Shadow River Read online

  The wounded man shook his head slowly.

  “Never mind,” the man said. He seemed stronger; he tried to prop himself up onto his elbows, but his strength failed him.

  “Why don’t you lie still?” said Summers, stooping down beside him.

  “Water . . . food,” the man said weakly. “There is liver stew. . . .” He collapsed onto the blanket; he cut his eyes toward the fire, where a canteen stood on the stone floor.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Summers said.

  He laid the torch on the floor, went to the fire, rifle in hand, and brought back the small tin pot and the canteen. The smell of the hot food tempted him. But he set the pot on the floor by the blanket and uncapped the canteen. He helped the man up onto his elbows and steadied the canteen while he drank. When he lowered the canteen, he capped it, laid it aside and picked up the small tin pot.

  “This will get your strength up,” he said, stirring the spoon in a thickened meaty broth. He held out a spoonful, but at the last second the man turned his face away and eased himself back down on the blanket.

  “You eat it, mon ami. I will need . . . no strength in hell . . . ,” the man sighed, and clutched his chest tighter.

  Summers wasn’t going to argue.

  “Obliged,” he said, even as he spooned the warm, rich stew into his mouth. “Who shot you?”

  “It does . . . not matter,” the man said. He paused, looked Summers up and down, then said, “What are you doing . . . in this Mexican hellhole, mon ami?”

  “Delivering the four bay fillies you saw me leading,” Summers said. He spooned up more liver stew; he chewed and swallowed hungrily. “Taking them to a man named Ansil Swann.” He spooned up more stew, held it, then stopped. “Are you sure you don’t want some of this?” he asked, just to be polite.

  The man shook his head. He looked away toward the darkness and gave a dark chuckle.

  “What a small and peculiar world . . . I have lived in,” he said, as if reflecting on a life that would soon leave him. He chuckled again and stifled a cough. “I know this man Swann.”

  “You do?” said Summers.

  “Oh yes, I know him . . . very well,” said the dying man. “It is his viande de cheval . . . you are eating.”

  “His what?” Summers asked. He looked down the pot in his hand.

  “Viande de cheval,” the man said.

  “Speak English, mister,” Summers said, getting a bad feeling about the conversation.

  “Horse meat . . . ,” the man said in a laughing, rasping cough.

  “Horse meat . . . ?” Summers said, staring at the rich meaty broth in the pot.

  “Yes, my friend . . . ,” said the chuckling, dying man. “You are eating Ansil Swann’s . . . prize racing stallion.”