CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
An oil lamp burned in Dan Caine’s room, but since Hurd was in jail, Holt Peters had been told to go home. Clint Cooley stepped to the bed, his lantern held high, and the orange glow fell on Dan’s face.
“I’m still alive, Clint,” Dan said. “If that puts your mind at rest.”
Cooley smiled. “Don’t you dare go over the river before I shake your hand and say goodbye. It’s the decent thing to do and all that.”
“That’s true blue of you,” Dan said. “Now help me get out of this damned bed. I’ve spent so much time on my back I counted every crack in the ceiling.”
“How many are there?”
“Seventy-six and a half. One was just a small crack.”
“Damn, ruined your count, didn’t it? Let’s get you sitting up, Dan. I’ve got stuff to tell you,” Cooley said. And then by way of a tease: “Hurd is presently languishing in his own jail cell.”
“Damn, I’m weak,” Dan said as Cooley pulled and pushed him into a sitting position, pillows at his back. “Hand me down my gun from the holster.”
“Who are you planning to shoot?”
“Nobody . . . yet. Just give me the Colt.”
Cooley did as he was told, and Dan hefted the revolver in his hand and then worked the action a few times. He handed the gun back to Cooley. “It didn’t feel heavy. Maybe I’m not as puny as I thought.”
“You want to know what happened tonight or not?” Cooley said.
“Don’t tell me, I’ll tell you,” Dan said. “Chance Hurd is locked in his own cell, suspected of taking a part in the murder of the Calthrop family and Ma Lester.”
“How do you know all this?” Cooley said.
“I was barely holding on to consciousness but heard most of what you and Doan and Hurd were talking about,” Dan said. “Hurd was always a bad liar.”
“Doan says he’ll hold him until a circuit judge gets here,” Cooley said.
“I couldn’t save Ma Lester,” Dan said. “I tried and Hurd laid me out cold.” His breathing was heavy and troubled. “That stays with a man, Clint, gives him no peace.”
“You tried, Dan. Nobody can fault you.”
“I had a gun in my hand, and I let myself walk right into Hurd’s fist.”
“You were sick, out of your mind.”
“If I had it to do over again, I think I could’ve saved her.”
“Hell, man, you’ve been gut shot. Don’t beat yourself up.”
Dan groaned and said, “I’ve got to get out of this bed. I’ve had enough of being a damned invalid.”
Cooley smiled. “I got a ten says you can’t make it to your pants without falling flat on your face.”
“Just watch me. And I’ll see your ten and raise you ten.”
“You’ve got no money.”
“I’ve got back wages coming.”
“Maybe, but I don’t trust you, Dan. You’ve got shifty eyes and you associate with low persons.”
“Including gamblers.”
“Sir, you speak of the second oldest profession. Or is it the third?”
Dan said, “I think it comes dead last. Now help me out of this bed.”
“The Bible says Roman soldiers tossed dice for Jesus’s duds at the foot of the cross. I’d say that makes gambling pretty darned old.”
“We’ll talk about this some other time when I’m really, really bored,” Dan said. “Now take hold of me.”
He grasped Cooley’s hand, and the gambler hauled him to his feet and then grabbed him around the shoulders when Dan swayed and nearly fell.
“Easy, hoss, easy,” Cooley said. “You’re feeling a little faint, like a girl at her first ball, huh?” He eased Dan into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. “Comfy?”
“Bring me my pants and my shirt and boots,” Dan said, breathing hard.
“You don’t have a shirt.”
“Where did it go?”
“Nowhere. It got all torn to pieces by bullets, blood, and an army surgeon.” Cooley looked penitent. “And I’m sorry to tell you this, but so did your long johns.”
“Clint, bring me one of your shirts and . . . oh, my God . . . where is my hat?”
“You mean this thing?” Cooley said. He grabbed a battered, sweat-stained black hat from its perch on top of the water jug and pushed it onto Dan’s head. “There, you look better already,” he said.
“Get me a shirt, Clint,” Dan said.
“Ah, well there we have a problem,” Cooley said. “All my shirts were handmade by Alperstein and Fienberg, my tailors in New Orleans. They’re not for the likes of you who dribbles his soup down his front at every meal. But . . .”
“Clint, listen to me . . .”
“But . . . I will brave the storm and venture to Doan’s store to obtain a shirt, underwear, and socks to cover your nakedness. Don’t worry, I’ll write them into Pete’s credit ledger.” Cooley shook his head. “But I very much doubt you’ll be able to stay vertical long enough to wear them.”
“I’ll wear them, and I’ll stand on my own two feet when I do,” Dan said.
“Why all this effort to become active again?” Cooley said.
“I don’t know,” Dan said.
“You don’t know?”
“Something is driving me, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Not Hurd. He’s in jail.”
“Yeah, but it could be Chance Hurd. I have a feeling about him, a feeling I can’t explain or shake. Whatever is coming down, he’s at the center of it.”
“Dan, I reckon this Hurd thing has you as nervous as a frog in a frying pan and it’s making you imagine things,” Cooley said.
“My nerves are just fine,” Dan said. His face was flushed and sweaty as though he’d just ran a mile in the noonday sun. “Maybe Hurd’s got friends who’ll try to bust him out of jail . . . or it’s something else. But when the trouble comes down, I want to be ready for it.”
“I’ll go get your duds,” Cooley said. He stepped to the window. “The storm isn’t easing any. In fact, I think it’s getting worse.” He picked up his lantern, walked to the door, and then turned and said, “Once more unto the breach . . . Deputy Sheriff Caine, you owe me.”
Dan said, “More than you’ll ever know, gambling man.”
* * *
Clint Cooley emerged from the storm and returned to Dan Caine’s room like the Sandman come to sprinkle slumber dust. “Blowing a gale out there,” he said. He laid out a shirt, underwear, and socks on the bed.
“I guess Pete Doan considers you a bad credit risk because you weren’t in the debt ledger. I had to start a new page, just for you.”
Dan examined the nondescript collarless shirt, the fire engine red long johns, and woolen socks and then said, “I can’t owe him much for these.”
“To a man without money, any amount is too much,” Cooley said. “Six dollars ought to cover it, but I didn’t bother to check the prices. Look on the sunny side, Dan. When you pay Doan, he’ll more than likely give you a ceegar.”
“He’s never done that before,” Dan said.
“You’ve never gone in the tick book before,” Cooley said.
The gambler watched Dan struggle into his clothes, helped him with his pants and boots, and when the other man was fully clothed and sitting, exhausted, on the bed again, he said, “Just where do you think you’re going? It’s the middle of the night, and the sandstorm is about to blow Thunder Creek fifty miles into the prairie.”
“I’m not lying down on this damned bed again,” Dan said. “Once my head hits the pillow, I’ll never get up.”
“So why get dressed? Hell, you’re even wearing your gun, not that you can do much with it.”
“I plan to be ready . . .”
“I know . . . for when some bad medicine comes down.”
“You got it, Clint.”
“Dan, you can barely stand. You look like a man who just hard wintered in a hollow log he shared with a bobcat.”
“Come the day, I’ll be on my feet.”
“Suppose the day is tomorrow?”
“I’ll be ready,” Dan said. Then, more thoughtfully, “I have to be ready.”
“Now look what you’ve done,” Cooley said. “You’ve got blood on your nice new shirt that you bought on tick.”
Dan looked down at his side where scarlet blood seeped from his wound. “Yeah, so I have,” he said.