PART V
A sky of growing,
A sky of pain,
This sky that sees a
New Calder reign.
Chapter XXIII
The grass rustled like dry straw under his horse’s hooves. The land looked baked and parched from sizzling sun and lack of rain. Chase squinted his eyes against the slanting afternoon sunlight. Overhead there was nothing but a sky full of bright blue. His mouth thinned at the sight of a cow grazing instead of lying in the shade ruminating. He didn’t like to see that this late in the day, because it meant there wasn’t enough graze.
The water supplies of the hill ranches around the Triple C had already gone dry, their grass burned up. The Triple C had shared as much of its water as it could with its neighbors. It still had water, but the lush Calder range was reaching a critical stage. They were going to have to round up the yearling steers early this fall before they began to lose weight. That was what the small neighboring ranches should have done earlier to save their grass and water, but they had kept holding on, certain it would eventually rain. But it hadn’t. And the other ranchers didn’t have the resources to hold out as long as the Triple C.
The blare of a truck horn caused Chase to pull up his horse and turn in the saddle. It sounded as though someone was holding his hand on the horn. A pickup bounced into view, racing pell-mell across the wild range land. Chase recognized Stumpy behind the wheel; he was waving to him frantically. Reining his horse around, Chase sent it forward at a lope to intercept the pickup.
“What is it?” His horse swung its rump around as the truck brakes squealed to a stop.
“Get in.” Stumpy reached across to open the passenger’s door. “The boss is hurt.”
Chase wrapped the reins around the saddle horn as he swung out of the saddle and turned his mount loose. He didn’t bother to ask any questions until he was inside the cab. Stumpy took off before he had the door shut.
“What happened?” If Chase’s father was hurt, that meant badly injured, and his mind was running through all the possibilities.
“The pickup rolled. He was thrown out, but it landed on him.” Stumpy Niles had his foot to the floor and both hands on the wheel to keep it from being jerked out of his grip as the truck sped over the rough ground.
Chase snapped his gaze to the driver, shock slicing through him. “How bad is he hurt?”
“His chest was crushed.” Stumpy never took his eyes from the land in front of them, but his profile revealed a grim expression. “He was asking for you.” There was a pause as he slowed the pickup and shifted gears to stop at the fence gate.
Climbing out of the cab, Chase ran forward to open the gate so Stumpy could drive through. He was swearing under his breath and absently wondered why man always resorted to profanity in situations where he felt helpless and impotent. As soon as the tailgate of the pickup was clear of the gate, Chase closed it and hurried to rejoin Stumpy in the cab.
When they arrived at the scene a good twenty minutes later, a half-dozen mounted riders had pulled the
pickup off his father with the help of a handful of men on the ground. They were coiling the white nylon ropes that had been tied to the truck. Chase spied Nate kneeling beside his father’s prone figure on the sloping bank of a ditch.
The silence among the men was deafening as Chase climbed out of the cab. Nate straightened and stepped back when he approached, giving Chase his first glimpse of his father’s ashen face and his caved-in chest. He fell on his knees beside him, his arms half-reaching, wanting to do something to ease the pain his father had to be suffering. Eyes opened, eyes the same brown color as his own, but the light in them was dimming.
“They found you, son. Thank God.” The rasping voice was interrupted by a cough that spilled blood from the corner of his mouth and drained more color from his face.
Chase clenched his teeth to bite off the anguished groan before it could be released. Whipping off his hat, he gently and carefully lifted his father’s head and pillowed his hat under it. Then he wiped away the blood with his handkerchief.
“Don’t try to talk, Dad.” His voice was taut, squeezed out to keep it steady. He glanced up at Nate. “We’ll rig up a bed for him in the back of Stumpy’s truck. Make sure someone has the plane running at the airstrip.” Nate just looked at him sadly for a long second, then turned to walk a few yards away, where the rest of the men had gathered.
“It’s no use, son.” But the strength in the hand that gripped Chase’s arm seemed to refute that statement. No man that strong could die. “I can hear my ribs grating together like a bunch of broken china. I’ll drown in my own blood before you can get me to a doctor,” his father insisted. There was a terrible rattle with each short, painful breath he took.
“You just hang on, Dad,” Chase urged, refusing to give up.
The brown eyes closed in denial, then opened to stare longingly at Chase. “It’s all yours now.” Webb searched his son’s face with profound sorrow. “You’re too young, only twenty-seven. You needed a few more years of seasoning.” His fingers tightened on his son’s arm. “They’ll see that and come after you. You know that?”
“Yes, Dad.” There was that mysterious “they” again. His arm was being squeezed so hard circulation was being cut off. It was impossible to believe that anything could kill this man. His father had always seemed indestructible.
“You’ll have to fight to keep the Triple C intact. You’ll have to be ready.” There was an urgency to the weak and rasping voice as another spasm of coughing racked him.
“You’re not going to die,” Chase insisted, even as he wiped at the blood that flowed from his father’s mouth.
It seemed a long time before the coughing stopped and the blood was reduced to a trickle seeping from the corner of his mouth. Webb rested a moment, trying to conserve what strength remained, but there was so much he needed to tell Chase.