A number of short but revealing conversations took place in Black A.V. Horse City that day.
The first was between Doc Robertson’s wife Bertha and Mose Copley, blacksmith, not so very long before a slave in the state of Missouri. It went something like this: “Good morning to you, Mr. Copley.”
“Ma’am.”
“Are we entirely private here, Mose, or are we likely to be overheard?”
“Lije, boy, you stand at the door there an’ you sing out if anybody come.”
“Mose, my husband has been treating a mutual friend of ours who was shot when leaving town in a hurry.” Mose nodded and looked wary. In his book, white folks were the origin of most of his troubles in life. “This party’s saddle and gear are hidden not so far from here. If it was to be hidden again in your barn for a very short while, do you think you could see your way clear to putting it on one of your best horses? This horse would later be returned to you safe and sound.” She wasn’t too sure of the last statement, but she prayed it was true.
Mose remarked that he wasn’t liking what he heard too well. Bertha remarked that she had heard from a reliable source that a certain cattle baron, who would remain unnamed, had every intention of putting a noose around the neck of her husband’s patient and pulling it tight enough to extinguish life.
The blacksmith rolled his eyes and opined that kind of put a different light on the whole matter. He would see that the horse was saddled and ready for the trail.
Bertha Robertson put a hand on his arm and said: “God bless you, Mose.” Mose looked at her, a little surprised, and saw that she meant it. She said that he did not stand to lose for his gesture.
“Ma’am,” he said with some dignity, “that man is a friend of mine. It don’t call for payment.”
At about the same time, Larned with Tallin following and with the sheriff and his deputy in attendance, made his way to the doctor’s house and demanded to see the wounded miscreant. The doctor unhesitatingly led the way upstairs and showed them into Mrs. Robertson’s spare bedroom, all bright and cheerful with sunshine and colored chintzes.
Larned stood by the bed and looked down at the still, pale form of Remington McAllister.
“By God,” he said, “I could only wish that the colonel had shot a mite lower and somewhat to the left, then this cow-thief would now be dead and no longer a problem.”
“Amen,” said Tallin piously.
“How do I know this man is not playing possum?” Larned demanded.
“You don’t,” said Robertson aggressively, “nor do you have to. You have my word on it.”
Larned shot him one of those fierce glances which had as much effect on the doctor as water on a duck’s back. He said: “It you’re playing me false, doctor, I assure you that your future in this country is a dark one.”
Robertson smiled unpleasantly. “I trust you have taken steps not to fall ill while you’re in my territory.”
Horace Carfax laughed outright and hiccupped.
Larned said: “I shall return again tomorrow, doctor. You will be with me, Donaldson, and you will question and charge him.”
The doctor grimaced comically and said: “Charge him with defending his property, sheriff. He’ll never get out of that one.”
Larned made a contemptuous noise and strode from the room. Tallin remarked to the doctor: “You’re steppin’ out of line, doc. You could pile up a heap of trouble for yourself.” He followed his employer from the room.
The doctor said mildly: “I think I was just threatened.” He walked out, followed by the deputy. The sheriff hovered for a moment by the bed, then leaned down so his mouth was near McAllister’s left ear.
“McAllister, Larned has a man back and front. You’re safer here.”
With that he strode from the room and joined the others downstairs.
Down at the hardware store Mr. Shultz held court. Attendant upon him were four ladies, including Mrs. Lamed and Helena, two small boys and his assistant, Harry Burns, who according to Shultz was a good-for-nothing who ate Shultz’s good food, lazed away the day and would have been in an orphanage had it not been for Mrs. Shultz’s large and generous heart.
“I happen to know,” Shultz was saying, “the true story behind McAllister. Just no denyin’ it. It is a fact that McAllister is widely known in Kansas as a counterfeiter and horse-thief. He ran a gang of villains such as the state has never known. Every one of them an infamous cut-throat in his own right. My oath on it, ladies.” McAllister had squatted on Mr. Larned’s land and he had bushwhacked Mr. Larned’s riders. At least two of them had died with bullets in their back. But that was nothing compared with what the ruffian had done amongst the poorer settlers. He had stabbed a farmer foully in the night and assaulted (here a certain look came into Shultz’s eyes) the farmer’s wife and daughter. A nod was as good as a wink. The ladies gave out gasps of shock and horror. “And to think,” Shultz concluded, “that this rascal is here in this very town, lying in bed in the doctor’s house. He should be in jail.”
Mrs. Larned asked sweetly: “Do we have a jail, Mr. Shultz?”
Miss Larned asked, just as sweetly: “Wouldn’t it save us all a lot of trouble and time if we hanged him this very afternoon?”
~*~
It was no trouble at all for the doctor to retrieve McAllister’s gear. It was a common sight for the doctor to be coming or going from town either on a horse or driving his famous pair of blood horses in his buckboard. The two horses were his one extravagance. Like so many men at that period, he took a keen interest in the blood lines of horses and would spend hours discussing the merits and demerits of particular breeds. His strong link with McAllister, in fact, was his admiration for what McAllister was doing with the California canelos.
During the afternoon of that day, doc had an emergency call out to a farm not more than three miles north-east of town. It was a complication in childbirth and it required him to spend over two hours at a farmer’s house. This brought him down the Black Horse trail as dusk was overtaking the land, and enabled him to cross the creek by a ford about a half-mile north of the bridge and pack McAllister’s gear aboard his vehicle without being seen. He crossed by the ford again and came into town across the bridge.
There was nothing remarkable in his stopping at Mose Copley’s smithy. Here he and Mose unloaded the gear and stowed it away under straw in the barn back of the shop. The doctor then proceeded home and was able to inform both his wife and McAllister with some satisfaction that the chore was done.
Bertha said: “I still think you’re crazy to attempt it, Remington. You know the house is being watched. Give yourself a few more days at least to regain your strength.”
“She’s right, Rem,” the doctor added. “Give the shoulder a chance to heal.”
But McAllister had made up his mind. As old Chad McAllister had said, The back of a horse …