Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
28th Aug 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutMARCH2014 #RolloRedux
“Uncle Jamie!” Ian’s face blossomed with relief at sight of him, and no wonder. He was dressed like a Mohawk in buckskin leggings and calico shirt, with feathers in his hair, and a long, hairy gray carcass lay across his saddlebow, blood dripping slowly from it down the horse’s leg.
The beast wasn’t dead, though; Rollo twitched and raised his head, giving the newcomers a yellow wolf-glare, but then recognized Jamie’s scent and barked once, then let his tongue loll out, panting.
“What’s happened to the hound, then?” Jamie rode up alongside and leaned forward to look.
“The numpty fell into a deadfall trap,” Ian said, frowning rebuke at the dog. Then he gently scratched the big dog’s ruff. “Mind, I’d ha’ fallen in it myself, if he hadna gone before me.”
“Bad hurt?” Jamie asked. He didn’t think so; Rollo was giving General Greene his usual look of appraisal—a look that made most people take a few steps back. Ian shook his head, his hand curled into Rollo’s fur to keep him steady.
“Nay, but he’s torn his leg and he’s lame. I was looking for a safe place to leave him; I’ve got to report in to Captain [ ]. Though seein’ as you’re here—oh, good day to ye, sir,” he said to Greene, whose horse _had_ backed up in response to Rollo, and was presently indicating a strong desire to keep going, in spite of his rider’s inclination. Ian sketched a salute, and turned back to Jamie. “Seein’ as you’re here, Uncle Jamie, could ye maybe fetch Rollo back to the lines with ye, and get Auntie Claire to tend his leg?”
“Oh, aye,” Jamie said, resigned, and swung down from the saddle, groping for his soggy handkerchief. “Let me bind his leg, first. I dinna want blood all over my breeks, and the horse willna like it, either.”