Mr. Nesbitt and I were the first to move after James Shock’s pronouncement. He went to kneel beside the man named Kraft while I hurried to Joe Hoover’s side. Young Hoover was alive, barely conscious and moaning, blood pumping from the wound in his chest. As I knelt quickly beside him, I heard Nesbitt say that the drunken rancher was dead. Others were moving about, too, by then, Mrs. Murdock attending to Rachel Kraft.
Hoover’s wound, fortunately, was high on the left side of his chest, below the collar bone-a location where there were no vital organs. There was considerable blood, but it was not arterial blood. Serious, then, but perhaps not life-threatening if the bullet could be removed, the wound cleaned and properly treated to reduce the threat of infection.
Mr. Murdock said: “How badly hurt he is?”
I told him my prognosis.
“Sounds like you’ve had nurse’s training.”
“I have,” I said. I looked past him at his wife. “We’ll need hot water, clean towels, a sharp, clean knife. Have you any disinfectant?”
“Only rubbing alcohol.”
“That’ll do. Also sulphur powder, if you have that.”
She nodded and hurried away.
Rachel Kraft had recovered from her faint and was sitting up, staring at us with horrified eyes. “Joe,” she said. “Oh, God, don’t let him die.”
“He’s not going to die,” I said with more conviction than I felt.
She moaned, made an effort to stand, failed, and began to crawl toward us. Nesbitt grasped her arms and drew her to her feet. She cried out in protest, struggled for a moment, and suddenly went limp again. Not the sort of woman one could rely upon in a crisis such as this.
Murdock asked me: “Can he be moved?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“We’ll take him into one of the guest rooms.”
I stood and moved aside as he and Mr. Nesbitt lifted the injured man. Nesbitt had helped Rachel Kraft to a chair by the fire; she was conscious again, but inert, and she wore the glazed look of deep shock. James Shock still stood by the table, and, as I followed the men carrying Hoover, I glanced at the peddler. He was smiling faintly, his gaze fixed and thoughtful. He didn’t seem particularly affected by the fact that he had just killed a man, and it made me wonder if he had killed before. Whether he had or not, the man’s coldness, his unctuousness, his conviction that all women would fall prey to his superficial charm, repelled me.
The men laid young Hoover on the guest room bed. With Mr. Murdock’s help, I removed the wounded man’s coat and shirt. Sophie Murdock came with towels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a package of sulfur powder. Laudanum, too, for pain relief afterward. “The water’s heating,” she said. “It won’t be long.”
“The knife will have to be sterilized.”
“Yes. I have it in another pan on the stove.”
I used a towel to sponge blood from the wound. It was as I’d surmised from my cursory examination in the common room-serious but not necessarily life-threatening. Hoover moaned and his eyelids fluttered, then popped open. Pain clouded his eyes, but he managed to focus on me.
“Rachel,” he whispered.
“Lie still, Mister Hoover.”
“I have to know…she all right?”
“Yes. Unharmed.”
“Kraft?”
“He’s dead,” Murdock said. “The peddler, Shock, shot him.”
Hoover muttered something, a sound of satisfaction, and his body relaxed and his eyes closed again.
I drew the Murdocks aside. “We’ll need a bottle of whiskey,” I said. “For anaesthesia. I can’t probe into him unless he’s partially sedated and held still.”
“I’ll get it,” Murdock said.
“Another lamp, too. More light.”
The three of them hurried out, leaving me alone with Hoover. He looked so young and vulnerable, lying there-like one of my own sons. He may have been a thief, as that man Kraft had said, but he was personable and he seemed genuinely to care for Rachel Kraft.
The Murdocks returned with the rest of the items I had requested. I positioned them, one on either side of the bed. Murdock lifted Hoover’s head and administered a large dose of whiskey. I sponged more blood from the wound, cleaned it with alcohol-he groaned again but lay still-and then stood staring at the sterilized kitchen knife gleaming on a cloth beside the pan of boiled water. My hand was not steady and perspiration beaded my forehead.
Sophie Murdock looked keenly at me, her tired eyes searching mine. “You’ve never had cause to do this before, have you?”
“No.” My voice was as unsteady as my hand.
“But you have assisted with similar procedures.”
“Yes…once.”
“Then you’ll manage. Won’t she, Thomas?”
“I have no doubt of it,” he said.
I drew several deep breaths. Mrs. Murdock was right-I would manage to do what was necessary to save this young man’s life. I would because I must.
My hand no longer trembled when I reached out for the knife.