Page 67 of Wagon Train Promises
But Louise continued marching.
He followed. “Louise, wait. If it’s where I think it is?—”
“There’s only one horse.”
“We can all ride. It will be faster.”
She slowed, glanced to the bushes where Dobie remained. “Dobie, how sick is your mama?” To Cecil, she whispered, “I can’t ride if he doesn’t.”
“Her sick.”
“How far to your home?”
“Far ’nough.”
“Then let’s ride. We’ll get there faster.”
The boy eased closer, his wary gaze on Cecil, who remained motionless as he waited.
“You’ll ride?” Louise asked.
Dobie’s nod flipped dark hair over his face.
Cecil took her bag and hung it to the saddle, then held out a hand to her. “Sit behind me.”
“Astride?”
He chuckled. “You’ll be more comfortable. And who cares?”
“Very well.” She gripped his arm, and he half-lifted her as she settled behind him.
“Up you come.” He reached for Dobie. Louise did, too, and they swung him up to sit between them where he’d be safe. “Now hang on good.” When Louise gripped his shirt at the waist, Cecil patted each hand. Let her think it was to make sure she had a good hold. Really, it was to touch her. Chief pranced, eager to be on his way.
“Dobie, where am I going?”
The boy pointed in the direction.
Exactly where Cecil thought they were headed. He kept a gentle pace as they rode onward. They crested the hill and began the descent. As they neared the building, he sniffed. It was the odor of neglect and sickness.
Louise dug her hands into his sides. Did she smell it, too? Not that she had much choice.
They rode to the shack. He lifted Dobie down, helped Louise to the ground, and then dismounted.
With the stench stronger here, he and Louise looked at each other. The tightness around her mouth said all he needed to know. This was a place of illness.
“You come.” Dobie led the way into the house.
The sour odor almost knocked them over. It permeated every corner, every board, every nostril. A bucket by the door was full of fetid garbage. Flies buzzed around another bucket across the room.
Louise cupped her hand over her nose as they followed the boy.
“Mama, I get help.” Dobie rushed to the cot where a woman lay—thin and pale as death.
Across the room, on another cot, was the shape of a person, the blankets pulled over from head to toe—likely the man of the house. A handful of flies hovered over the blanket.
Cecil swallowed hard as Louise hurried to the woman’s side.
She whispered, “She’s still alive. Barely. Ma’am, how can I help?”
