Cross Draw (3 page)

“Okay,” Rosemary said, “let's get going and see if this wheel holds up.”

Rosemary climbed up to take the reins. Abigail decided to sit next to her. Morgan also sat with them, and Delilah climbed into the back. There was plenty of room so that she didn't crowd the prone Clint. They started off, expecting with every foot they traveled to hear a crack from the wheel.

The wheel held.

The town they came to was called Big Rock. It was a decent-sized town, and Rosemary was hopeful it had a doctor.

She stopped in front of the sheriff's office, because it seemed right to ask him.

“Stay here, all of you,” she said.

She walked to the door and knocked.

“Come in!”

She entered, saw a man standing by a potbellied stove with a coffeepot in his hand. He was tall and fairly young—in his thirties—and had a pleasant, open face

“You're a stranger in town,” he said. “Nobody else would knock. What can I do for you?”

“We have an injured man in our wagon, Sheriff,” she said. “Is there a doctor in town?”

He put the pot down, grabbed his hat, and said, “Yes. How was he injured?”

“He stopped to help us repair our wagon wheel, and the wagon came down on his arm.”

The lawman took his gun belt from a drawer in his desk and strapped it on. “Come on. I'll show you where the doctor is.”

“Thank you.”

 

He not only showed her where the doctor's office was, but he got some men to carry Clint—who was finally conscious—into the office.

He had woken up along the way and looked up at Jenny.

“What happened?”

“You got hurt,” she said. “Your arm.”

He looked down at his bloody right arm and started to try to move it but was stopped by the pain.

“Don't try to move,” she said.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

“We're taking you to a doctor.”

He remained quiet the rest of the way and gritted his teeth only once when the men carried him into the doctor's examining room and put him on a table.

“All right,” Doctor Sam Jacobs announced to everybody in the room, “everyone out, now! Let me see to my patient.”

The men left easily. The women lingered, but the doctor finally shooed them out.

“All right, Mr. Adams,” the doctor said to Clint. “Let me have a look.”

He unwrapped the wound, inspected it silently.

“How bad is it, Doc?” Clint asked.

“I don't know yet,” the doctor said. “It will take some time.”

“Doc,” Clint said, “I can't move my fingers.”

 

Outside the office, the women divvied up their tasks with help from the sheriff.

“I'll get us hotel rooms,” Rosemary said. “Jenny, you take Clint's horse to the livery.”

“Right.”

“The rest of you, find someplace safe to put our wagon. It has all our possessions in it.”

“I'll show you where the hotel is. The best one in town.”

“Maybe,” she said, “you better show me the cheapest one in town.”

He laughed and they started walking.

“I don't know your name, Sheriff,” Rosemary said.

“It's Evans,” he said. “Cal Evans.”

“Cal?”

“Calvin,” the sheriff admitted, “but I don't use the whole name. What's yours?”

“Rosemary Collins,” she said.

“And the man with the wound?” he asked. “I heard you call him Clint.”

“Yes.”

“Clint what?”

“Adams,” she said, “Clint Adams. He came riding up on us early today and helped us to fix the wheel.”

The sheriff stopped walking.

“Wait. Clint Adams?”

“That's right.”

“The Gunsmith?”

She thought a moment, then said, “I suppose. I didn't realize . . .”

“Jesus,” he said, “if I have the Gunsmith in my town I have to know.”

He started to turn back, then stopped and stared at Rosemary.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I can find a hotel by myself.”

“Just got a couple of more blocks,” he said. “The hotel's on the left. It's very reasonable. Just don't go near the Big Rock Hotel. That's the expensive one.”

“I understand.”

“Jesus,” he said, “the Gunsmith,” and rushed back the way they had come.

The sheriff entered the doctor's office again, heard voices in the other room. He stuck his head in and saw the doctor standing over a prone Clint Adams.

“Hey, Doc Jacobs?”

The doctor turned. “I'll be there in a minute, Sheriff,” Jacobs said. “Just need to finish up.”

“Okay.”

The sheriff sat by the doctor's desk, nervously bouncing his legs. When Jacobs entered, he jumped up.

“Doc, do you know who that is?”

“I do,” the doctor said. “I assume this means that you do, too?”

“I had to make sure,” Evans said. “Is it . . . him?”

“Is it who?”

“The Gunsmith!”

“Yes, it is.”

“Jesus,” Evans said, “the Gunsmith in my town. If word gets out, there'll be blood in the streets.”

“You're bein' too dramatic, Cal.”

“Am I? What do you think would happen if him being here became common knowledge?”

“I don't know.”

“Gunmen will come out of the woodwork,” Evans said, “that's what. How long is he stayin'?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, how bad is he hurt?”

“I don't want to feed into your drama,” Jacobs said.

“What do you mean?”

“At the moment,” Doc Jacobs said, “the Gunsmith can't move his hand.”

Evans stared at Jacobs.

“Sheriff?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, you mean . . . his gun hand?”

“That's what I mean,” Evans said. “The puncture wound in his arm has affected the motor functions of his hand.”

“Doc!”

“Like I said,” Evans replied, “he can't use his right hand.”

“Jesus!” Evans said. “If this got out, we'd be
drowning
in gunnies.”

“Why would it get out?” the doctor said. “I'm not going to tell anyone. Are you?”

 

Clint stared down at his bandaged arm. The doctor had cleaned the wound as best he could and then stitched it closed. While the pain had subsided somewhat, Clint was very concerned that he could not move his hand.

His gun hand.

The one that had kept him alive all these years.

He reached out to touch his gun belt, which was on a table within reach. He had fired his gun left-handed before, and was probably better than most. But that wouldn't help him against experienced guns. If he couldn't use his right hand, he'd be a sitting duck for every two-bit gunny who came along.

The doctor kept avoiding the subject of how long the paralysis would last, which made Clint worry that the man either didn't know—or he knew and wasn't telling.

He pushed himself to a seated position, swung his legs around so that his feet touched the floor. He was about to try to stand when he got dizzy. Spots appeared in front of his eyes, so he closed them and began to breathe deeply.

It didn't help. If the doctor hadn't come back in at that moment and caught him, the Gunsmith would have hit the floor.

When Clint came to, he was looking at the ceiling again.

“Doc?”

The doctor rushed in from the other room and looked down at him.

“How are you feelin'?”

“Terrible,” he said. “Come on, Doc, you've got to tell me. How long is my hand going to be like this?”

“The truth is, I don't know, Mr. Adams,” Doc Jacobs said. “There was significant damage to the ligaments in your arm.”

“Will they heal?”

“That's what we have to wait to find out.”

“How long?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

“Doc, look,” Clint said, “do you know who I am?”

“You're the second person to ask me that today. Yes, I do know who you are, Mr. Adams: the Gunsmith.”

“If word got out that I couldn't use my right hand—” Clint started.

“I understand that, Mr. Adams. I assure you, no one is going to hear it from me.”

“Second,” Clint said.

“What?”

“You said I was the second person today to ask you that,” Clint said. “Who was the first?”

“Oh, the sheriff. He just asked me that a little while ago.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“What I told you.”

“So he knows I can't use my right hand?”

“He does,” the doctor said, “but as far as I know, he doesn't plan to tell anyone.”

“But that doesn't mean he won't, at some point.”

“He's the law, Mr. Adams.”

“Sorry, Doc,” Clint said, “but I've run into a lot of badge-toters who had their own ideas about upholding the law.”

“I see.”

“Can I leave?”

“You can't even stand,” the doctor said.

“I can at least try that again.”

“Okay,” Jacobs said, “let's try it.”

He helped Clint into a seated position, then backed away so the man could try to stand on his own. This time, Clint made it to his feet.

“Okay,” he said. “I can stand.”

“Next,” the doctor said, “try takin' a step.”

Rosemary got two rooms at the hotel. She figured she would share one with Jenny. The other three girls would share the second room. If Delilah and Morgan didn't kill Abigail by morning, it would be a miracle. Maybe Rosemary would take the older woman instead.

She waited in the lobby for the four other women to appear. They had brought whatever they could carry with them.

“How'd you know which hotel I'd be at?” she asked.

“We asked the man at the livery stable which hotel was the cheapest,” Jenny said.

“Okay, here,” she said, handing Jenny a key. “You share a room with Delilah and Morgan. Abigail, you're with me.”

“Fine.”

“Take our belongings to the rooms,” she told them.

“Where are you going?” Abigail asked.

“I'm going to go and check on Clint.”

“Why are you worried about that man?” Abigail asked. “We don't need him anymore.”

“Abigail,” Rosemary said, “he got hurt trying to help us.”

“It wasn't our fault,” Abigail said.

“It was
your
fault,” Jenny said to her.

“It was not!”

“Yeah, it was,” Morgan said.

“Girls,” Rosemary said, “just go to your rooms. I'll be back in a while and then we'll get something to eat.”

She turned and left them in the lobby, still arguing.

 

Clint took a step, then two, then three. There was no dizziness.

“I can walk,” he said.

“But walking isn't the problem, is it?” the doctor asked.

“No,” Clint said, “staying alive is.”

“Until your arm heals and you can use your hand again,” Jacobs said.

“Right.”

Clint knew they were both thinking the same thing.

If
his arm healed.

Rosemary entered the doctor's office and called out, “Hello?”

“In here,” the doctor's voice answered in return.

She moved across the office into the examination room.

“What's going on?” she asked.

“I'm tryin' to convince your friend, Mr. Adams, that he needs to stay still a while longer.”

“And Mr. Adams wants to go and get a hotel room and sleep in a real bed,” Clint said.

“How is your arm?”

“Doesn't hurt as much,” he said. “Apparently, the doctor says you kept me from bleeding to death. I'm much obliged.”

“It was the least we could do,” she said. “After all, you got hurt trying to help us.”

“I guess the wheel made it, huh?” Clint asked.

“Luckily.”

“Well, now you can get it fixed properly,” Clint said.

She noticed that while Clint had his gun belt on, he wasn't really moving his right arm that much. She assumed it hurt him more than he was saying.

“What do I owe you, Doc?”