He nodded wordlessly, even if he wasn’t sure he actually could. He knew he had to try, though. As hazy as his mind was, he realized the danger he was still in. If his wounds were not treated soon, he was as good as dead. Leaning as heavily on Dolores as she could manage (she was surprisingly strong for so slight a frame), the two began the agonizing trek back to Willow, Rowan, and Cricket.
He was barely hanging on by the time they reached the edge of the copse of trees, but the ghost of a smile still flit across his face when the children scrambled off the horse, calling his name as they ran to him. Their faces were stained with tears, but their relief was clear.
“Don’t,” Rowan warned, grabbing her arm when his sister reached for a hug. “He’s hurt real bad.”
Disappointment and understanding mingled upon her face for a brief moment before she rallied. “Are they dead? Is it over?”
Dolores allowed herself a smile, relieved to see the children were unharmed. She lowered Jack to the ground as WIllow and Rowan approached; they could afford a bit of a rest before they went back to town.
“It’s over,” Dolores nodded. “You’re all safe, now. Virgil and his men won’t hurt you anymore. Jack is a bit hurt, though. He needs to rest a spell and gather his strength before you head back.”
She stood and hurried to Cricket’s side, and pulled her canteen from the saddle. Returning, Dolores handed the water to Jack. “Drink slowly,” she murmured, before tearing a length of fabric from her skirt. At the very least, she could try to clean some of the wounds, or tie them off to try and stymie the bleeding.