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"He's like a wounded Tiger Morgan, he's more dangerous now than he was in the past." |
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THE EYE OF THE TIGER BY LANE KENSINGTON CHAPTER 1 The land was one of wild and rugged beauty. Canyons of scarred limestone and granite, carved though the centuries by wind, sand, and rain stood as solitary reminders of a time now long forgotten. A turbulent river wound its way past looming walls of rock, and beneath huge cliffs, churning amongst large boulders and rock slides littering the bank; the only reminders of distant catastrophes. It's sound was deafening. This was the Canyon of the Grand. Thick stands of pinion and cedar grew beneath these massive walls. Painted with desert varnish, the canyon walls seemed to glow in the hot early morning sun. It was a land of hidden dangers and where the law was not of man, but of nature; Survival-of- the fittest. Into this land, came a man; a man much like the land itself, rugged and hard. Well over six feet his movement slow and deliberate and riding with a caution borne of survival. He rode with a constant vigilance, a trait that has saved his life many times. Taking note of his surroundings; of the birds, of the deer and elk and their behavior. He pulled up the horse as a flock of birds suddenly took to the air, seeming confused and panicked. A moment later an Eagle flew low over the cliffs, and then soared high into the crystal blue Colorado sky and out of view. Carefully, man and horse moved slowly along the scant trail that hugged the massive walls of rock. At times he had to dismount and lead his horse over fallen tree limbs, past thorn laced bushes, and around large boulders. Sweat beaded on his forehead and streaked his shirt as man and horse made their way slowly toward the mouth of the canyon. Within the shadow of a granite boulder, lay a small clear pool of water. The man dismounted and knelt beside it, wetting his face and neck, relishing the coolness of the water as it dripped down his chest. Taking off his hat, he ran his fingers through his hair and leaned tiredly against the boulder as his horse drank thirstily. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his small bag of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. As he lit the end and exhaled. His eye's narrowed as he looked at the vortex of the canyon walls and caught just a glimpse of the valley ahead. This, he figured was the valley of the Eagle, so named by the early Spanish explorers. This was his destination. “If your here, I'll find you.” he thought, his jaw hardening and his blue eye's, like ice, narrowed in anger, as he thought of the two men he had tracked from Arizona to here, the mountains of Colorado. Mounting his horse, he turned its head back to the trail toward the vista of the canyon and the valley of the Eagle. As horse and rider rounded the last curve he pulled the horse to a stop and gazed at the valley before him. Surrounded by mountains, with their jagged peaks still glistening with the snow of the last winter, they were in stark contrast to the valley below. The valley lay like a jewel, thick green grass, horse belly high, rolled like waves in the slight wind that blew, and was covered with red and purple wildflowers. The stillness of the moment was shattered by the sound of gunfire! Within seconds he was on the ground, crouching, with his rifle in hand. Leaving the horse groundtied, he carefully worked his way up a granite outcrop. From his vantage point he saw a clearing surrounded on three sides by thick stands of cedar, pine, and scrub oak and a road winding its way through the thick brush and trees. A wagon lay on its side, its contents having spilled out, its wheels still turning. Two people lay trapped behind it. One an older man with white hair the other what appeared to be a boy. Gunfire exploded around him as bullets slammed into the dirt surrounding the wagon, and the wagon itself. From his vantage point he saw they were surrounded, from the muzzle flashes he counted five. Five against two, think I'll even the odds a bit.” He thought, as he raised the rifle to his shoulder. With careful aim at a puff of white smoke, he gently squeezed the trigger and saw a man fall. A moment later, bullets bounced off the rock all around him like angry hornets. Squeezing off another round, he saw another man clutch his chest then fall. Twice more he fired, then as quickly as it had started, it ended with the sound of hoof beats fading fast in the distance. Carefully he stood up; not knowing what kind of reception he would have. He approached the wagon carefully with his rifle by his side. A moment later, a bullet spat dust in front of him as a raspy voice said angrily, “Mister drop that rifle and raise your hands over your head!” Doing as he was told, a grizzled old man stepped out from behind the wagon. His hair white, he face weathered brown with deep-set wrinkles; he walked bandy-legged toward the stranger with a limp. “You got any more of your friends out there.” He demanded. “It wasn't me”. He drawled softly. “Hey Charlie,” said a voice, a definite female voice, from behind the wagon". “that's the gent that saved our bacon.” A moment later a young woman emerged from behind the wagon, wiping dust and dirt from her clothes. Tall, dressed in mens riding pants, her hair was the color of wheat and tied back, her eyes a violet-blue. “Thank you mister, don't know what might have happened if you hadn't shown up.” She smiled as she held out her hand. “If it hadn't been for you, we both would be crow bait, the names Morgan, Morgan Jenric and this here grouch is Charlie Dumont.” “Glad I could help, the names McCord, ma’am, Travis McCord".” he drawled with a smile, grasping her outstretched hand in his. He was surprised at the firmness of the handshake. As Charlie watched him suspiciously, McCord walked over to the wagon, as he walked around it he glanced at Charlie. “It don't look like it's been damaged all that bad; let's right this thing.” He said as he stood next to it. With both men's muscles heaving, the heavy wagon swayed once, as they pushed again, it swayed, then righted itself. “Damned horses took off at the first shot.” Remarked Charlie breathlessly as he leaned against the side of the wagon. Nodding his head, he raised his fingers to his mouth and whistled. A moment later, a large black horse appeared. He swung on to it's back. “If' they're still around, I'll get em' for you.” He said as he kneed the horse back up the road. “Think he's one of them guns that Claybournes been hirin'?” Asked Charlie suspiciously as he watched the man ride away. “Don't know Charlie,” as her eyes followed McCord, Pausing, she added quietly, “I really hope he's not.” They walked to the wagon and began to reload it. As they finished, they heard the sound of horses. A moment later, McCord returned with two horses. “Found them up the road apiece.” He said. “Looks like your going to need a new wheel hub,” McCord said, as he pointed to the crack, “if your careful it ought to get you back to town.” “We're not that far from my ranch; we can fix it there”. She said as she shook her head no. As he turned his horse's head west, Morgan again said thank you as McCord tipped his hat and rode away. “I know I seen that gent before.” Thought Charlie, his eye's narrowed as he watched McCord disappear out of sight. Helping Morgan up into the seat, he turned and climbed into the boot, deep in thought, as he wondered “where have I seen him before.” Slapping the reins, the wagon lurched forward, heading into the high mountain terrain toward the J bar, Morgan's ranch that lay in the foothills of Storm King Mountain. Several hours later, McCord pulled his horse up as a town seemed to emerge out the heat waved horizon. The town of Castle, like others he had seen, sat beside a river. The air was heavy with dust, the heat was like a furnace in this the high plains desert of Colorado. Sweat beaded on his forehead, leaving streaks through the thick dust on his face and arms. As he passed McDonald's Mercantile, Garret Shannon paused from putting bags of feed into a buckboard. Sweat trickled down his face, wiping it, he glared at the stranger, as he rode by. “Probably another of Claybourne's guns.” Shannon thought, as he watched him ride past. “Best tell Miss Morgan about this gent.” as he watched the man pass by. Climbing into the boot, he clicked at the horses then slapped the reins and left out of the town toward the mountains. In the furnace like heat of the afternoon sun, the horse plodded slowly down the deserted street toward the livery. Seconds later, the animal half-reared, as a dog charged out from the shadows barking at the legs of the horse. A gun seemed to materialize in his hand; he aimed it at the dog, just as he was about to pull the trigger, a boy ran out and grabbed the dog. “Don't shoot him mister. Please!” Pleaded A boy of about nine, fearfully, as he sat holding the dog. “Son, you best keep that dog away from horses,” Drawled the man with a gentle smile, adding, “ 'cause next time, you might not be so lucky.” As horse moved nervously beneath him, he lowered his gun and put it back in the holster, tipping his hat to the boy. Reining the horse around he continued down the street to the livery at the west end of the town. As he rode, he felt prying eye's on him. He was a man who commanded attention, well over six feet, tanned and muscular, his eye's a steel blue, his hair, a light brown with streaks of gray, hung just below his ears. He was dressed in a blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wearing a pair of levi’s. But it was his gun, that drew people's attention, a black colt, with a well worn handle, engraved in silver, was the head of a tiger. As he passed the saloon, a man inside, nervously looked at him, pointing his finger, “Mister Claybourne,” he whispered, “that’s the gent! That’s the one that showed up an helped that Morgan gal!” The man he was speaking to raised his gun and using the barrel, he opened the curtain just enough to see the man as he passed the saloon. His face turned white, “Ride to the ranch tell Kincaid to come here!” He snarled angrily at the man. Closing the curtain, he turned to the bar, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and a glass he strode angrily to the back office. “When Kincaid gets here, tell him I need him now!” He snarled as he turned around to the bartender his dark eyes flaming, opening the door to the office, he stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. As McCord pulled up to the livery, he dismounted then led his horse inside, he had learned many years ago that taking care of his horse was a matter of life or death, and not something to be trusted to strangers. “That'll be two bits mister.” Said a voice from behind him, turning around, he saw an older man leaning against a stall chewing a piece of hay. “Think that'll cover it for the time being.” He drawled smiling, as he tossed him a silver dollar. “Oats are in that bucket over yonder, help yourself mister.” Said the man with a smile, as he bit the end of the coin. “Know where a stranger can sit and lite for a spell.” He drawled, as he brushed down the horse. “Bernice's Place, north end of town, best grub in the valley; an she rents rooms.” Said the man Nodding his head, McCord ran his hand down each of the horses legs, then grabbed a bucket, walked out to the trough and filled it, then gave it to his horse along with fresh straw and a bucket of feed with oats mixed in. He then walked out into the blinding sun of late afternoon. In the distance he saw Bernice's Place. A few minutes later, he stepped up on to the planked side walk, his boots echoed hollowly as he stepped inside the swinging doors. Taking off his hat, he was aware others were looking at him. Hot and tired, he ignored the looks and walked to a table and sat down in a seat facing the doors. As he eased his tired body into the chair, an older lady wearing an apron walked up to him. “Mister, if anyone needed a cup of my coffee, I'd say it's you. The names Mattie.” she said smiling. “An some beans if you got em.” He said smiling back at her. “Be right back,” she said. A moment later, she returned with beans, cornbread, water and the coffee. “Need anything else, just holler.” she said, wiping her hands on the apron and walked back into the kitchen. Nodding his head, he took a sip of the coffee, leaned back and looked out the window, he now understood, what would attract men like the two he was looking for; to here, the high mountains of Colorado. It's remoteness was the key. If someone wanted to hide from the law they would come here, into the mountains. There was no law here, there were no roads and for less than three months out a year, these mountains were almost impossible to travel through. Huge deposits of placer gold, small flakes, almost like salt, had been discovered here; all along the rivers and streams makeshift towns sprang up almost overnight. Towns like Dotsero, and Douds Junction located on the Rio Aquila, also known as the Eagle, so named by the Spanish explorers because of the many tributaries that flowed into this river. To them; it had looked like the feather of an eagle. Towns like Defiance, Leadville and Castle were the jumping off places to the gold fields. He watched as wagons pulled by teams of horses and mules rambled their way up the street, loaded with supplies destined for the mining camps. It was a wild unpredictable place, a valley without law. “This,” he thought, “would be the perfect place for them to hideout.” As he wiped the plate clean with the cornbread, he leaned back, rolled a cigarette, and allowed himself to relax for the first time in days. His eyes rimmed red by the intense sun, burned. He suddenly realized how tired he was. “Any rooms available?” He said to Mattie, with a tired smile. “Breakfasts at six if your amind too,” she replied smiling, as she handed him a key. “your room is the second door on the left.” Nodding his head, he headed to his room. As he entered the room he walked to the pitcher of water on the stand. With his neckerchief he wiped his face with the tepid water then sat down on the bed. “It's been awhile.” he thought, as he took off his boots and eased his tired body back on the bed, he closed his eyes and drifted into a restless sleep, again he saw the flashes from the guns, again he felt the bullets tear into him and again he saw Carrie fall. A man rode his horse at a full gallop, he raced toward the saloon. The rider jumped off the back of the horse as it half-reared and ran into the saloon. “Mr Claybourne's been waiting for you.” stated the Bartender Nodding his head, the man known as Kincaid strode into the back office where he saw Claybourne looking out the window. “Took your good old time getting' here.” Claybourne snarled without turning around. Finally, he turned the chair so he could see his partner. “He's here.” He said quietly as he picked up a shot glass, fingering the sides then poured himself a glass of whiskey, downing it in one gulp, he looked at Kincaid. “Mind tellin' me who we're talkin' about.” questioned Kincaid, as he poured himself a drink. “McCord.” Claybourne hissed angrily, “The man you said was dead!” “Did he see you?” asked Kincaid quietly as the glass dropped from his hand and fell on the floor, sinking heavily into a chair, he stared fearfully at Claybourne. “I'm still here ain't I.” Snarled Claybourne as he took another drink. “Been hearing rumors,” said Kincaid said quietly, “they say he killed the Ault bothers up in Utah.” “You heard rumors 'bout him an you didn't tell me!” Snarled Claybourne angrily, leaning forward his eye's narrow, he stared hard at Kincaid. “Why.” he demanded angrily. “Thought they was wrong Sam,” stated Kincaid quietly, thinking a moment, he added, “might not be as bad as you think.” As he gave Claybourne a knowing look. “What the hell do you mean by that.” Claybourne demanded as he leaned forward staring hard at his partner. “We know he's here but he don't know we are.” Kincaid said thoughtfully, as he took another sip, he fingered the glass, slowly turning it in his hand. Putting the now empty glass on the desk, “Sam,” he said, his voice soft and low, “you know, he started, his voice soft and low, “there's a lot of ways to die up here, an a thousand different trails to hide a body. Why it just might be he could get hisself lost or fall off his horse, you know, like Morgan's pappy did.” He said with a sly smile as he leaned forward, his eye's narrow, his face dark with anger. “Tonight.” Said Claybourne as he turned back to the window. Thinking about what had been said he fingered his glass of whiskey, turning back around, he glared at Kincaid, “an this time we make sure he's dead!” “So Marshal, you done found us.” Thought Kincaid, as a slight smile crossed his face, fingering his pistol, he downed his drink and walked out into the saloon. It was dark when Travis awakened with a start, then leaned back as he realized where he was. Drenched in sweat he sat up and pulled on his boots and walked to the water picture. He poured water into the bowl then splashed his face, neck and arms. Grabbing the towel he looked into the mirror and was surprised at what he saw. His hair was light brown with a touch of gray along the sides, curled just under his ears. His face was gaunt, tanned deep by the sun and covered with a weeks worth of whiskers. His well muscled chest was scarred, three more healed bullet wounds showing bright red against the white of his skin. He wore a piece of leather around his neck with an agate dangling from the end, given to him by the shaman Black Thunder, just before he left. The agate represented courage, strength and self confidence and resilience. As it was placed around his neck, Black Thunder, danced the spirit dance to evoke the spirits to help him. Reaching into his saddlebag he pulled out a clean blue shirt. He buttoned it then rolled the sleeves half way up each arm. Tucking his shirt, he buckled his holster and tied it down, and walked out into the hallway and down the stairs. “Mister McCord is it. Your looking a sight better than you did when you came in earlier.” Remarked Mattie approvingly as she gave him a smile. “Feel better thanks; that stew smells mighty good.” he replied with a grin. “Set down,” she said smiling, adding, “be back in two shakes.” A few minutes later, she came back with a large plate of stew, biscuits and coffee. Thanking her he wolfed down the stew, the coffee was hot as he sipped it. In the distance he could hear the pinging of the piano down the street at the saloon. He knew the best place for information would be there. Wiping his plate clean with a biscuit he finished, stood up and walked into the early evening toward the sound of the piano. He stopped as wagons loaded with supplies and men, rolled past him, headed for the mining camps just a few miles away. The sound of gunfire exploded in the night as riders raced their horses down the street, shooting into the air! Several men staggered drunkenly down the walkway, carrying their bottles and drinking as they walked. McCord went to pull his gun then thought better of it as he continued toward the saloon. Pushing open the swinging doors of the saloon, he was hit with thick smell of cigars and cigarettes. The place was crowded with ranchers, gamblers, miners and cowboys. As two men stood up from a table to leave, McCord took their place. The table was in the back of the saloon next to a large fireplace, he sat down facing the door. A moment later he had a bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of him. He poured himself a drink then leaned back in the chair sipping the warm amber fluid. He heard conversations ranging from the weather, the lack of gold at the river, to cattle. As a tall man with gray hair pushed through the doors men turned to greet him. “If it ain't George Morrison, your a sight for sore eye's.” Said one of them as he slapped him on the back. “Don Stark,” remarked George smiling, “what brings you down from the hills.” “Needed to clean these old rusty pipes.” smiled Don as he took a drink. “Ain't seen you since Morgan's pappy Carl was laid to rest.” Said George nodding his head to the bartender as the bartender poured him a drink. Seeing another man George asked, “Pearly you been visited lately?” “Yeah George, offered me beans for my place they did.” Looking at his drink, Pearly stared hard at George then said, “can't do it George. Too many memories, Hell that’s Enis's grave up there. “Lost her to the cholera. Then Cassy died. I....I just can't leave it. You know George.” “Yeah Pearly I know.” He said gently, as he patted the man on his shoulder. “George, did you ever hear back from that letter you sent to the Governor?” Asked Don. “No.” Said George shaking his head. “I was hoping that by now the army would be here, but with the problems their having with the Sioux on the plains, I don't see that happening for a while.” Taking a deep breath he added, his voice soft and low, “So I guess it's up to us.” “You talking vigilante George?” Breathed Pearly. As George nodded his head, he stared hard at Pearly and Don. “I don't think we have a choice, all I know is if he tries to take my land or cattle,” he said softly, he's gonna wish he hadn't.” “George, you know we're with you.” Said Don quietly. “And you know Morgan will be there as well.” He added giving George a hard stare. Having heard enough McCord paid for his drink and walked out into the star-studded night, in the east, lightning danced along the peaks. Deep in thought he walked back toward Bernice's. He stopped for a moment, leaning against a building, he rolled a cigarette then lit it. As he exhaled the blue smoke drifted away in the gentle breeze that was blowing. He watched bolts of lightning flash and dance along the peaks to the east and heard the distant crash of thunder, the almost sickening sweet smell of jasmine from the sage hung thick in the air. “If this man Claybourne is riding with Kincaid, then he's changed his name and he must be Stanford!” he thought, his eye's narrow, his lips tight as his left hand took out his gun, as he held it, with his thumb he spun the cylinder, his eyes narrow, his face set hard, he walked into Bernice's toward his room. The oil lamps cast a dim light as he walked up the stairs. Pausing outside his room, he felt something was wrong. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up. A sixth sense that had saved his life many times in the past. He pulled his gun as he put the key into the lock and the door opened slightly. Using the barrel he pushed the door open further. Glancing into the darkness of the room, he saw nothing, but he could not shake the feeling. He quickly stepped inside the room. From out of nowhere it seemed, he caught the flash of the barrel of a gun. Instinctively he raised his left arm to block, pain shot through his arm as the barrel hit it hard! His gun was knocked out of his hand and fell to the floor. He turned on the balls of his feet throwing a right jab at his attacker! As his fist sank deep, his head exploded in a bright flash, as a barrel of a gun knocked him to his knees! Strong arms pulled him up as a meaty fist slammed him in the jaw. The pain was blinding! Stumbling forward, he was knocked to the floor! Half conscious he rolled to his left avoiding the fist that slammed down next to his head. As he pushed himself to all fours, head hanging, he struggled to rise when again the barrel flashed, his head exploded in lights as he fell to the floor unconscious! “Make sure it's clear. Then get him down to the horses.” Said Stanford, breathing heavily, as he glared hatefully at the unconscious body of McCord. Kincaid opened the door, the hallway was clear, apparently no one had heard the commotion. Picking up his limp body, he carried him down the stairs then out the back door to three waiting horses. Kincaid draped McCords body over one of the horses. Then tied his hands and feet. “Welcome to Colorado Marshal!”Stanford whispered evilly, he grabbed McCord by his hair and slammed his fist hard against McCords cheek bone, his cheek split open. Turning on his heel he mounted his horse and motioned for Kincaid to follow. They rode through the alley and out into the deserted street. Crossing the bridge, they headed up into the mountains. They rode for more than an hour, then with the wind beginning to blow, Lightning flashing overhead, and thunder echoing in the distance, they pulled into a clearing. McCord was still out, dried blood caked his cheek where Stanford had hit him. They cut the ropes holding him on the horse and watched as his limp body slid out of the saddle and hit the ground. Taking water from his canteen, Kincaid poured it on to the unconscious mans head. Slowly, as McCord came around. He felt strong arms pull him to his feet, struggling to stand, his vision blurred then cleared and he saw Stanford! As he moved to go after him he was restrained by strong powerful arms. Stanford grinned as he took his fist and slammed it into McCords midsection, knocking the breath out of him. “You know Marshal,” he said, as he took off his jacket, “you cost Kincaid and me five years of our lives in that rat hole prison you sent us too.” Pausing he added viciously, “And the only woman I ever loved.” “Carrie was never yours to have.” McCord said defiantly, as he stared hard at Stanford, “See your still runnin' with your dawg.” He added hotly. “I ain't his dawg, McCord!” Growled Kincaid as he gripped McCord harder. “You son of a bitch.” Screamed Stanford as he slammed McCord hard in the mouth,” then added, “I'm gonna enjoy this before we kill you!” With that he jabbed his right fist hard into McCords midsection and a left cross into his jaw! Tasting blood, his head roaring, McCords legs folded, he felt pulled up again, gasping for breath, as again Stanford hit him hard in his stomach! Barely conscious he knew his only hope to survive was somehow to get away into the black dark of the night. He let himself fall. As Kincaid struggled with the limp body, he felt Kincaid's hold loosen and let go of him for a second. In that second, he forced himself to roll away from his attackers, blindly he reached out and his hand felt a large rock. Rolling on his back, his body screaming in pain, he threw the rock at the direction of the voices and heard a scream as the rock found it's mark! Knowing they could not see him, he crawled to the shelter of a boulder. “Get him!” Screamed Stanford furiously, as they ran after him with guns ready. “There he is...shoot!” Stanford screamed, as lightning flashed and for a moment he was illuminated! Thunder crashed! Seemingly far away he heard a shot! The ping of the bullet bouncing off the granite just inches from him. Panicked, on shaky legs he ran! His legs gave out as he tripped and fell over a boulder. Landing on his left arm, he gasped, his face twisted in pain as it knifed down his arm. Vaguely he was aware of footsteps getting closer! Somehow he fought his way to his feet and stumbled forward into a thick stand of brush. Knowing his only hope was to lay there, he crawled behind a dead fall. As the footsteps came closer, the rain began. Slowly at first, then the wind picked up and the rain fell harder. “He's got to be in there!” Said Kincaid pointing to the brush, seconds later, Kincaids gun spat as he emptied the gun into the stand of brush. As the wind began to howl and rain began to fall in earnest, both Kincaid and Stanford mounted their horses, Stanford pulled his horse up and looked back as a flash of lightning lit the clearing and the stand of brush, he saw nothing then turned down the trail they had come. McCord lay still as the rain pounded him. He knew he was hurt, but how bad. His left arm felt useless. Every breath he took was pain filled. He realized he had at least three broken ribs. The rain, driven by a now hard blowing wind, chilled him to the bone. His teeth chattering and shivering from the cold, his breathing was labored, he knew he had to move or he would die. Half conscious, he pulled himself to his feet. On unsteady legs, he drove himself to stand. Using a boulder for support he took first one unsteady step then another, he stumbled forward fighting to keep his balance. The anger inside him drove him forward and would not let him quit, visions of Carrie haunted his every step; the rain, like icy needles helped keep him conscious and on his feet. Leaning on a boulder, breathing heavily, each breath torture, he kept whispering, “I …..won't.... let.... them....win!” vaguely he knew his only hope was to find some kind of shelter from the icy rain and the stiff wind. His vision blurred as lightning lit the slope ahead, stumbling forward, his ankle turned and sent him headlong into a ravine! Blackness enveloped him as rolled down into the thick brush and into a boulder. It was the cold that brought him around, his body shivering, he teeth chattering, he knew if he stayed there he would die. “They......won't......win!” He mumbled as the hate drove him forward, visions of Carrie floated in front of him, he reached for her but she was not there. Then the hated faces of Stanford and Kincaid appeared, his face twisted in hate, he swung at empty air, and fell. The icy rain kept him conscious, again he drove himself to his feet. His body numb from the cold. Thorns dug deep into his flesh, each step sent waves of pain through his body. Finally unable to go any further, he slowly sank to his knees in the rain soaked earth. His face streaked with blood and dirt, tears fell and coursed down his face, raising his head, the the rain pounded him. “Carrie , I'm sorry.... my... darling.” He mumbled through thick lips, slowly his eyes closed as he fell unconscious into the mud. |
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