Authors: Alice Duncan
“I’m
comin’, Nick. No need to swear.”
Nick
glanced up from Eulalie’s leg to see Dr. Canning, and he thanked God
again.
“What
happened?”
Eulalie’s
strained voice cut through the red haze in Nick’s brain, although
not enough to affect the tone of his voice or soften his choice of words.
“That filthy bastard shot you.”
“Oh.”
Her face was stark white under the lights, which Dooley Chivers had
caused to be turned up. “It hurts.”
“Yeah.
Well, that’s what happens when you get shot. It hurts.”
His
heart hurt, too, it hammered so hard in his chest, but he supposed he
might have been a little rough on her when she frowned at him. “There’s
no need to take that tone with me, Nicholas Taggart.”
“Sorry.”
The
doctor, a burly man who was puffing by the time he climbed the stairs
onto the stage, tapped Nick on the shoulder. “Move aside, Nick. Let
me see what’s to be done here.”
“Patsy?”
Eulalie asked in a week voice. “Is Patsy all right?”
“Patsy?”
Nick said as if he’d never heard the name before. “Patsy.” Then
he remembered. “Aw, hell.”
Although
every sinew in his body cried out to hold Eulalie, he surged to his
feet and looked out over the crowd. He didn’t see Patsy. He didn’t
see Junius. He didn’t see Gabriel Fuller. The relief he felt when
he realized this phenomenon was probably due to the men having hustled
Patsy out of the Opera House and to her home suffered a quick death.
Gabriel
Fuller, his face as white as Eulalie’s, shoved the batwing doors open
and stared at Nick, who still stood on the stage. Nick could scarcely
hear Fuller when he said the words, but he understood them just fine.
“He’s got her.”
* * * * *
Nick
hovered over the table on which Eulalie lay. Doc Canning had given her
a hefty dose of laudanum and sterilized his instruments, and was now
digging the bullet out of her leg, while Nick watched, tense as a spooked
jackrabbit, and wishing it had been he who’d taken the bullet instead
of Eulalie.
“She’s
going to be all right, Nick,” Dr. Canning said for approximately the
five hundredth time. “Stand back a little, will you? You’re in my
light.”
“Shit,”
said Nick.
Gabriel
Fuller sat in a chair against the far wall, his head in his hands, looking
as if he’d just lost the woman he loved—which he had. Every time
Nick glanced at him, he harbored the no-doubt treacherous wish that
Blankenship had shot Patsy instead of Eulalie. That he’d shot
anyone
instead of Eulalie, actually.
A
light knock came at the operating-room door and Junius opened the door
and slipped in. Fuller lifted his head from his hands for the first
time since they’d gathered in the doctor’s office, and he sent Junius
a hopeful look.
Junius
nodded. “I found out which way they went. Toby Beech says he saw him
throw her on a horse and climb up behind her. They headed out towards
the draw.”
Fuller
leapt to his feet. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go after them!”
Junius
put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Hold your horses, young feller.
The sheriff’s getting some men together. We’ll have us a posse and
ride out to get your lady back and arrest Blankenship, don’t worry.”
“Don’t
worry?” Fuller’s voice was chock-full of scorn.
“We’ll
get her back, son,” Junius assured him. “And at least Blankenship
can be arrested now.” He glanced at Nick. “Nicky? You comin’?”
Nick
cast an anguished glance at the table where Eulalie’s still form lay,
covered from neck to hips by a white sheet. The doctor had cut her fishnet
stocking away from her leg and looked up from his work with a sour expression
on his chubby face. “Yeah, Nick. Go do something useful, will you?
You’re just getting in my way here.”
“Aw,
hell,” muttered Nick. With one last glance at Eulalie—he wished
he dared kiss her, but didn’t want to do so in front of the other
men—he reached for his hat, which he’d flung on a nearby table,
and slammed it onto his head. Marching with purpose toward his uncle
and the door, he growled, “Let’s go.”
So
they went.
Chapter Sixteen
The night wasn’t as black
as Gilbert Blankenship’s filthy soul, but it was doing a fair imitation
of that condition when the posse from Rio Peñasco left town and headed
out toward Black Water Draw, where it was assumed Blankenship had taken
Patsy, at least to begin with. For all anyone knew, he might have gone
several yards and cut off in another direction, although that was doubtful.
Gilbert Blankenship hadn’t been in Rio Peñasco long enough to understand
the terrain. The moon helped minimally in guiding the posse’s path,
as it was relatively full. Clouds scudded across the sky, however, often
obliterating both moon and stars.
Since
Junius and Nick owned one horse between them, Nick, who was bigger than
Junius by a hair or two, rode Claude. A Belgian draft horse, Claude
was by far the largest horse in Rio Peñasco. Junius borrowed a horse
from Sheriff Wallace, and Nick prayed he wouldn’t break the poor animal’s
back. Both Nick and Junius were too large to be especially elegant horsemen,
but they could ride as well as they needed to. Nick was grateful for
Claude, who was not merely large, but a placid, steady creature.
They
didn’t dare force their horses to a gallop. The landscape was far
too treacherous to consider doing anything so foolish. If there was
one thing they didn’t need it was for a horse to snap its leg in a
gopher hole. Nick’s nerves leaped and skipped like the ballerina dancers
his stepmother had forced him to watch in Galveston a million years
ago, only not nearly so gracefully.
Fat
lot of good he’d done tonight in the protection department. Nick castigated
himself for a good quarter mile before becoming aware of Junius beside
him, whistling softly. He cast his uncle a reproving glare. “Hush,
Junius. We don’t want to warn the bastard we’re on his trail.”
“Hell,
Nicky, don’t you think he’s going to hear the horses? My whistle
ain’t gonna do no harm.”
“It’s
harming my nerves, dammit,” growled Nick.
Junius
stopped whistling.
As
they drew closer to Black Water Draw, Nick rode his giant horse up to
the sheriff. “If he’s in the draw, we probably better dismount,
Wallace. If we ride in all at once, we’re going to spook him, and
God alone knows what he’ll do to Miss Gibb then.”
The
sheriff looked as if he didn’t care to have Nick preempt him in the
suggestion department, but he couldn’t very well fault Nick’s logic.
“All right. I’ll send Sandy on ahead to see if they’re in there.”
Sandy Peete was the smallest, slyest fellow in Rio Peñasco. What’s
more, he’d had lots of practice in the spying arena, having spied
for the Union during the Civil War when he was no more than a lad. “If
he’s smart, he won’t camp there.”
“He’s
not smart,” said Nick. “At least not about the territory.”
The
sheriff said, “Huh,” and beckoned to Sandy.
Nick
grabbed Sandy’s arm before he set off on his little pony. “Be quiet,
Sandy. Don’t spook the bastard.”
Sandy,
who looked like an elf next to Nick, turned a scornful glance Nickward.
“I know what I’m doing, Nick Taggart.”
Nick
heaved a sigh. “I know, I know. Sorry.”
But
he didn’t like it that it was Sandy who was checking out the draw
and not Nick himself. He didn’t trust anyone to have the same sense
of urgency about this matter that he possessed. He knew it wasn’t
Eulalie with Blankenship, but he also knew that if anything happened
to Patsy, Eulalie would never forgive any of them—including himself.
He didn’t think he could stand having Eulalie hate him. She might
never love him, but if she ever found reason to detest him, Nick had
a feeling he’d never recover fully from the blow.
As
the posse milled about on the desert, waiting for a report from Sandy
Peete, Nick figuratively chewed his nails. His heart hammered away in
his chest like a woodpecker after a bark beetle, and his nerves tingled
and twanged like banjo strings breaking. He was just about to tell the
sheriff he was going after Peete, when Sandy emerged out of the blackness.
Nick expelled a huge gust of air and went to intercept Sandy before
the sheriff got to him. “Well?” he demanded, trying to keep his
voice down.
“Where’s
the guy from?” Peete asked. “The idiot’s built himself a big fire
in the middle of the wash. Didn’t he think anybody would be after
him?”
“Hell,
how should I know?” growled Nick, although relief nearly knocked him
over backwards. “He’s crazy, I think. And he’s from back East.”
“Ah.”
Sandy nodded. “I reckon that explains it.”
“All
right,” said Sheriff Wallace, attempting to take control of his posse.
“We’ll have to dismount and a few of us go in and get the girl back.”
“I’m
going,” said Nick, his voice announcing his purpose and daring Wallace
to deny him the privilege.
“So
am I,” announced Gabriel Fuller, likewise adamant.
“Reckon
I’ll go, too,” said Junius.
The
sheriff glared at the three men, removed his hat from his head and slapped
his leg with it, and said, “Aw, hell.” But he knew better than to
argue. “All right. Sandy, lead the way.”
So
Sandy led the way. It was slow going, since the men had to maneuver
over rocks, cacti and boulders to get into the draw, and neither Nick
nor Junius were as slim and snaky as Sandy Peete, nor were Gabriel Fuller
and the sheriff.
Nick
was first to top the rise encircling the draw. Using Sandy’s pointed
finger as a guide, he tentatively lifted his head to peer into the draw.
By damn, Peete was right. There, big as day, were Patsy Gibb, pressed
back against a boulder and hugging her knees to her chest, while Gilbert
Blankenship added fuel to the fire.
Turning,
Nick pressed a finger to his lips. “I’m going to try to creep down
in there.”
“Be
careful, Nicky,” Junius advised. “Don’t forget he’s got a gun
and ain’t afraid of usin’ it.”
“I
won’t forget.” How could he? Eulalie still lay wounded in Doc Canning’s
office, and he, Nick, wasn’t there to supervise. The sooner Blankenship
died, the sooner Nick could get back to the woman he loved.
“I’m
the sheriff, Taggart,” Wallace reminded him. “I should be the one
going in there.”
He
didn’t press his point when Nick looked at him. Even Sheriff Wallace,
who could be stubborn and humorless upon occasion, knew better than
to buck Nick Taggart when he looked like that. The sheriff held up his
hands in surrender and said, “Shit. All right, Nick. Just don’t
blame me if the son of a bitch shoots you.”
“I
won’t.” And Nick started slithering down the side of the hill toward
the campsite. He heard someone behind him and turned, determined to
kick whoever it was in the head. When he saw Gabriel Fuller on his belly,
slithering along in the same direction, he changed his mind. After all,
Fuller had a stake in Blankenship, too. A big one.
It
was slow going. For one thing, even though it was dark, they tried to
keep themselves hidden behind rocks and bushes—and the bushes in the
area were low-growing shrubs like creosote and prairie grass and cacti.
For another, the ground was rough and rocky, and it took a good deal
of effort to keep from dislodging pebbles and starting landslides. Fortunately
for both men, Blankenship was unfamiliar with the hazards of territorial
life, and Nick figured he couldn’t be expected to differentiate between
the progress of a man and, say, that of a startled jackrabbit or lizard.
Nick
was approximately fifty or so feet away from the fire and felt as if
he’d been crawling over rocks and spiky plants for a century at least,
before he could make out the words being spoken by Patsy and Blankenship.
He heard Patsy’s voice first.
“This
is insane, Mr. Blankenship. Don’t you realize I want nothing to do
with you?” Her voice sounded ragged, as though she’d worn it out
screaming or crying. “And why did you shoot Eulalie?” Nick heard
her sob. “Oh, why did you do that?”
“She
tried to keep you from me,” Blankenship said calmly. “Naturally,
I had to get rid of her.”
“But
I don’t want to be with you!”
“Don’t
be silly. I’ll take care of you better than anyone else ever could.”
“Take
care
of me!” Patsy cried. “You nearly killed me!”