While Jacob was urgently assisting the injured man, the shooter was panicking.
Billy Watts carelessly dropped his pistol on the card table so he could use both hands to grasp for all the cash that was lying in the middle. Jacob didn’t have time to see what the kid was doing; he was too busy trying to staunch the blood pooling out of Pierce’s torso.
With a quick movement, Billy had collected everything he wanted to grab, snatched up his pistol, knocked over his chair and made a beeline for the door of the saloon.
“You!” Jacob yelled to one of the bystanders.
The fat man at the next closest table blinked confusedly at Jacob. The bounty hunter couldn’t say how many drinks the stranger had had, but right now that concern had to be put aside. He was their only chance.
“Help him!” Jacob bellowed, gesturing at Clifford Pierce, bleeding out on the dusty floor of the Rat Hole.
The words were barely out of his mouth when the door to the saloon crashed open and Billy Watts made his way out into the night and the streets of Raton. Jacob ran, weaving between men and chairs to follow him. Everyone else in the saloon seemed in a dull stupor, the result of the beer and whiskey and overall revelry they had been filling their night with.
Jacob was the only one reacting to the disaster.
He reached the door to the saloon and threw himself out into the street. The bounty hunter looked both ways, listened in all directions, even sniffed the air, using all of the senses at his disposal to discover where the kid had gone.
Jacob heard footsteps, heavy running, down around the corner of the next street. That had to be Billy Watts—who else would be running at this time of night? The bounty hunter took off down the street toward him. He almost crashed into a pair of men who were talking only to each other and not paying attention to where they were going, but that only slowed him momentarily.
As Jacob rounded the corner after the outlaw, he heard another shot crack through the darkness.
He ducked instinctively, but couldn’t be sure from where the shot had come. He no longer saw Watts in the street. He must have turned down another side street, or ducked into a building. Jacob paused in his running briefly to decide where to go.
Drawing his gun, Jacob knew this might be his only chance to apprehend Billy. The kid could get away again, and now he would know his face.
The moment he stopped, another shot rang out.
“Gah!”
Jacob dropped his revolver in the dirt, and clutched his shoulder as he fell into the dirt road with a heavy thud. He had been shot. It was only luck that Watts had missed a more vital organ. Even so, Jacob felt waves of pain course through him if he tried to move that arm at all. Though he could shoot with his left hand in a pinch, it was far less accurate and far more dangerous for him to do so.
The bounty hunter groaned as he rolled on the ground. He couldn’t just lie here. With every moment he took, the outlaw was getting any from him. Jacob closed his eyes. He allowed himself one final short moment to feel through the pain all along his right side, before he resolutely pushed it away with his mind. It would hurt whether he continued lying on the ground or not.
“You okay, mister?” a timid voice asked, approaching him.
A young couple walked hesitantly toward where Jacob was sprawled across the road in the darkness.
“We heard the shot,” the young man said. “Let’s get you to the doctor.”
“No,” Jacob said, gritting his teeth.
He saw the two exchange a confused glance.
“Sir,” the young woman ventured. “You poor thing. You probably don’t know what you’re saying, it must hurt that bad. Come along with us. We’ll make sure you get fixed up.”
“No,” Jacob replied, more forcefully this time. “Help me stand.”
The young man stepped forward. He wrapped Jacob’s good arm around his shoulder and grasped the bounty hunter around the waist.
“Ready?” he said.
With a slight pull, he had brought Jacob to standing. Now that he was on his feet, Jacob felt more in control of his body and of the situation.
“Thank you kindly,” he said to the couple. A pulse of anguish shot through him, and he closed his eyes briefly to let it pass. “Do you think you could hand my gun?”
He gestured to the weapon where he had dropped it in the dirt, and the young woman stooped to pick it up. Holding it cautiously—though thoughtlessly—loosely between two fingertips, she handed it to the bounty hunter at arms’ length.
“The doctor is just a few streets away,” the young man said, pointing. “Come on. We’ll take you.”
“Do you have a handkerchief?” Jacob asked.
Again, the two exchanged a confused look.
“Something I can use to staunch the blood?”
“Sure. Yeah, sure, mister.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of linen.
“Now,” Jacob said as he took it from him, “I appreciate all y’all have done for me, but I won’t be going to the doctor just yet.” He winced as he pressed the handkerchief to his wound, holding the pressure as steady as he could.
“But—”
“There’s a man I have to stop before he leaves town.”
“The one who shot you?”
“That’s him. I’ve lost track of him, and I’m afraid if I delay any longer it might be too late altogether.”
“What can we do to help?” she asked anxiously.
Jacob smiled. “Nothing, ma’am. Thank you. You’ve done everything I could ask for.” He wadded the handkerchief and pushed it through the hole in the shirt the bullet had torn. It wouldn’t stay put, it wouldn’t hold long, but it was better than nothing.
“Here.” The young woman reached back and untied her hair ribbon. It was green, velvet, and Jacob knew from his shopping with Bonnie before leaving Tucson, that such a ribbon could cost a pretty penny. She moved to Jacob’s side, wrapped the ribbon around his upper arm and tied it to hold the handkerchief in place. “Is that too tight? I don’t think this will last long—please be sure you see the doctor as soon as you can.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Jacob wished he had time to thank these two properly, to buy them a meal or something. But he could feel the ticking clock of Billy Watts on his way out of town and knew he had to move. The best way he could thank these good Samaritans would be by apprehending the wanted man.
“Do you know where you’re going?” the man asked him. “You’re not from here, are you?”
Jacob paused before answering, looking up and down the street for some sign of where Billy Watts had gotten to.
“What’s down that way?” he asked, pointing toward where he had been running before he was shot.
“Um, let’s see. Some houses if you go far enough. There’s a blacksmith and…”
“The hotel,” the young woman interjected. “Turn left at that next street—you can see the corner from here. It’s about another two blocks that way.”
“That’s it,” Jacob said to himself.
Quickly orienting himself, Jacob recalled where the other establishments in Raton were in relation to where he now stood. The kid was running away from the livery. He must be going to get his things from the hotel before getting out of town.
Again.
Instead of following at every step, Jacob could beat him to his final destination. Watts wasn’t going to get out of town without a horse, and he wasn’t going to get a horse without visiting the livery.
He said another thanks to the bewildered couple, spun around quickly and ran toward the livery at the other end of the town. He cursed himself for going along with Pierce’s plan at all. He had gone against his instincts and look where it got him—a man was shot, possibly dying, over a measly forty-dollar pot.
But Jacob could fix it.