Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel (20 page)

CHAPTER 28

A wonderful, warm feeling. The woman came to him, inviting.
It was Lydia Sweetgrass, beautiful, naked Lydia, reaching out for him.

Mobley jerked awake, eyes wide. The train rattled and creaked, the brakes screeched. Edson nudged him.

Ungh.
Mobley pulled his legs down from the bench where he’d stretched them out, checked to make sure his pants were not distorted by the mischievous, but quickly receding object therein, and sat forward. “What’s happening?”

Edson’s face was bright and cheery. “The train’s stopping for water. We should get out and stretch our legs. Jack’s already out on the back stoop.”

Mobley looked around, raised his arms, stretched them out, and yawned. He could see dark clouds building up in the west as he peered out the small grimy window. A typical Texas day, sun one moment, frog strangling rain the next. Down the aisle he saw Lydia Sweetgrass and her daughter straightening themselves as if preparing to stand up. He tried to shake the cobwebs out of his head.

Edson turned to walk down the aisle. He stopped as he reached Lydia’s seat, offered his hand. She looked up at him and smiled. Mobley froze. Lydia took the offered hand, stood and brushed wrinkles from her dress. The sight of Lydia smiling at another man, especially one as good looking as Edson, sent a rush of emotion through Mobley’s chest. He knew Edson was his friend and would never do anything to hurt him, but the strength of his attraction for this woman had become clear. He did not want any other man looking at her. He didn’t want her smiling at other men, even his friend.

Mobley stood, adjusted his shirt and pants, and hurried forward. Edson stepped aside as he approached. Lydia smiled at him and picked up her hand bag. Gertrude skipped to the forward exit and started pulling on the door.

“It’s a beautiful day, Judge Meadows,” Lydia said pleasantly. Are you going to join us for a walk around the train?”

Mobley looked down on her. His glance could not help but flash on her ample bosom, though he quickly lifted his eyes to hers. The dress was not daringly cut, but outlined the swell of her breasts perfectly. Her nipples were standing out. Just like in the dream.
Lord
, she was beautiful.

“Uh, yes. I thought I would, if it’s all right with you.” He offered her his arm.

Lydia noticed the glance. For a moment she thought to cover herself with a shawl. She smiled instead. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at her that way. It felt good,
tingly
. She took his arm, felt the hard muscle of his bicep and brushed her breast against his arm as they walked to the door. He was so big, two heads taller than her deceased husband, and the power that seem to flow from his every word as he’d conducted the trial was unbelievable. Now, however, he seemed embarrassed, though he had quickly responded to her first flirtatious glance. She could feel the tension within him now, as they walked. It was a vibration that seemed to flow all through her body. She knew she was making him nervous, but pulled closer, enjoying the contact.

For an instant, Lydia’s mind focused on the face of her deceased husband. A special man, intelligent beyond belief, and well educated. But he’d been no Mobley Meadows. He’d been short and wimpish around other men, jealous and mean on occasion, much too secretive of their business and finance. She’d been the only person he could boss around, so he did. He’d refused to certify her as a qualified pharmacist, making one excuse after another. She had ultimately realized he would never do so, out of fear she would leave him. Their love making had occasionally aroused her, but for the most part had been perfunctory.

Now that he’d passed, she’d found herself able to evaluate their life together and had reached a major decision. Never again would she allow a man to dominate her. Never again would she blindly submit to the male ego. Her next marriage, if there was one, would be a partnership based on mutual respect, romance, passion, and tender love.

Even as she reminded herself of her these lofty intentions, she wondered how she could possibly judge a man like Mobley Meadows, whose easy, natural smile and self confidence was so compelling.

Mobley stepped down from the forward platform of the coach, turned and reached up to help Lydia. Her waist was small. His big hands almost came together at the fingertips as he lowered her to the ground. She felt as light as a feather, though she was neither especially short nor underweight. Her perfume wafted gently around him. He suppressed an urge to nuzzle his nose into her hair. The urge was overpowering, but she turned to walk toward the back of the train. He let out his breath, willing his heart to stop pounding.

Edson carried Gertrude down from the train and immediately set off to show her the engine. She was chattering, skipping, and pulling him by the hand. Other passengers stood around stretching, chatting, lighting up cigars, and generally relaxing.

No one had expected the
fusillade
of bullets.

Lydia screamed. Gunfire erupted all around them, great
booms
and smoke, loud pings as ricochets screamed off metal. Mobley whirled to his left, pistol in hand. Jack had not followed them off the forward platform, but had joined several other men at the rear of the coach. He was blazing away at several masked riders. More were coming directly toward Mobley and Lydia. Bullets kicked up dirt at Mobley’s feet, ricocheted off the steel coupler behind him. No time to turn and run. The riders were upon them.

Mobley threw himself in front of Lydia, pressed her back against the steps. His pistol bucked in his hand. Two riders and a horse went down. The horse smelled of sweat, old leather and dirt. Its hooves flashed dangerously close, dirt flying, as it tried desperately to get up.

Mobley snapped a shot at another rider, missed, then took careful aim at several more galloping toward the engine. He led one perfectly, knocked the man from his horse, and then lined up another. Before he could fire, Lydia pulled on his shirt, warned him to take cover inside the coach.

Three more riders charged right at them, and then veered away in a sweeping left turn to head toward Edson and the engine. Bullets bounced harmlessly off the steel steps of the coach as they passed. Mobley saw Edson in motion, lifting Gertrude into the safety of the cab, quickly following. With its heavy metal construction, the cab was the safest place on the train.

Several more riders burst out of a brush-lined arroyo behind the wooden water tank, their angle sure to take them past and around the front of the train. The next action would be on the right side of the coach. Mobley turned quickly, lifted Lydia easily onto the stoop.

“Hurry, get back in the coach behind the stacked up seats. Cover yourself.”

Jack was uninjured and still firing at the rear of the coach. Several passengers rushed past Jack, clambering to hide back aboard and getting in the line of fire. None of the other passengers fired back. Two men and a woman were wounded, lying face down by the stable car. Katton Athearn and her skinny husband Riegel lay sprawled at Mobley’s feet, both terribly wounded, blood gushing onto the ground. Katton stared up, for an instant, a pleading look on her face before her eyes rolled up and became fixed.

Mobley felt a wave of nausea coupled with a sudden cold sweat grip him as he climbed the step and flopped down just inside the coach door. He lowered his head and took several deep breaths. He examined himself to be sure he had not been hit, and then began to feel better.

He quickly reloaded his pistol and braced for more action. From his position at the door he could defend the front entrance to the coach from either side of the train. But he knew he could not withstand the attack alone. Turning briefly, he yelled to the mass of passengers cowering in the aisle. “
Texans
.
Get off your butts! These men are out to kill us all. Start fighting back like MEN.”

Several of the wranglers scrambled for their rifles. Others, men in frock coats and derby hats, ripped through carry-on luggage looking for something to shoot. Women and children screamed and cried, hunkering behind hard wooden seats.

Lydia scrambled over the huddling mass in the aisle to get to Mobley’s rifle. She returned, crouched low, a mask of determination on her face. She apparently intended to participate in the fighting, but Mobley would have none of it.

“Here, give me that rifle. Take this pistol and use it on anyone trying to break into the coach. But keep your head down and save the bullets until the very last moment.”

Lydia now seemed frantic. “Gertrude is out there. I can’t just stay in here.”

“Yes, you can. Edson has Gertrude safe at the engine. He’ll protect her with his life. Now, get back down. I don’t want you to be hit.
Please.”

Lydia stared at him, eyes searching, seeming not to comprehend. Tears suddenly poured down her cheeks. She sat down directly inside the door, stared at the pistol, and cocked it with both thumbs, hands shaking violently.

Mobley stepped back onto the stoop, rifle at his shoulder, ready to fire. He checked both sides of the train.

A burst of firing came from the rear of the passenger coach. Mobley looked around the platform to see the entire stable car shrouded in gun smoke. Jack had organized several armed men who were keeping the riders at the rear of the train at bay.

Firing from the coach windows began as passengers shook themselves loose from the shock of the attack. Mobley knew now the train would not be taken, but loss of life would be high. These men, whoever they were, had come without warning. They had attacked a passenger train as if it were full of enemy troops, treating civilians without regard to their status.
Just like that murderous raider Quantrell had done to the town of Lawrence, Kansas during the war.

For a moment the firing stopped. No more riders appeared on the left side. Jack fired again. Slow and deliberate. He’d found his Sharps and was systematically picking off riders at the rear still in range and not safe behind cover.

Mobley heard horses pounding along the right side of the train. They were coming from the direction of the engine. He prepared himself to fire as they came into view, his back to the door. Three riders fired at him one after the other as they cleared the baggage car. Mobley fired his rifle as fast as he could, barely taking time to aim. One rider went down, wounded or dead. Another fell when his horse tripped over the man ahead. The third leaped from his horse, grabbed on to the railing to pull himself aboard, and blazed away. Mobley put a bullet in the man’s left shoulder, breaking his grip on the railing. The man fell, firing all the way to the ground.

“
Oh, FOOT!”

Mobley felt the impact of the bullet as it entered his chest. Like being hit with a hammer, but without pain. His rifle dropped at his feet. He felt himself sliding to the floor. He tried to look down at his chest, to rip open his shirt, examine the wound. His body would not obey. A large pool of red formed at his feet.
What’s happening? Get up
!
This is no time to take a nap.

Lydia screamed. Another wildly firing man, red bearded and round faced, jumped onto the stoop. He was one of those downed with his horse who had managed to land uninjured. He pointed his pistol deliberately at Lydia, and then lowered it. He grinned wickedly, lewdly. The look changed to shock and surprise as Mobley’s pistol discharged in Lydia’s hand. He crashed back over the railing, trying to stop his fall with grasping hands.

Lydia stood, took careful aim. The pistol jumped again. “You bastards may kill me, but I shall not be raped.”

CHAPTER 29

The wind rose, rattling leaves in an ever increasing tempo. Light flickered. Shadows moved, coming and going. The breeze became a gale, roaring louder in his ears. Dark stars danced about, flashing, twisting, and turning in a dizzying mishmash of color and music.
So hot. Thirsty. Why’d we come here without water?

“Judge Meadows?”

Someone groaned. Pain—headache—noise. People—shadow people—whispering. A bright light shined in his eyes. “
Ungh.” Take it away
.

“Judge Meadows, wake up.” A deep masculine voice. “Do you hear me, Judge Meadows?”

Someone groaned again. More shadows. He tried to move his head to follow them. Pain—in his side.
Don’t move
. “Ungh.”

“Don’t try to move, Judge Meadows. We’ve got you strapped to the table. You’re in the hospital in Austin. Do you remember what happened?”

Mobley tried to open his eyes. They wouldn’t move. His eyelids were stuck shut with a crust of something, like the morning
cracklins
of his youth when he’d had
Pink Eye
. They’d go away if he rubbed them
.
But where were his hands?

The light flashed brighter, more shadows. A strange smell assaulted his nose. The smell of death. Putrid death and corruption, as if he were on a field of battle. Ether mixed with alcohol and feces. He gagged.

“Easy, now. Take it easy.
Nurse
, bring this man some water.”

Mobley managed to break one of his eyelids partially free. A wet cloth rubbed his eyes. He opened both, snapped them shut, adjusted, opened slowly. A man stood over him, a strange mirror-like device strapped to his head. Reflected light flashed. Black stars danced about the man’s face. His clothes were dirty white splashed with gore. A doctor. Next to him, a woman—fat and ugly. Small Pox scars on her face.
Eeeyuk
!

Memory returned. He’d been shot in the chest, but he’d survived somehow.
Lydia? Where’s Lydia?
“Ungh.”

“Here, Judge. Take a sip. Not too much. It’ll come right back up if you drink too much.”

Mobley felt the cool liquid on his lips, struggled to get more into his throat. He couldn’t swallow. He could hardly move his tongue. But the water felt good. He struggled to speak, but could not. All around him the moans of other wounded told him he was not alone.

Others had been injured or killed in the attack. The raiders had been indiscriminate, killing men, women and children. If they’d been out to kill him, why go so far? It was senseless, unless the spreading of terror had been a goal all along. Was that what he had to look forward to, innocent people killed wherever he went?

Lydia? Where’s Lydia?

“Don’t rush. Try to relax. You’re not going anywhere. We’ve just operated on you to remove the bullet from your chest. We had to take out most of one of your ribs. You’ll be able to function without it. If the infection doesn’t get worse, you’ll be out of here in a few weeks.”

Infection? Oh, no, no.

Mobley rolled his head to the side, grinding his teeth together. Searing pain shot through his chest as he tried to sit up. He could handle pain. Infection was another matter. He’d seen the effect. It was not pretty. Death came slowly from the spread of rotting flesh, terrible poisons in the blood. Black gangrene. He sipped more water, managed to croak out his first words.
“Get—me—out—of here.”

The doctor stood back, hands on his hips. He clucked like a snippy bureaucrat. “I’m sorry, sir. That is not possible. You’ve been badly wounded and have lost a lot of blood. We need to watch you closely.”

It took every bit of Mobley’s strength to raise his head off the pillow. He swallowed, found his voice weak but functional. He glared at the doctor. “Get my marshals in here,
now!
Get them in here or I’ll have you, your scurvy butt, and every other doctor in this rotten place strung up by their leach-loving thumbs.

“
Now, DO IT!”

If there was one thing Mobley knew for certain, it was that he had no use for doctors. Doctors had killed his parents through ignorance, negligence, or both. They might help with a broken leg, a cut finger, or a burn, but when it came to disease, they were worse than useless. He struggled against the restraints. Dark stars returned, dancing, swirling. He sank into the whirlpool of darkness.

* * *

Jack stepped into the hotel room. The
Excelsior
was Austin’s best, offering everything they could have asked for in the way of luxury. There were enough rooms in the suite to provide for everyone, including Lydia and Gertrude. If he’d had time to appreciate the amenities, he would have done so, but he’d been so busy watching out for Mobley that he left everything else up to Lydia and Edson.

Jack hated leaving the hospital for any reason, for over the past few days he’d put aside all reservations about Mobley Meadows. He now knew who Mobley was, what he stood for, and how desperate the country was for men like him. More than that, Jack knew
he
needed what Mobley could provide, a moral high ground from which he could overcome his own tendency toward unreasoning violence. As he’d examined himself and measured his findings against the simple sense of justice Mobley had brought to his life, he knew the man was deserving of his total loyalty.

Before leaving for the hospital, Jack had entrusted Mobley’s security to the local town Marshal, Ben Thomas, who he believed could handle things for a few hours. He’d made clear to Thomas that he would be held personally responsible for anything that might happen, and the look he gave along with his instructions would have put fear into the heart of any man who had ever lived. Jack Anthony Lopes knew how to terrify people when it was necessary.

Now, he must consult with Lydia and Edson. Decisions had to be made. Mobley was not safe in the hospital. Regardless of what others thought, Jack was certain the attack had been intended primarily to kill Mobley. The men who had done it had been thieves and murderers, not dedicated men supporting a terrorist cause.

Jack scanned the room. Lydia paced back and forth, jaw set, a determined frown on her face. Her yellow dress was splashed with Mobley’s blood. She’d refused to change until certain she’d done everything there was to do. She now carried his ivory handled pistol strapped to her waist in a holster taken from the man she had shot.

Jack had never known a woman so capable of command. The way she’d taken charge after the attack had been something to behold. Organizing, nursing, and ordering people around. She’d been like a general. No one had challenged her. They’d simply done what she said, quickly and without question. It had given him time to gather the wounded raiders and question them. Every one of them had talked. Not at first, but in the end, they’d talked.

Jack had learned very early in life how to make a man beg for mercy, but he’d shown them none. They’d ridden for a man named Kinch West, who had organized the attack on the train and had sworn he would not stop until Mobley was dead. A skinny, pocked faced man had given them money
, fifty dollars gold pieces.
Every member of the force had one.

As he scanned the room, subconsciously evaluating it as a defensive position, he became aware of the truly fine quality of the place. The suite Lydia had chosen was the best in Austin, suitable for all of them, and being on the second floor offered additional advantages for security.

Jack had not seen such lavish furnishings since leaving
Mango de Clavo
, Santa Anna’s hacienda, fifteen years before. The suite had three separate bedrooms, each with a double bed. The main sitting room in the center was larger than any he had ever seen. If there was an amenity that it lacked, Jack was unable to identify it. The chairs were all hand-carved by highly skilled craftsmen and covered in richly ornate fabrics. Beautiful Turkish carpets covered all of the hardwood floors, which were highly polished and dusted daily. Fancy moldings decorated windows and doorways. The ceiling was covered with polished copper panels stamped with flowers and vines.

He’d been suspicious of the waiters, who came and went with regularity, bringing fresh water, flowers, food, and anything else one might have asked for, but after speaking with each of them, he expected no trouble from that quarter. The hotel took its guests care and comfort seriously.

Jack had had no experience as a dignitary and felt totally out of place. As he checked the rooms, he pushed down on the bed he and Edson would share and concluded that he would sleep on the floor when the time came.

He glanced at Edson, who was on the open second story veranda sitting cross legged, looking out over the Colorado River, and staring at the sun, unmoving. He’d been that way for hours. Gertrude sat behind Edson playing with a doll, skipping, bobbing and bouncing it across the floor in an imaginary dance.

Jack knew Edson was going through some kind of ritual, but had no idea what it was about. Every once in a while, Edson’s head would bob up and down like a priest doing penance.

Jack plopped on the sofa. Lydia stopped pacing and looked down at him. “How is he?”

“The doctor says he’s conscious, but hysterical. He’s been threatening everyone, ranting about doctors killing his mother and father. He wants out of the hospital. When I saw him, he was tossing around like a madman, tearing at his straps. His eyes were all glazed, jumping around.”

Lydia looked up at the ceiling, willing the tears filling her eyes to stop. Mobley Meadows was the man she had waited for. Confident and sure during the trial, he’d been so nervous in his approach to her. But he
had
approached. The way he’d fumbled his hat, the look in his eyes, made her feel desirable again, and
powerful
. She hadn’t felt so alive since before her marriage. When his thigh had softly touched hers on the bench, she’d felt the stirring of deep passions she’d thought dead and buried along with her childhood.

Lydia knew Mobley was of the old school of gallantry, trained to respect and protect all women. He’d been attracted to her, but clearly uncertain of himself or the affect he’d had on her. She’d been completely swept away, totally under his power from the very first. The way he’d taken control of the train, his creativity in dealing with a problem most others would have ignored, his humor, his bravery when he threw himself in front of her. This was the man she wanted.

She had to do
something
. But what? He hated doctors, probably with good cause. Doctors had no real idea how to treat infectious disease; that much was clear from the literature she had read. Most doctors adhered to the idea evil spirits or humours caused disease and must be removed by bleeding with leeches. She’d thought the idea barbaric, rooted in superstition. The newest ideas suggested microscopic organisms caused disease and infection and the way to prevent or control it was to keep wounds sterile until they healed. If this were true, then it stood to reason that there would be more chance of infection spreading in a hospital than anywhere else.

The thing to do came to her in an instant. If Mobley wanted out of the hospital, she would take him out of the hospital. She would honor his wishes and take over his care. If there
was
anything she could do to help him heal, she would figure it out. She would find a way.

Lydia smoothed her dress. With her small white kerchief, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She touched her hand to the pistol on her hip, and then more confidently reached and adjusted it loosely in the holster she had taken from the man she’d killed. It felt warm and natural.

“Yes. Let’s go get him. We’ll bring him here. I can help him as well as any of those doctors, probably better.”

Jack looked at Lydia. She was obviously determined. But what did she know about treating infection? He’d seen his share of men rotting away until their bodies could no longer handle the poison. It was a miserable way to die. But Lydia was a pharmacist. At least,
trained
as a pharmacist. She might be able to come up with something the doctors could not, or would not, consider. Her quick action at the train, stuffing a piece of petticoat into the wound, had undoubtedly saved Mobley from bleeding to death. If she’d known enough to do that, she might do as good a job as the doctors.

Jack watched Lydia adjust the pistol in its holster, and for a moment felt a chill. It seemed perfectly natural for her to have the thing, but he was not sure it was something he would like to see in the general scheme of things.
Armed women. Saints preserve us
.

He stood up, suddenly sure. “Let’s do it. Edson, come on. Lydia, you stay here and get this place ready. Buy whatever you think you need. Price is no object. We have money running out of our ears, and when Mobley’s family finds out about his condition, I’m sure they will take care of everything.”

Edson did not move. He was in another world, another time, speaking through the spirit of the
Great Sun
to his grandfather,
Bowl
. The answer would come. Bowl had been a great spiritual leader and shaman. Bowl had found a way to treat infections using the power of nature.
What was it?

“Edson,
come on.
We’re going to get Mobley. I’ll need your help.”

He’d seen it as a boy. Bowl called them—
little crawlers?
His mother had despised them. She’d called them—
what?