We reach the cavern that Brent calls home. There's blood on the floor, large drops, some smeared. A shelf has been pulled down, contents spilled, another bloody handprint on the wall.
"Brent?" Dalton's voice echoing through the cavern. "Brent!"
I'm following the blood. More smears here, like drag marks. They lead to the smaller cavern Brent uses for storage. I pull back the hide curtain. And there is Brent, lying on the floor, curled in fetal position, blood soaking his shirt, one hand pressed against it. His eyes are closed.
I bend to clear the low ceiling. Then I crouch beside him. My fingers go to his neck, and he stirs.
Dalton's figure fills the entrance.
"He's alive," I say.
Barely. Brent's eyelids flutter, but he can't open them. His face is almost as white as his hair. He isn't breathing hard enough for me to even see his chest rise. Then there's the blood. A pool of it under him, his shirt soaked with it.
We get him out of that small cavern. That wakes him, crying in pain. Dalton wets a cloth as I gingerly peel up Brent's shirt. I take the cloth and clean as carefully as I can. Brent whimpers, his eyes still shut, and Dalton tries to rouse him.
There's a bullet hole through Brent's stomach.
"Diagnosis dead?" a papery voice whispers.
I turn. His eyes are barely open, but he's trying to smile.
"I know the diagnosis," he says. "Dead from the moment the bullet hit. Body just hasn't realized it yet."
He's right. If he'd been steps from a hospital when he'd been shot, he might have survived. Even that is unlikely. And now . . .
Tears well. I blink them back hard.
"Casey?" Brent says. "I already know."
"I can try--"
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. "Let's not waste my time. Not much left."
"You want a drink?" Dalton asks.
Brent manages a hoarse laugh. "I would love a drink."
Dalton takes a bottle from the backpack we brought. A gift for Brent, in return for his bounty hunting services.
Brent cranes his neck up. "Is that . . . ?"
"Scotch. I'm told it's the good stuff. Bought it a while back, in case you ever had anything better to trade than skinny-assed bucks. Never did. But I guess you can have it now."
Brent laughs, knowing full well that Dalton would have bought this on his last trip, after Brent and I argued over the merits of Scotch versus tequila.
Dalton pours him a glass full.
"Trying to get me drunk?" Brent says.
"Yeah, hoping those conspiracy theories of yours might make more sense if you're loaded." He hands him the glass. "Got any theories on who did that to you?"
"It's the bastard you were keeping in that town of yours. Kid told me you think he's some kinda killer. Insisted he's not." Brent looks down at his gut. "Seems he lied."
"Okay," I say. "Just rest and--"
"I'm not resting, Casey. I'm helping you catch my killer. And drinking. Heavily. If it starts spilling out my guts? Don't tell me."
He takes a deep drink. "I was down the mountain, shooting grouse at twilight. Kid got the jump on me, the fuck--" He stops. Apologizes to me for swearing, as always. "He got me dead to rights. I was picking up my game, had put my gun down. He wanted to know where to find Jacob."