly in the sunlight. She had been lying directly under the
accursed "Hanging Tree," whose innumerable dark leafy arms seemed to hover above
her threateningly, as if it were possessed of a malevolent will of its own. She
stared up at the overhanging branches which seemed to reach downward like a huge
predatory bird and shuddered silently.
"C'mon, miss," Red continued. "We had a helluva time finding you when you
wasn't at the house," he said. "But we've found you now, thank goodness.
Red supported her as she walked stiffly toward the waiting horses. "Let me
help you up on Ginger, here, and we'll give you a ride back to the house. Your
daddy's gonna be back later on today, and Clem, too. Everything's gonna be OK,
you'll see. And you can tell us all about it, if you want to, whenever you feel
up to it."
Then Red turned to the man on his right. "Stoney! Ride into town and fetch
Doc Parker. And if that SOB is drunk, like he usually is, make him drink a pot
of coffee before you haul his drunken ass back to the ranch."
" 'Scuse my language, ma'am," Red said with a shy smile, before turning
back to Jackson. "And tell Sheriff Buchanan to get some men together; we're
gonna go lookin' for the varmints that done this!"
Tom Jackson quickly mounted his horse and rode off toward town, while
Casey and Lester gently helped the beautiful, brutalized blonde clamber up on to
Red's horse, before beginning the slow procession back to the ranch.
But even in that peaceful moment, as she listened to old Lester start up a
slow, almost mournful rendition of "When Johnny Comes Marching Home, Again,"
Honey Wilson had the sense that the final curtain had not yet been drawn on this
strange and terrible chapter in her life.
And she was right ...
{Please join me one last time for the upcoming conclusion of "The Outlaw's
Revenge}
