Chapter 11

How long he had lain in the middle of the street, he could not say for certain, for he remembered nothing after cocking his rifle and firing. He had floated somewhere on a plane between consciousness and deep sleep ever since. But now he became aware of his existence. He was—but in what state of life or death he could not determine, for he felt helpless to move his hands or feet. Gradually he became aware of someone else bending over him from time to time, staring into his eyes, which were barely open enough to permit light to enter. He might have attempted to speak, to ask where he was, for he knew he was no longer lying in the street, but he didn’t care enough to try. And then a day came when he seemed to float gently back, and his eyes suddenly opened to see the ceiling above him. There were people in the room. He heard them talking. He tried to figure out where he was, and who were the people talking.

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up, Wanda,” he heard a male voice say. “I don’t give him much chance of making it. I’ve done about as much for him as I can do. I was able to take out three of the bullets, but he’s lost so much blood I don’t think he can pull through it. It’s mighty charitable of you to take care of him.”

“He’s paid for the room six months in advance,” Wanda said. That may have been true, but it was not the sole reason she had accepted the responsibility of caring for him until he died. She felt that she had gotten to know the man who was Grayson in only the last week or so. He deserved to die in peaceful surroundings with someone to take care of him, and not in the hospital where no one cared. “Besides, he’s really not that much to look after.” She was about to say more, but she was suddenly distracted when she glanced down to see Grayson’s eyes wide open. “Look!”

Dr. Shaw looked down at the patient, and studied the pale face and open eyes. He was about to explain to Wanda that it was not unusual for a patient’s muscles to suddenly tense and eyelids to open wide moments before they slid under the veil of death, when Grayson spoke. “Where am I?” he forced between dry, crusty lips. The words were so weak they were barely audible.

Wanda was quick to respond to his call. She hurried to his side and placed her hand on his forehead. “You’re here in your room,” she told him, “and you’re safe.” Looking up at Dr. Shaw she said, “His fever’s down. He’s not burning up anymore.” Standing at the head of the bed where Grayson could not see him, Dr. Shaw acknowledged her hopeful comment with a doleful shake of his head. He had seen too many patients appear to rally just before death, and there was no reason he could find to expect different in this case. Disappointed by the doctor’s discouraging signals, Wanda turned her attention back to the wounded man. “Can you drink some water?” she asked. When he whispered yes, she looked up at the doctor again, a question in her eyes.

He understood her concern. “It’s all right to give him some water, if he can drink it. Not too much, though. You’ll find out straight away if he can drink it or not. Use that cloth there, you don’t wanna choke him.”

She soaked the cloth in the pitcher of water on the table and held it over his lips, squeezing gently until a steady flow of drops fell on his lips and in his mouth. He drank it eagerly, never stopping until she had repeated the process three times.

“Dr. Shaw says you’ve lost too much blood, and you need to build it back up. Can you eat something?” Her question went unanswered, for he had closed his eyes and drifted away again. At once alarmed, she looked to the doctor for an answer. He nodded solemnly and checked the patient for a pulse, but was once again surprised when he found a weak heartbeat.

“He’s still with us,” Dr. Shaw said, and again advised Wanda not to get her hopes up. “He’s one stubborn son of a gun—I’ll give him that—but he’s fighting an uphill battle. The wounds are just too severe for any man to overcome.” He closed his instrument case and prepared to leave. “Not much I can do for him that I haven’t already done,” he said. “You sure you don’t want me to send Otis Wainwright to pick him up?”

“No,” Wanda stated emphatically. “If this is going to be his last night on earth, I don’t want him to spend it by himself in Otis Wainwright’s back room. I’ll send someone to fetch Otis in the morning—if it’s his time.” She looked back at the sleeping man, so vulnerable now, with all the traces of his usual rock-hard persona gone.

“Suit yourself,” Dr. Shaw replied. “You’re a kindhearted woman, Wanda. A man like Grayson is destined to die alone in a back alley or a lonely prairie, and a violent death at that.” It had been two days since Grayson was carried to Wanda Meadows’s house—at the lady’s insistence—and he should have been dead when they first reached him in the middle of the street. There was no medical reason for him to still be alive. The man simply refused to go when his number was called. “Well, good night, then,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Thank you for your help, Dr. Shaw,” Wanda replied. “I’ll send word tomorrow.” She remained by the bedside for a few minutes longer before leaving to clean up her kitchen. The dirty dishes were still on the table from supper.

*   *   *

She had not intended to fall asleep in the chair, so she was startled when she awoke to find the first rays of morning light filtering through the curtains on the lone window in the little room next to the kitchen. “Damn!” she muttered and jumped to her feet. Looking at the still figure lying in the bed, she was sure that he was dead. To be certain, she pulled his arm from under the blanket and felt his wrist for a heartbeat. Much to her surprise, she found one. Good for you, she thought. I knew you wouldn’t give up. Now I’ve got to go help Violet fix breakfast before I lose all my boarders.

Breakfast over, she left Violet to clean up, and went to check on her patient. There were a few unpleasant chores that came with taking care of a bedridden man, and this was where Violet drew the line. Wanda wasn’t thrilled to do it, herself, but she saw no way around it, and told herself that it was just like taking care of an oversized baby.

When she walked into his room, she was shocked to find Grayson struggling in an attempt to get out of bed, aware, obviously, that he had soiled it as well as himself. “Grayson!” she gasped. “What are you trying to do, kill yourself?” She hurried to the bed, grasped his shoulders and pressed him back down. He didn’t possess the strength to resist.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“In your room. Now lay back and let me take care of you,” she commanded, still astonished by the transformation from imminent death to a violent defiant struggle for life. He had no choice but to comply with her wishes, however.

“You have to leave me alone,” he pleaded weakly. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand,” she replied. “You’ve soiled your bedclothes again and you’re ashamed for me to know it.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again,” she replied patiently. “And I cleaned you up every time.”

Stunned, he asked, “How long have I been in this bed?”

“This will be the third day,” she said. “And I expect you should be about to starve to death. Do you want something to eat?”

“I don’t feel like eatin’,” he said, “but I’d surely appreciate a cup of coffee.”

“All right. First I’ll clean you up and then I’ll get you some coffee.” We’ll see what Dr. Shaw has to say about you coming back from the dead, she thought. She had to admit that she hadn’t doubted the doctor’s prognosis.

*   *   *

Dr. Shaw was as astounded to find his patient alive as Wanda had expected him to be. He called it a miracle. “He must have the constitution of a grizzly bear,” he told her after he had examined Grayson the next day. “And you say he finally started to eat something?” She said that he did. “Well, keep him at it. He needs to build his blood back up.” He took another look back through the doorway of the tiny room off the kitchen and shook his head in amazement. “That’s the closest to death of anyone I’ve ever treated—to come back like that.” He looked at Wanda and said, “There’s no need to let him drink up all the coffee, though. His physician could use a cup of it, too.”

Wanda smiled. “Well, you just come on in the kitchen and set yourself down at the table. Maybe I still have a piece of cake to go with it.”

*   *   *

Over the next week, the doctor had occasion to enjoy more of Wanda Meadows’s coffee and sometimes a slice of cake or pie. He found the patient’s will to survive and his determination to regain his strength truly astonishing. “Mister,” he told Grayson, “you’re a mighty lucky man. You were as close to dead as I’ve ever seen.”

“If I was lucky,” Grayson countered, “I wouldn’t have got shot.”

Wanda jokingly attributed Grayson’s remarkable recovery to his embarrassment over having to be cleaned up by her. If truth be told, it was an important contributing factor to his rapid improvement. And after a few days of Wanda’s cooking and care, he insisted that he was able to use the chamber pot she left in the room for him, although it was extremely painful to get in and out of the bed without help. Then it was only a matter of a couple days more before he was able to walk on unsteady legs outside to the outhouse. The real driving force behind his determination to recover, however, was the fiery hot hunger for revenge that burned deep inside him and would not be denied. Nothing else seemed to matter, and his biggest concern was his impatience to regain his strength and agility. He never spoke of this to Wanda, but she knew it was eating away at him until one day she broached the subject.

“You’re doing a marvelous job of getting your health back,” she said. “Dr. Shaw never seems to get over it, and you’re so lucky to have survived such a terrible assault. I think you might do even better if you would forget about going after the men who attacked you. You might not be so lucky next time.” When he responded with nothing but an emotionless gaze, she continued. “You don’t know who they were, or where to find them, according to what you told the sheriff. So why not let the bitterness go, and put your whole mind on getting well?”

“I know who they were,” he replied quietly.

“But you told Sheriff Thompson—” she started, but paused when it struck her. He told the sheriff he didn’t know who shot him, because he had to have the satisfaction of vengeance for himself. Disappointed, she sat back in her chair to give him a look of disapproval. “So you’re building your strength back up so you can go out looking for those murderers and kill them?”

He shrugged, then said, “That’s about the size of it.”

“But why not let the law help?” she asked, losing her patience. “Why risk your life again? It’s their job to do, not yours. You’re not a deputy anymore. You could do something else with your life.”

He was not inclined to discuss his reasons for doing anything, but he figured he owed her an explanation after all she had done for him. “It’s what I do, Wanda,” he told her. “If the law wanted these two men, they’da probably come to somebody like me to go after ’em. The only difference is I’m the one who wants ’em, and I’ll have to go clear over to Kansas to find ’em. The marshal don’t wanna send anybody that far out of his jurisdiction, and the sheriff ain’t concerned with ’em as long as they got outta town. That kinda leaves nobody but me to see that they didn’t get away with shootin’ me full of holes.”

His calm demeanor told her that to argue with him was useless, so she decided not to pursue it. “All right, then,” she surrendered with a long sigh. “I guess you’ll do what you have to do. I certainly have no right to say, one way or the other.” She gave him a patient smile and confessed, “I was getting kind of used to having you around. I’d hate to see something happen to you after we patched up all the holes in you.”

“I ’preciate everythin’ you did for me,” he said. “I’m thinkin’ I might be outta your hair in a few more days.”

“You paid for it,” she told him.

“I think I got a lot more than I paid for, and I ain’t likely to forget it.”

*   *   *

Another week passed with Grayson getting stronger each day. Feeling close to ready now, he remained patient, content not to rush it lest he find himself not fully fit when it might count. He spent his days doing some carpentry work for Wanda, visiting Bob Graham at the stable, exercising his horses, and during the latter days, taking some target practice in the woods beside the Poteau River. The day finally came when he gave Wanda the news.

“I reckon I’ll be headin’ outta town for a spell tomorrow mornin’,” he told her one night after supper.

Had he been looking directly into her face, he might have noticed the slight flinching of her eyes. Several of her other guests were still lingering over supper, so she made an effort to remain casual when she responded. “A spell? How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“I don’t know for sure. As long as it takes to get the job done,” he replied.

“I just wondered, because Mr. Bishop is leaving to return to Little Rock, so I can have your old room upstairs ready when you get back. I’m assuming you’re planning to come back. You’re certainly paid up for several months ahead.”

“I’m aimin’ to come back, all right,” he said, and got up to leave the table.

“Well, I hope you have a safe trip, and I’ll have your room ready when you return.” She wanted to say more, but she didn’t feel comfortable talking in front of her other guests. So she smiled cheerfully and asked, “Will you be leaving before breakfast?”

“Yes, ma’am. I expect to get an early start.”

Later that night there was a tap on his door, and he opened it to find Wanda standing there with several cold biscuits and some ham wrapped in a cloth. “I thought you might want a little something to take with you, since you’re going to miss breakfast,” she said. She could not help but feel that their relationship had changed dramatically in the last few days. For the best part of a month, she had come in and out of his room, oftentimes without knocking, to tend to his wounds and check on his progress. She had seen every part of the man as he worked to regain his health. But now, she felt awkward to be tapping at his door.

“Well, now, that’s mighty nice of you, ma’am,” he said, standing there with his hand on the doorknob. She noticed that he had reverted back to calling her “ma’am.” Feeling equally awkward as she, he took the food from her. “This’ll go mighty good in the mornin’. I ’preciate it.” When she stood there, he finally asked, “Did you wanna come in?”

“Oh, no,” she quickly replied. “I just wanted to make sure you had something to eat in the morning. Gotta look after my patient, you know.” They both laughed, somewhat ill at ease. Suddenly she frowned. “Joel, please be careful. I know what you are going to do. Just promise me you’ll be real careful.” She turned at once and walked back down the hallway toward the parlor, leaving him to make of her visit what he would.

“I promise,” he called after her, not knowing what else he could say.

*   *   *

The sheriff of Black Horse Creek walked into Reiner’s Dry Goods late Saturday afternoon to find the proprietor and his wife cleaning the shelves and sweeping the floor, their usual weekly routine. “Can I help you, Sheriff?” Louis Reiner asked, with as much enthusiasm as he could manage. He was accustomed to the sheriff’s, as well as his deputy’s, visits to his store whenever they needed any merchandise he carried. They ran an account in his store, one that was never paid off, a problem that he was hesitant to complain about. Henry Farmer decided a while back that he was tired of the Blanchards’ freeloading practices, and refused to give the sheriff any more hardware on credit. Shortly after, Henry’s hardware store caught fire one night and burned to the ground. No one could say for sure how the fire was started, but one couldn’t help but wonder at the coincidence. Henry went back to Arkansas, and Louis was visited by the old man, himself, when Blanchard told him he needed to expand his store to handle hardware in addition to his usual merchandise.

“I just stopped by to make sure you knew about the burial service we’re holdin’ next week for my brother Billy,” Slate said. “The stone oughta be ready by then. We’ll hold the service right after church lets out, and Pa figured everybody would wanna come and pay their respects.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, “we heard about it, and of course we plan to attend.” He cast a sideways glance at his wife, who had stopped her dusting to listen.

“Good,” Slate remarked. “I know Pa will be pleased—me and Troy, too.” He turned abruptly and left the store.

“Yeah,” Louis said to his wife, “we’ll be there, all right, since we don’t want our store burnt down.”

“The nerve of that old man,” Eunice Reiner said. “What are they going to bury—an empty box? Billy’s already in the ground. That drummer that came through here last week said that Billy Blanchard was buried in Fort Smith.” She walked to the front window to make sure Slate was gone. “Marjorie Joyner said they’ve ordered a big ol’ tombstone to put in the middle of the graveyard, like a monument to that murdering piece of trash. And now we’re supposed to go to church and worship the Lord, then come out and pay tribute to the biggest sinner in the country. I think we oughta just get in our buckboard after church and go right home.”

“Maybe,” Louis said, “but I suspect we’ll be there with the other spineless members of this town.” Like a few of the other merchants in Black Horse Creek, he would like to pack up and move on to a legitimate town, but he was afraid to risk retaliation from the Blanchard clan. He thought again of Henry Farmer. He was allowed to leave, but without a penny’s worth of all he had built up over the past two years. “Poor ol’ Henry,” he commented.

“What?” Eunice asked.

“Oh,” her husband responded, “I was just thinking about Henry Farmer.” That thought summoned another. “You know who I haven’t seen in town in quite a while? That pair of scoundrels that work for Blanchard—Yancey Brooks and Lonnie Jenkins. They used to spend half their time next door at the saloon. Roy said they haven’t been in for a long time.”

“Blanchard probably sent them somewhere to rustle some more cattle for him,” Eunice replied. She glanced out the window again as if afraid she might be overheard. “I’ll be just as happy if we don’t ever see the likes of those two again.”

*   *   *

“Did you tell Roy?” Slate asked when Troy came in the office.

“Yeah, I told him. He said he never went to church. I told him I didn’t care if he did or not, but he’d damn-sure better show up at the funeral.” Troy was not any more enthusiastic about having a memorial service for his late brother than the citizens of the town were. He had always been envious of Billy’s prominent place in his father’s heart, and the sooner Billy was forgotten, the better. He was still smarting from the reception he and Slate received from their father when they returned from killing Grayson—a reception he had anticipated to be triumphant. Instead, they were treated as if they were to blame for Billy’s death. He remembered the scene vividly.

The old man had seen them ride into the corral and had immediately walked out to meet them. “We got him, Pa!” Troy called out when he saw his father striding out across the yard. “We got Grayson!”

“Filled him so full of lead, it took four men just to pick him up,” Slate said.

“Where’s Billy?” Jacob demanded. “Where’s my boy? I told you to bring Billy home.”

“Billy’s dead, Pa,” Slate told him.

“Dead?” Jacob exploded. “Whaddaya mean, dead? Who killed him?” His craggy face became twisted with his sudden fury, and he glared at his sons as if accusing them. “I told you to bring Billy home,” he repeated. He had always felt that Billy would survive. He could never accept the possibility that Billy would not come out on top. He was the most like him of any of his sons.

“There wasn’t nothin’ we could do to save him,” Troy said. “He was dead before we got to Fort Smith. Grayson shot him in the back before he even brought him in.”

“But we got Grayson,” Slate quickly interjected. “We left him lyin’ in the dust with five bullet holes in him.” He barely got the words out before his father erupted.

Jacob released an angry howl, like that of a wolf, causing Slate and Troy to step back, lest he suddenly strike out at anything in range. They had never seen him that angry before. When he finally seemed to have his fury under control, he lit into them again, repeating his orders to them. “I told you to bring him home. Where’s his body? Why didn’t you bring his body with you?”

“We didn’t think it’d be a good idea,” Slate said. “We saw his body when they was fixin’ it up to bury, and it was in bad shape. We decided you shouldn’t oughta see Billy lookin’ like that.”

“You decided?” The old man exploded again. “You don’t decide anythin’,” he roared. “I decide.” He calmed down after a few moments, then said, “Leave me alone for a bit. Go take care of your horses.” He turned and started back toward the house, but before going more than a few steps, turned about again. “You sure you killed Grayson?”

“Yes, sir,” Slate replied. “There ain’t no doubt about that. He’s dead.”

Jacob said not another word, but continued on toward the house. His anger and frustration were about to overcome him and he regretted his decision to send his two sons to Fort Smith. He should have gone himself, for he deeply needed vengeance by his own hand. He had counted upon Billy to help him carve out his dynasty in Black Horse Creek. Billy was vicious enough to handle the job. It was just a matter of waiting for him to sew all the wild oats of his boyhood. Neither Slate nor Troy was qualified to be any more than a gun hand, but Billy had swagger and vision of greater power. Jacob would have gladly given up both of his other sons if he could bring Billy back.