Chapter 7 - A Ladle for a Bullet
They rode until the horses were shivering with exhaustion, stopping inside a deep volcanic cavern hidden beneath the jagged rim of Black Ridge. Warm sulfur water bubbled from a crevice in the rock floor, filling the humid air with mineral steam.
Corvin slid from his horse and immediately collapsed against the stone wall. His left sleeve was soaked with dark, hot blood.
"You took lead," Tazhi said, kneeling beside him. Her hands were surprisingly gentle as she sliced open his shirt with a hunting knife.
"Just grazed," Corvin grunted through clenched teeth, though the cold sweat on his forehead told a different story. The bullet had ripped through the meat of his shoulder, missing the bone by an inch, leaving ragged, burning edges.
"White men talk too much to pretend they feel no pain," she muttered. She drew a pouch of ground mesquite bark, river moss, and medicinal roots from her belt. Without asking, she pressed the bitter mixture directly into the open wound.
Corvin gasped, his hands seizing the stone beneath him as agony flared through his nerves. He groaned, biting his lip until blood welled, refusing to cry out.
Tazhi held him firmly by the uninjured shoulder. Her dark eyes were inches from his. "Breathe the smoke of the stone, Corvin. Pain is only the body saying it is still alive."
She tore a strip of clean linen from the inner lining of her vest and bound the wound with tight, practiced wraps. When the throbbing subsided to a dull, pounding ache, she scooped clear water from the mineral spring using a small gourd shell and held it to his lips.
Corvin drank. The water tasted of iron and earth, but it was cool and reviving.
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"A ladle for a bullet," Corvin whispered with a faint, tired smile. "I believe that settles the ledger."
Tazhi looked down at him, her stern expression softening for the briefest fraction of a second. "The ledger is never settled between our people, rancher. But tomorrow, we make Vance pay his own account."
