CHAPTER 19
“You’re gonna be all right, boss,” Muddy said as he rode alongside Nick Creighton.
From time to time, the boss outlaw reeled in the saddle, and it was Muddy’s job to reach over and steady him. Turk was leading Creighton’s horse.
Muddy went on. “Once we get back to the hideout, Molly’ll fix you right up, I’ll bet.”
“Shut up, Malone,” Creighton grated. “I’m in enough pain without listening to you yammer.” He used his left arm to cradle his right arm against his body. His shirtsleeve had been torn away and then wrapped around his right forearm as a crude bandage to slow down the bleeding from the long furrow left behind by a bullet. The wound wasn’t that serious, but Muddy knew it had to hurt like hell.
Even worse, as far as Creighton was concerned, was that the injury had happened just as he was about to blast the life out of Smoke Jensen. The slug had ripped along his arm and made him drop his gun an instant before he could have squeezed the trigger and avenged his brother Blue.
Muddy knew that because the boss had been complaining bitterly about it for most of the ride back to the basin at the end of the box canyon. That missed opportunity to kill Jensen seemed to bother him more than the five men they had lost during the botched ambush.
Muddy still wasn’t sure what had gone wrong. One of Jensen’s men had gotten behind them somehow. Maybe the fella’s horse had had trouble and he had fallen behind. All that really mattered was that he had started shooting and spoiled the trap and then all hell had broken loose.
Jensen and his men were fightin’ fools, that was for damn sure, Muddy thought. Even outnumbered, they had killed nearly half a dozen of the rustlers and routed the others.
The rest of the men straggled along behind Creighton, Muddy, and Turk. Some of them were wounded, which led to an occasional groan or curse in the darkness. With Creighton being wounded, Turk didn’t want to set too fast a pace and bounce him around in the saddle. Also, it wasn’t easy finding his way through the rugged landscape at the edge of the mountains.
Finally, they reached the entrance to the canyon. Knowing that guards had been left on duty there, Turk called out, “Hold your fire, boys! It’s us.”
One of the riflemen came out from behind the rocks. “Where are the cattle? I thought you were gonna drive some more stock up here after you killed Jensen and his men. Where’s the boss?”
“I’m right here, you damned fool,” Creighton snapped. He used his knees to nudge his mount out from behind Turk. Muddy moved up, too, in case the boss needed his help.
“Sorry, Nick,” the guard said hastily. “I didn’t see you.”
“Get out of the way,” Creighton ordered. “Has there been any trouble here?”
“Nope, quiet as can be.” The guard stepped back but fidgeted.
Muddy thought he wanted to know what had happened but was too leery of getting Creighton mad at him to press the question. Anyway, he would find out soon enough. All the men who had been left behind would.
The group rode through the twisting canyon and came out in the basin. A large fire had been built, and the flickering light spread out almost from one side of the basin to the other.
Molly stood in the cabin’s open doorway, lantern light silhouetting her shapely body. She started walking out to meet the returning men, then began hurrying when she saw how Creighton was slumped forward in the saddle, his shoulders hunched as he protected his wounded arm. “Nick! Nick, are you all right?”
Turk reined in and brought Creighton’s mount to a halt as Molly ran up. She caught hold of Creighton’s left leg.
“The boss got grazed by a bullet,” Turk told her. “It left a pretty good scratch almost the length of his forearm.”
“Get him down off of there and into the cabin,” Molly said. “I need to take a look at it.”
Muddy and Turk swung down and helped Creighton dismount. They would have picked him up and carried him in, but he barked, “I can walk, damn it! It’s my arm that’s hurt. There’s nothing wrong with my legs.”
That wasn’t strictly true, considering his limp, and he wasn’t very steady on his feet. He had lost a lot of blood. Muddy helped him stumble into the cabin. Creighton stretched out on the bunk.
Molly knelt beside him. “Let me see your arm.” She started unwrapping the makeshift bandage. Some of the blood had dried and stuck to the wound.
Creighton cursed as she carefully worked it free.
“Muddy, hand me that bottle of rye on the table.”
“Yes’m.”
Molly reached under her skirt and tore a strip off her petticoat, then poured rye onto the cloth. She began cleaning the blood from the wound with it. Creighton grimaced and muttered more curses.
“Oh, hush,” Molly told him. “This isn’t going to kill you, but if that wound festers, it might.”
“I know that, damn it. Go ahead.”
“What about Jensen?”
That question brought another stream of profanity from Creighton. Muddy edged toward the door, figuring he didn’t need to be around while the boss told Molly what had happened.
Creighton saw him trying to slip out. “Malone!”
Muddy turned back. “Yeah, boss?”
“Find your buddy Turk. Tell him that he’s second in command now that Lupe’s dead.”
“Really?” Muddy was glad to hear that, hoping it meant he might get some of the easier chores, having been Turk’s pard for several years. He knew Turk would be glad to hear it, too. Then he said, “We don’t actually know that Lupe’s dead—”
“He didn’t make it out of that fight. Maybe he’s just wounded and Jensen took him prisoner. It doesn’t matter. He can’t help us anymore, either way.”
“Come to think of it,” Muddy said, “you told us you saw Jensen get hit and go down. Even though you didn’t get to blow his brains out, boss, could be he bled to death.”
Creighton shook his head. “No, I don’t believe that. I’d sense it somehow if he was dead. I’d feel like the debt for Blue had been paid. I don’t feel that, so I know that Jensen’s still alive . . . for now.”
Talking about sensing things like that seemed just too spooky to Muddy. He didn’t put any stock in it. But Creighton obviously did, and his word was law. So they would proceed as if Smoke Jensen were still alive.
“What you’re sayin’ is . . . this ain’t over.”
“Not by a long shot.” Creighton looked down at his wounded arm. “I may be laid up for a little while, but it won’t take me long to recover from being winged like this. And once I have . . . Smoke Jensen had better look out, because I’m coming for that son of a bitch.”
They had already tried that and not accomplished anything except to get several men killed, Muddy thought. Even though he wasn’t known far and wide for being smart, he had enough sense not to say that as he slipped out of the cabin and went to give Turk the sort-of good news.
* * *
“I’m afraid you’re not going to be getting up and moving around for at least two weeks, Mr. Jensen,” Dr. Steward said the next morning as he finished his examination of Smoke’s wound and changing the dressings.
“That’s not going to do,” Smoke said as he frowned and shook his head.
“It’ll have to. Actually, as much blood as you lost, you really shouldn’t even be alive. I’m not quite sure how you survived, unless it’s just sheer stubbornness on your part. At this point, however, if you insist on continuing to be stubborn and ignore my orders, it will kill you.”
Sally crossed her arms and looked sternly at Smoke. “It’s not going to happen, Doctor. I can give you my word on that. My husband is going to do exactly what you say, right to the letter.”
“I hope you can convince him of that, Mrs. Jensen.”
“Oh,” Sally said, giving Smoke a warning frown to match his own, “I have my methods.”
Smoke blew out an exasperated breath. “If Preacher was here, he’d go out and gather some moss and herbs, make a poultice, and slap it on the wound, and I’d be good as new in a few days.”
“I don’t know who Preacher is,” Steward said, “but it would take a miracle to do such a thing.”
“That old man’s got a few miracles left in him.”
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Sally went on. “Smoke will behave. He’ll complain up one way and down the other about it, but he’ll follow orders for once in his life.”
Steward summoned up a tired smile. “I’ll leave the patient with you, then, madam.” He rolled his sleeves down. He had spent the night dozing in a rocking chair in Smoke and Sally’s bedroom, where Smoke had been moved after the long and bloody operation to remove the rustler’s bullet that had lodged in his body. Steward had confirmed that no bones were broken, and the slug hadn’t touched any internal organs, just torn up some meat and severed numerous blood vessels.
Denny, Louis, and Cal were also in the room, standing out of the way and observing while Steward finished up and got ready to go back to Big Rock. As the doctor turned to pick up the coat he had laid aside during the night, he smiled at Denny. “Any time you’d like to consider a career in medicine, Miss Jensen, I’d be glad to put in a good word for you. I believe your quick action saved your father’s life.”
“You mean be a doctor?” Denny said. “Me?”
“I’ve heard of several women who practice medicine. I believe there will come to be more of such in time.”
“Maybe so, but not me,” Denny declared without hesitation. “Shut up inside all the time, taking care of sick folks . . . not hardly.”
“Well, sometimes it’s a wise person who knows when they’re not called to a certain profession.” Steward shrugged into his coat, picked up his hat, and nodded to everyone gathered in the room. “I’ll be back out to check on Mr. Jensen this evening. In the meantime, that dressing will need to be changed every four hours, without fail.”
Sally nodded. “We’ll take care of it, Doctor.”
“Good day, then,” Steward said with a tug on the brim of his hat.
“I’ll see you out, Doctor,” Louis said.
As they went out, Smoke called after them, “I’ll be laid up for a week! Maybe!”
Sally laughed. “Now you’re just being contrary, Smoke.”
“That fella just didn’t know who he was talking to.” Smoke turned his head on the pillow to look at his foreman. “Cal—”
“Don’t you worry about a thing, Smoke,” Cal broke in. “The ranch will keep running nice and smooth.”
“Under normal circumstances, I figure that would be true,” Smoke said. “But there are a couple things that make this situation anything but normal, and you know as well as I do what they are.”
Cal’s jaw tightened. “The rustlers who got away.”
“And the varmint who called me by name just before he tried to kill me.”
“He must have a personal grudge against you, Smoke,” Sally said. “Did you get a good enough look at him to recognize his face or voice?”
Smoke shook his head. “No, I don’t have any idea who he was. But he got away, and if he didn’t die from Denny winging him, he’s almost certain to come back and try again.”
“You reckon I’d better hire some extra men?” Cal asked. “Pearlie could put the word out that we’re paying fighting wages. He’s still got some friends who rode those trails with him in the old days.”
“No, it’s the twentieth century,” Smoke said. “Those days are over and done with.”
“Maybe,” Cal said. “Maybe not.”
“It probably wouldn’t hurt to take on a few extra hands. But the Sugarloaf doesn’t hire gun-wolves, even if you could find any. Never has.”
“All right, Smoke. Laid up or not, you’re still the boss.”
“I won’t be laid up long,” Smoke vowed. “Not near as long as that pill pusher thinks.”
Sally said, “Dr. Steward seems to be a very competent physician. He’s not some quack, Smoke.”
“I’ll do what he says,” Smoke said grudgingly. “Within reason.” He took a deep breath and then winced as the movement caused a twinge of pain, even as tightly bandaged up as his torso and shoulder were. “I don’t know why I’m . . . getting sleepy . . .”
“Because you were shot and nearly died and need your rest.” Sally drew the covers up tighter over him. She cast a meaningful glance over her shoulder at Denny and Cal, and the two of them started to withdraw.
“If you need anything, Pa, you let me know,” Denny said before she went out.
“I will, darlin’ . . . Thanks for . . . everything you’ve done . . .” Smoke’s eyelids drooped closed.
“It’s got to be the hardest thing in the world for a man like your pa,” Cal said as he and Denny went down the stairs. “He’s used to always bein’ right in the middle of the action, no matter what’s going on. And now he’s got to just take it easy.” Cal shook his head. “He’ll go plumb loco.”
“No, he won’t. My mother will see to that.”
He chuckled. “You’re probably right. When it comes to strong-willed folks, those two are a good match.”
Denny agreed with that. She had inherited that strong will, too. She was already thinking about her next course of action. Her father probably wouldn’t like it, and her mother damned sure wouldn’t, but Denny knew what she had to do.
While Cal headed outside to see to the day’s chores, Denny went into the parlor. She picked up Smoke’s Colt revolver from the table she’d set it on the night before and checked the cylinder. Five rounds, with the hammer resting on the empty chamber, just the way she had heard him say many times.
Dressed in clean riding clothes, she slid the Colt into the waistband of her jeans and went outside, looking for Pearlie. She found him in the barn where he spent a lot of his time, mending tack.
“Howdy, gal,” he said as he looked up from the saddle he was working on. “How’s your pa?”
“The doctor says he’ll be all right, but he has to stay in bed for the next two weeks and take it easy for who knows how long after that.”
Pearlie let out a bray of laughter. “Smoke Jensen layin’ in bed and takin’ it easy . . . That’ll be the day!” He noticed the gun at her waist and a slight frown creased his weathered forehead. “What do you have there?”
“Pa’s .45.”
“He know you’re carryin’ it around?”
“I’ve got a good reason for carrying it,” Denny said, not really answering Pearlie’s question.
“Oh? What’s that?”
Denny wrapped her hand around the gun butt and drew the weapon. She looked down at it for a moment as she held it, then she raised her gaze to the former pistoleer. “Teach me how to use this.”