Nowhere to Run by C. J. Box Read Free Book Online Page A

arm pinned under him and his cheek on the ground. His right leg with the holes in it was now largely numb except for dull pulses of pain that came with each heartbeat. His left leg throbbed from being crushed against the tree trunks.
    It came back to him: Where he was and how he had got there.
    Joe groaned and propped himself up on an elbow. Buddy stood directly over him. That’s when Joe realized it wasn’t rain he’d heard, but drops of blood from his horse striking the dry forest floor.
    He rose by grasping a stirrup and pulled himself up the side of his horse. He paused with both arms across the saddle as he studied the dark and silent tangle of trees they’d come through. He saw no one. Yet.
    The saddle was loose due to Buddy’s exertion and it was easy to release the cinch. He stood on his horse’s right side where the arrow was and gripped the saddle horn on the front and the cantle on the back and set his feet. “I’ll make this as painless as I can, Buddy,” he said, then grunted and swung the saddle off, careful to pull it straight away from the arrow so the hole in the leather slid up the shaft and didn’t do any more side-to-side damage. Buddy didn’t scream again or rear up, and Joe was grateful.
    He examined the wound and could see the back end of the flint point just below a flap of horsehide. The point wasn’t embedded deeply after all. Apparently, the leather—and Joe’s leg—had blunted the penetration. So why all the blood? Then he saw it: another arrow was deep into Buddy’s neck on the other side. So both brothers had been firing arrows at him from opposite sides of the meadow. The neck wound was severe.
    The first-aid kit was in the panniers. In the kit, there was hydrogen peroxide to clean out the wounds and compresses to bind them and stop the bleeding.
    He had to stop the flow. But how?
     
    JOE SAT IN THE GRASS with his pants pulled down to his knees. His left leg was bruised and turning purple. There were two holes three inches apart in the top of his right thigh. The holes were rimmed with red and oozing dark blood. They were the diameter of a pencil and Joe was fascinated by the fact that he could move the skin and view the red muscle fiber of his right quadriceps. He’d need to bathe the wounds, kill the growing infection, and close or bind the holes. Quickly. The excruciating pain had receded into the numb solace of shock and the blood had the viscosity of motor oil. He clumsily wrapped his bandana over the holes and made a knot. He stood with the aid of a tree trunk and pulled his pants back up. Buddy watched with his head down and his eyes going gauzy as his blood dripped out.
    “I’ll take care of you first, Buddy,” Joe said in a whisper, “then I’ll take care of me.”
    Before limping back through the timber toward the meadow and Blue Roanie’s body, Joe emptied most of his canteen over the wound in Buddy’s neck until the water ran clear. He drank the last of the water and tossed the canteen aside, then tied Buddy’s reins to a tree trunk.
    “Hang in there and don’t move.”
    He was encouraged by the fact that Buddy’s head was down and his ears weren’t as rigid. It might mean the brothers had left the area. Or it might mean his horse was dying.
     
    JOE MOVED SLOWLY. His legs wouldn’t allow him to go any faster. He lurched from tree to tree, holding himself upright by grabbing trunks and branches, anything that would help him take the weight and pressure off his leg wound. He made a point not to look down at his injury for fear he’d pass out again.
    It took twenty minutes before he neared the meadow where he’d been bushwhacked. If the brothers had come into the trees after him, he would have run into them by now. He had no doubt they’d have finished him off. Maybe with arrows, maybe with knives, maybe with his own guns. He found his hat and fitted it back on his head.
    Joe hated the fact that his only available weapon was his .40 Glock service piece.