The Unknown
by Patricia Henry
Chapter Twelve
By all accounts Jess Harper should have been dead. And no one realized that more than Jess himself.
�Hold it right there, Mister.� She pointed the shotgun at Jess.
The barn was dark except for the light that sneaked in from the open door.
Jess dropped the reins and faced her. �It ain�t what you think.�
�Get those hands up!� Her voice showed that there was no room for compromise.
Jess held his hand high in the air. �You got nothing to fear from me.�
�Higher!�
Jess raised his hands even higher in the air. �I won�t hurt you.�
�I may be a woman but I won�t hesitate to shoot. Especially a horse thief.�
�I ain�t a horse thief! I was just borrowing-�
She laughed. Her voice echoed throughout the barn. �Sure you were.�
�I was leaving my horse.�
�And why were you changing horses?�
�I uh..� Jess glanced at the animal. Maybe he could lie. �My horse pulled up lame.�
�And you never thought of asking?. That�s my best mare that you�re planning on taking.�
Jess knew that. But how? He had gone right to that mare.
How did he know? Had he worked on a ranch? He wasn�t sure. But he knew about horses. He had sized that mare up as soon as he had seen her.
:�What�s your name?� she demanded. �And what are you doing in these parts?�
He had been asking himself that question for two days. �Who am I?� and �What am I doing here?� He had come to, shortly after being shot. And the minute he opened his eyes, he had two questions, �Who am I?� and �What am I doing here?� It had taken him several seconds to stand.
He had pulled himself up by grasping the wheel of the stage. Dizziness had attacked him so severely that he was sure that he was going to vomit. For a long time, he leaned against the stage for support. It was then and only then that he had noticed the dead bodies. His eyes had traveled from body to body, the shock hitting him hard. �What had happened?�
He had looked in his jacket for some clue to his identify. And had found the wanted poster. He didn�t even know he was the man in the poster until he had seen his reflection in a mirror that belonged to one of the passengers. The wanted poster told him who he was and what he was; a wanted man with a big reward on his head.
The stage...the poster...there was only one conclusion that he could come to. He had been one of or the only one to rob the stage. Something must have gone wrong. Though try as he might he couldn�t remember. But with bodies strewn all around him, something hadn�t gone as planned. Maybe a passenger had drawn or maybe he had a partner who double crossed him or maybe...All he knew was he had to get out of there! And get out of there fast!
He had no idea how long had he been out cold. But he knew every minute counted. He had to be gone before a search party looked for the stage. The least little thing he tried to do, he had difficulty doing because of the pain. He had touched his head and his hand had come away smeared with blood.. With each breath he took, there was pain. Pain had shot through his head and body so bad that he wanted to cry out and...then and only then had he noticed the bullet wounds. One in his arm. The other in his leg. Both just flesh wounds, but still he had stop the bleeding. And then he had to get away.
He had tied a bandage around his leg and his arm. He then unhitched one of the horses. Wait a minute--if a search party came and found one of the stage horses gone, then they could follow the tracks. But what choice did he have? He had to take the chance. He had to take a stage horse. As soon as he could, he�d swap it for another horse. And then-Where could he go? Where had he been? Where would he be safe? He made a hackmore out of a rope. Where had he learned to do that? He mounted the horse. No saddle. But he seemed to know how to ride without one. Where was he? Which way should he ride to escape?
One more quick glance at the bodies. How could he have done this? Maybe he hadn�t. If he could only remember. But he couldn�t even remember his name. He had kicked the horse, heading the animal towards the woods. He couldn�t take the chance of the riding down the road. He didn�t know where it led to. If a posse was already looking for him, the riders would probably be traveling along the road. No, he�d stick to the woods. It was slower riding but he felt it would be safer. He had ridden only a few feet before he dismounted. He had walked back and carefully brushed away the horse�s tracks, hoping that would buy him time to escape this grisly scene .
As he rode, he had planned. Mile after mile, he plotted. He�d come across another horse eventually. That was only logical. There had to be a homestead out here somewhere. He just hoped they didn�t know him. With each bounce of the horse, his head hurt worse. It had taken hours, but he had found a homestead. And it had a barn with a horse he could steal. But now he had been caught!
�What�s your name?� she repeated.
She wore her hair in a bun. She was young but looked old. Homesteading did that to a woman. Now how did he know that? He wished that he could remember. All he had was a wanted poster. And he couldn�t tell her about that. �Jess.�
�You ain�t got no last name?�
Would she know? Was he famous? He took a chance to see if he was known in these parts. �Harper. Jess Harper.� He waited anxiously to see how she would react. But she never flinched. That was a good sign.
�You look hurt.�
He touched his head. He had a headache that was almost blinding. �I uh fell...�
�Fell my foot! That hole in your jacket. That looks more like a bullet wound to me. And your leg...�
�My uh gun went off when I fell. Awhile back on the trail. Hit my head against a...rock. And-� He collapsed. He fell to his knees then fell forwards, lying flat on the ground.
She moved cautiously forward. �Mr. Harper? Jess?� She prodded him with the gun. He didn�t move. He just laid there unconscious. And no wonder, the blood was pouring like a stream from his head. And there was a gunshot wound to his arm. She knew that she should hightail it to the sheriff. But she turned, lifted her skirts above her ankles, and began running, yelling, �Ronnie! Ronnie, I need your help!�
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