Maggie came to slowly, like a bear coming out of hibernation. The throbbing in her shoulder was gone and the warm breeze coming in through slots high up in the wall felt pleasant not stifling. Her mind reeled as she tried to remember where she was. She knew they had ridden in to town but, after that, the details were jumbled.
She waited for her eyes to focus then looked around, searching for clues that might forewarn her of what awaited beyond. There wasn’t much to go on. The small room with its grey walls held no more than the bed, a straight-backed chair and a side table with a jug and a glass of water on it. It could have been a cell except that the door was ajar and she could hear the sound of sawing coming from nearby.
Clothes, not hers, hung from a peg driven into the wall. Walt McLean’s boots stood on the floor below, a pair of socks draped over the tops. There was no sign of Frank’s gun or her knife. Underneath the light blanket covering her, she ran a hand over her nakedness. After everything that had happened, it didn’t bother her as much as she thought it should. The bandage wrapped around her shoulder and chest, pinning her left hand over her right bosom, felt fresh and clean.
She groaned as she reached for the water and drank deeply.
It took several attempts to get out of bed and dress. The clothes had store bought creases in them and were a good fit. The socks improved the comfort of the oversized boots. For a long while after, she sat on the chair and waited for her strength to return in some small measure. She was about to make a move when a man appeared in the doorway.
‘You’re awake,’ he said.
He was tall with stooped shoulders and dark hair threaded through with grey. She recalled someone claiming to be the undertaker or doctor or furniture maker or whatever else he turned his hand to. Somehow, this person wasn’t what she was expecting. His face was that of a younger man than she had imagined, maybe only touching thirty, the skin smooth except for a few lines at the corners of his eyes. Eyes that were dark and intense.
‘Did you bury the bodies?’ she asked.
‘Well, good afternoon to you too, Sunshine.’
She ignored the sarcasm. ‘Did you?’
‘We did. Come and join me in the kitchen when you’re ready. You must be starving.’
It was a few minutes before she followed. Time spent ordering her thoughts. He was bound to have questions and she needed to have the right answers.
She wandered through a large workshop with doors that were swung wide open, letting in bright daylight. Several coffin panels lined the walls but on a large bench in the centre of the room, he appeared to be working on a cabinet. Looking out at the cloudless blue sky, she considered making a run for it but her stomach rumbled, as if arguing to stay. Knowing she would need her strength if she were to have any chance of getting away, she turned and followed the smell of coffee and the sound of sizzling bacon.
The man hardly glanced her way when she entered the kitchen.
‘Sit down before you fall down,’ he ordered.
She didn’t need to be told twice. Already her legs were starting to feel weak.
He placed a plate of ham and eggs in front of her. ‘Eat it. Doctors orders,’ he instructed, sitting down with his own plate. ‘You need to build up your strength.’
She didn’t touch it. ‘Who are you?’
He sighed, seeming mildly annoyed. ‘My given name is John Thaddeus Simpkins. Most folks just call me Doc, and yes, I am a real doctor, before you ask. Now, eat up. Your questions can wait.’
His tone brooked no argument and, as he tucked into his own food, he appeared to be no immediate threat.
‘You’re a good cook,’ she said later, as they sipped coffee from enamel mugs. ‘Is there anything you don’t do?’
He shrugged.
‘The man I rode in to town with,’ she said, ‘is he still here?’
‘He’s around, I couldn’t say exactly where. Seems to be keeping a lookout for something … or someone.’
His intense brown stare demanded answers.
She started to stand, suddenly wary of him, but the movement was too quick and she staggered into the table as the world tilted.
‘Sit down before you fall down, woman.’ He waited for her to comply. ‘I buried three bodies for you, not to mention saved your life. You can do me the courtesy of telling me what I’ve gotten myself into.’
‘Gotten yourself into?’
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. ‘Don’t play innocent with me. I looked at those bodies before I dug a deep hole and buried them one on top of the other. Your story about finding them at the side of the road doesn’t add up.’
A hot flush washed over her but she held her nerve. ‘That’s the way it was, unless Rick has told you anything different.’
‘He hasn’t but he’s a bad liar.’ He sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. ‘Here’s what I think happened.
‘The short, skinny one tried to rape you. You stabbed him, first in the back and then in the chest. I can’t be as sure with the other two but I’d say you shot one in the head and your friend shot the other in the back.’
Maggie felt the color drain from her face.
Doc nodded. ‘It seems I was right on all counts.’
‘If Rick didn’t tell you, how do you know all that?’
‘Well, I’m a naturally curious person but, bearing in mind I’m also a doctor, I found scratches and bruises on the short one’s face and neck. You had blood and skin under your nails and bruises on your thighs, handprints. The rest was a guess based on what I know about you and Rick. You pulled a gun on me and said you’d kill me. Had you been clear headed and cocked the hammer, I would have believed you. You called Rick a ‘yellow son-of-a-bitch’ so he seems the more likely back shooter.’
His powers of deduction frightened her. What else might he know? More importantly, what would he do with the information? She had spent too long as a captive to lose her newly gained freedom now.
‘You’re wondering what I intend to do,’ he said, as if reading her mind. ‘To tell the truth, I’m not sure. It depends on your answer to the next question.’
He pushed back his chair and reached for something inside the paper-strewn dresser behind him. She couldn’t see what it was until he dropped it on the table in front of her. For some reason, she flinched at the sight of it. There was no mistaking Frank’s gun. The Schofield .45 had been customized with engraved ebony grips. It was unique.
She grabbed for it.
Doc’s hand clamped down over hers, strong but not violent. ‘Care to tell me what you’re doing with Frank O’Bannen’s gun?’