Cross Draw (12 page)

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“I was really scared.”

“That's okay,” he said. “Most people would have been.”

“But I would have shot him.”

“I know you would've,” he said. “Sleep well.”

 

Morgan and Delilah took the last watch together, then woke Clint at first light.

“Coffee,” he said, grabbing the pot. It was almost empty so he made a new one. It was ready by the time Rosemary had breakfast going in a pan.

“Everybody sleep okay?” Clint asked.

“How could we?” Abigail asked. “We were waiting to be murdered in our sleep.”

“I slept fine,” Jenny said.

“So did I,” Rosemary said. “I felt . . . safer.”

They sat around the fire and had breakfast. Clint then poured the remnants of the coffeepot over the fire. It was Morgan's turn to clean up. She stowed the pots and pans and utensils in the wagon.

Clint kept a sharp eye out. He didn't expect Mendez and his two partners to return, but if they did he wanted to be ready.

The coast was clear by the time they were ready to move on. Clint could move his arm, but there was still no movement on his hand. If he'd had to draw left-handed the night before, he wasn't sure what would have happened. Rosemary had pretty much saved him from finding out by calling the women out of the bushes. And it was the second time his name and reputation had kept the situation from turning deadly.

But he couldn't count on it to work a third time.

Dillon, Raymond and Quentin came upon the camp. Quentin put his hand over the fire ashes.

“Still warm,” he said. “And a lot of tracks here. Too many to just be them.”

“Whoever was tailing them caught up,” Dillon said. “No gunplay?”

“Can't tell for sure, but it doesn't look like there are any bodies around,” Raymond said.

“And no sign that any were dragged away,” Quentin said. “And no shallow graves around.”

“A standoff?” Dillon said.

“Maybe,” Quentin said.

“Did they follow them after this?” Dillon asked.

“Doesn't look like it, but I'll know better when we move on. I'll be able to see if they're still being tailed.”

“If Adams stood off three guns,” Raymond said, “maybe he ain't so hurt anymore?”

“We'll find out when we catch up to them,” Dillon said.

“We shoulda caught them by now,” Raymond said.

“We were being careful about their tail,” Quentin said.

“If they're not following them anymore, we'll be able to move in,” Dillon said.

“What if we found them?” Quentin asked, mounting up again. Dillon and Raymond had been looking down at him from their horses. “We could join forces. Six against the Gunsmith.”

“We don't need six,” Dillon said. “In fact, I might not even need you fellas. Unless the women have guns. Then you can take care of them.”

“I ain't gonna shoot no women,” Raymond said.

“You will,” Quentin said, “if they're shootin' at you.”

“I don't know . . .” Raymond said, riding off.

Quentin looked at Dillon. “Where'd you find this one?”

“He'll learn,” Dillon said.

“I just hope he don't learn the hard way,” Quentin said. “By one of them women putting a bullet into him.”

The wagon rode into the town of Clear Creek late in the day; they decided they'd stay there for the night and restock in the morning with whatever they needed. They hadn't been traveling that long, so they didn't need that much more in the way of supplies.

Rosemary actually wanted to see if the town had a doctor who could look at Clint's arm, maybe get a new opinion.

They stopped the wagon in front of a small hotel. Once again, Rosemary decided the five women would share two rooms. Clint would be able to afford his own very easily.

Clint, Rosemary, Delilah, and Abigail went into the hotel. Jenny and Morgan took the wagon and Eclipse to the livery stable. They agreed to meet in the lobby and get something to eat together.

They checked in and carried whatever gear they had to their rooms. Rosemary decided to again room with Abigail, if only to keep the woman's mouth under control.

Clint carried his saddlebags and rifle in his one good hand and set them down outside the door to fit the key in the lock. Once he had it open, he picked up his gear again and went inside.

He dropped the saddlebags and rifle into a corner and sat on the bed. He was able to lift his arm to shoulder length and extend it out in front of him, but the hand just hung loosely at the end. He thought he felt some tingling in the hand when he woke up, but it did not reoccur during the day, so he started to think he'd imagined it. Tingling, the doctor had said, would be good. At least it would be some kind of feeling.

He stared down at his hand, keeping it in his lap, willing it to move, or even to tingle. But there was nothing.

He left the room and went down to the lobby to meet the others.

His hand may have not been moving, but he sure was hungry.

 

He found Rosemary, Delilah, and Abigail waiting in the lobby.

“I checked with the desk clerk for a good place to eat,” Rosemary said. “He recommended a café down the street.”

“I'm not going to be particular today,” Clint said. “As long as they can burn a steak.”

They stepped outside to wait for Jenny and Morgan.

“How's your hand?” Rosemary asked.

“The same.”

“No movement or feeling at all?” she asked.

“No.”

“I also asked the desk clerk if the town had a doctor,” she said. “He said yes.”

“This is a little bit of a town, Rosemary,” he said. “I doubt the doctor here would know more than Doc Jacobs did.”

“There's no harm in checking with him, is there?” she asked.

“Probably not,” he agreed.

Jenny and Morgan appeared at that point and they all walked to the café down the street.

 

They did indeed know how to fire a steak. In fact, they burned them good. Clint, Rosemary, and Jenny ordered steaks and got them well done. Abigail and Morgan ordered chicken, while Delilah had the beef stew.

After they finished eating Rosemary—who had once again cut Clint's meat for him—said, “I'm going to go to the doctor with Clint. Jenny, you and Delilah go over to the general store and replenish our supplies. It shouldn't take much.”

“What should we do?” Abigail asked.

“You and Morgan go to the livery, ask the man to check that wheel and make sure it's still secure.”

“But, why do we—”

“We'll take care of it, Rosemary,” Morgan said. “Don't worry.”

“When we're all done, we can go to our rooms and get some rest,” Rosemary said. “We'll be leaving again at first light.”

They all nodded, except for Abigail. Out in front of the café, they split up.

“How much longer can you put up with it?” Clint asked as they went in search of the doctor.

“Put up with what?”

“Abigail, and her attitude.”

“We left St. Louis together, Clint,” she said. “We have to stay together. That's just the way it is.”

“And what if she decided to leave, on her own?” he asked.

“Then that would be her decision,” Rosemary said. “I wouldn't stand in her way. Here it is.”

They stopped in front of a shingle that read: DOCTOR E. SHALE

“Rosemary—”

“Would you just do this for me?” she asked.

He sighed. “All right, yes. Let's go in.”

“Thank you.”

They opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately, Clint smelled the whiskey, and the odor of stale sweat.

“Oh, what is that?” she asked.

“Hopefully,” he said, “it's not our doctor.”

They were in an office, a small, roll-top desk up against one wall. There was another door, which they imagined led to a surgery.

“Shall we?” he asked.

She looked as if she had changed her mind, but she nodded and they went in.

The man was lying facedown in a pool of whiskey. On the floor. An empty bottle was lying next to him.

“I wonder if this is Doctor Shale?” Clint asked.

“Oh, it can't be,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because he's a doctor.”

“Doc Holliday was a dentist, and he was a drunk,” Clint said.

“You knew Doc Holliday?” she asked.

“I did.”

“Well . . . well . . . this must be different,” she said. “I mean . . . a doctor?”

“Then where is he?” Clint asked. “Where is the doctor?”

“I don't know,” she said, “but what do we do about . . . him?” She pointed at the man on the floor.

“Well,” he said, “first let's keep him from drowning in whiskey.”

Clint reached down and turned the man over onto his back. They were surprised to see that he was young, maybe in his thirties.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Well, we could just leave.”

“But he needs help.”

“He needs more help than we can give him,” Clint commented.

“I mean, right now.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “We can clean him up, wake him up, and find out who he is. Maybe he knows where the doctor went.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let's do that.”

“First, we need some water . . .”

 

When the man opened his eyes, he stared up at them, frowning.

“What happened?” he asked. “Who are you?”

“I'm Clint, and this is Rosemary,” he said. “We came in looking for the doctor and found you facedown in a pool of whiskey.”

“We saved you from drowning,” she said, “and cleaned you up. How do you feel?”

“Awful,” he said. “So you have a drink?”

“No,” she said. “My God, that's how you got in this condition.”

“Believe me, I know how I got this way,” he said. “I'm a doctor.”

That stunned Rosemary. Clint could see that.

“You're . . . a doctor? Are you . . . the doctor? I mean, Doctor Shale?”

“That's me,” he said, rubbing his face and sitting up. “But I'm closed today.”

“Just today?” Clint asked.

“Yes, look,” Shale said, hanging his head, “I'm just not . . . in any condition . . .”

“Coffee,” Clint said.

“What?”

“You need coffee,” Clint said. “Is there a kitchen here?”

“Yeah, in the back, but—”

“Make some coffee, Rosemary,” Clint said. “For all of us.”

“A-all right.”

As she left the room, Shale asked, “Is she your wife?”

“No, we're just friends,” Clint said.

“Lovely woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

Shale looked down at himself and said, “Oh God. I should wash up.” He stood up. “You did come here looking for treatment, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well . . . let me wash up, and then have some of that coffee,” Shale said, “and we'll see.”

They got Shale cleaned up and put a couple of cups of coffee into him. He stared at them with bloodshot eyes, as if seeing them for the first time.

“Say, you're very pretty,” he said to Rosemary.

“Thank you.”

“I didn't get your names, though.”

“Clint and Rosemary,” she said.

“I'm Ethan Shale.”

“
Doctor
Ethan Shale, right?” Rosemary asked, still dubious.

“Yes,” he said, “I know it's hard to believe considering the condition you found me in, but I am the town doctor.”

“What happened to you?” Rosemary asked.

“That's a fair question,” the doctor said. “It was a woman. Need I say more?”

“Yes,” Rosemary said.

“No,” Clint said. “That's enough.”

Rosemary looked at Clint, but did not press the issue.

“Well,” the doctor said, “maybe you folks should tell me why you're here?”

Clint rolled up his sleeve and explained his injury to Doctor Shale.

“Can I have your hand, please?” Shale asked.

Clint extended it. The doctor felt the hand, moved the fingers, asked about pain.

“You mind if I see the wound itself?” he asked then.

“No, go ahead.”

Shale unwrapped the wound with remarkable steady hands, considering how they'd found him.

He leaned in to look at the wound, the stitching, to poke a bit at the edges, causing Clint some pain.

“Sorry,” he said.

“That's fine,” Clint said.

“Let me see you move the arm?”

Clint moved his arm up and down, in a circular fashion, while the doctor asked for reports of pain.

“Now hold your arm out and try to move your fingers, please.”

Clint did so. His fingers did not move at all, but the doctor seemed to be more concerned with his wrist and his forearm.

Shale newly wrapped the arm with care and then sat back.

“What's the verdict, Doctor?” Rosemary asked.

“Well, the hand and fingers seem to be fine,” Shale said.