Chapter 47
Abandoning the horses, I scrambled up the ladder. Matthew lay on the floor, blood from a wound in his arm seeping into the wooden planking. I rushed to his side and clasped his shoulders. He fought me for a moment before going limp.
“What happened?”
“John? Eagle? Wh…where am I?”
“Turtle Crick. In the barn.” My right hand came away sticky with dark blood. Something, a bullet probably, had torn his flesh. It seemed to be a scraping wound, not a penetrating one. He’d tried to bandage it, but it was a poor job. The rags were down around his elbow now. The dirty cloth probably infected the open wound. Maybe not. He’d bled a lot, and the blood might have flushed out the infection. Still, his forehead was hot.