by A. W. Hart
The doctor said he had been more worried about closing Sara’s wound and checking the legendary Hickok yesterday and forgot about the ointment. He added it had beeswax as a base, with tea oil and olive oil in addition to the lavender. Reno thought Sara would like the aroma. He bought the can.
Wild Bill was sitting up and fidgeting. He had been in bed much too long for a man of action.
“James, thank you for coming yesterday. Lord in heaven, the trip alone could have killed you,” Reno said.
“There was only one thing that could have killed me yesterday—Cudgel Holmes. But Reno, you beat me out of leather and kept him from shooting me. I will always owe you for covering me in my weakened condition but don’t discuss it, my young friend. I don’t care about somebody being faster; I just care about the reputation it will give you. I don’t want you to add ‘faster than Wild Bill’ to an already growing reputation,” Hickok said.
“Sara and I talked about it, James, and both of us agree. Actually, I am not faster. You were just out of bed after a long recuperation, and you rode sixty miles in the middle of the night. You didn’t even have a chance to get a drink of water before joining what will probably be called the Battle of Wickenburg. And lastly, you killed Holmes. I just winged him.”
“No, Reno. It was you who killed him. He just didn’t quite realize it yet. I just let him know he was dead with a little .36 caliber shove.”
“Yes, a little shove between the eyes, left-handed, from the hip at forty feet. A pretty surgical shove, my friend. Let’s agree on one thing, James. Nobody outdrew you. We were all busy doing business. And thank God for Mayor Coggin’s surprise militia.”
“True, but you and I were making some pretty good headway with those Winchesters, weren’t we?” Wild Bill noted.
Reno grinned at his friend, “We sure were. You need anything?”
“No, I am pretty well fixed. Thanks.”
“Sara demanded some Wild Bill Arrow-in-the Butt salve. I found a weak substitute and better get it back. She keeps me on a short lariat,” Reno said.
“I hadn’t noticed,” the scout lied, smiling at his friend.
“Of course not,” Reno said as he patted his friend on the shoulder. “When the sawbones lets you out of here, we need to have dinner before all riding back to Prescott tomorrow, okay?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Reno walked out of the doctor’s office.
He walked right into Cudgel Holmes’s final surprise. A rifle cracked from a roof across the street.
Reno felt the punch low in his shoulder and a searing burn. He drew without thinking.
He fired three times as fast as a Colt Navy revolver could be fired and saw a figure stumble and fall off the roof of the bar across the street. The body hit on its head, flopped like a rag doll, and folded up on the street. His head and one leg were at awkward angles. The man was clearly dead.
Reno saw this just before the lights went out and he fell off the doctor’s double steps onto the street.
Wild Bill and the doctor were out instantly.
Hickok had a revolver in each hand and was barefooted with his union suit on. He covered the street, moving the deadly revolvers from side to side as the doctor instructed two men passing by to pick up Reno and bring him in.
Wild Bill followed, glad to give up the bed but worried about why.
The doctor held an ammonia ampule under Reno’s nose and held him down on the examining table as he quickly regained consciousness. He took scissors, cut Reno’s shirt off, and examined the wound, clucking like an old hen. Wild Bill looked over his shoulder. By chance, Reno had been hit just where Holmes had hit him ten years ago. Hickok knew the position of the shot was happenstance. Reno faded back into unconsciousness.
Mayor Coggins rushed in.
“How’s the young man?” he asked.
The doctor said, “He’ll live, but he will feel like hell for a while. It was a pass-through, so not having to surgically remove a lead bullet will reduce the chance of infection or lead poisoning. I just have to stop the bleeding, sew him up, and fight shock. Only good thing about bullet wounds is they don’t bleed much. Except with a flesh-destroying Big-50 like yours, Mayor.”
Wild Bill turned to the official.
“Mayor, could you have small armed groups of your men from yesterday go through town and round up anyone who cannot justify being here? I doubt Holmes left another man, but we can’t take a chance. I’ll get my pants on and notify Miss Sara,” he said.
“No need. I’m here,” came a melodic but worried voice behind him. He turned and saw her barelegged, barefoot, and dressed in a long canvas duster. She had a Colt revolver in each hand.
“How’s Reno, Doctor?”
“He will survive, but don’t plan on leaving Wickenburg for at least a few weeks. Maybe longer,” the doctor said.
She handed Wild Bill her Colts butt-first as she pushed through the people in the small room.
Leaning over the bed, she kissed her unconscious brother on the forehead.
“Don’t you damn die on me after all we’ve been through, y’hear? As a twin, you are part of me and me of you. You die, and a big part of me dies with you. I just won’t have it, Reno, so snap out of it.” she whispered as her tears streamed down onto his face.
The doctor, the mayor, and the scout all heard. They knew he would survive. Wild Bill knew he’d better, or there would be hell to pay with his fast-shooting spitfire of a sister.
The doctor called his wife in, who asked Sara if she wanted to sit by the bed. She nodded.
“Honey, want me to go over to the hotel and get you something to wear?”
“I don’t care, ma’am. All I care about in the whole world is lying unconscious right here,” Sara said.
The wife walked into the living quarters and came back with a sweater, a cotton dress, and some socks, not having shoes to fit. She shooed the men out and helped the wounded girl dress, her guns on a nearby table.
Sara pulled up a chair and told the returning Wild Bill their room number and to feel free to use the room while she was here. She knew Reno would be moving to the bed the scout had previously occupied.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here with you until Reno recovers consciousness. I might take you up on your offer for a quick nap afterward.”
She nodded, and he pulled up the second chair. Sara took Reno’s hand and held it, her face still tear-streaked. She ignored the pain in her hip.
Wild Bill Hickok had an uncharacteristic look of worry on his handsome face.
They sat silently.
10
Reno went in and out of consciousness. He had sweats, and Sara blotted his forehead with a damp cloth. The doctor said it was shock from the trauma of a rifle slug hitting him and not to worry overmuch. The mayor’s wife insisted she and the scout stay at their large home on the outskirts of town. Hickok accepted. Sara politely agreed to move once her brother was stabilized. Since the Coggins owned the best restaurant in town, the wife sent food to Sara at the surgery several times a day.
Sara began to realize how much the town had appreciated how amicably she and Reno had resolved the Lamb matter. Yes, they would defend their town against marauders riding their streets shooting, but they were also there to back up the Basses and the unexpected Wild Bill Hickok.
Clearly, it had been the general opinion that the three gunfighters could handle Holmes and his six known cronies in a facedown. Prior to the famed pistoleer showing up, Mayor Coggins had instructed the riflemen, including himself, to join the fray as soon as it started to help Sara and Reno. But when Wild Bill showed up, he’d held his “militia” off to let the experts start what Holmes had referred to as the “dance.” It had been a good mayoral decision.
They had gotten to see three of the deadliest shootists around take on three top gunsels and four of unknown talent. The shooting had only lasted seconds, though it seemed longer to watchers and participants. Reno, Wild Bill, and
Cudgel Holmes were so fast their shots seemed simultaneous; nobody but the other two realized Reno had outdrawn both by a wide margin. At least, wide by gunfight standards. In reality, it might have been half a second, but it was a big damn half-second.
The mayor wired the Sheriff in Prescott. The wire back reminded him to certify the death of Cudgel Holmes for the reward. He had the doctor go over to the undertaker’s busy location and fill out a death certificate stating Cudgel Holmes died from two bullet wounds fired simultaneously by George Washington Bass and James Butler Hickok because that was what it had looked like to onlookers. Mayor Coggins walked over to the surgery and told Sara and Wild Bill. The scout started to say something, but Sara interrupted with, “Yes, I had a front-row seat as a witness, and it’s how I saw it. Thanks for taking care of it, Mayor Coggins.”
By the third day, Reno’s fever broke, and he was awake except late at night. He even got up and walked, about as stiffly as Wild Bill had when he’d strode onto the street to line up with Sara and Reno.
When Reno first woke up fully aware of things, he asked Sara, “What about the bushwhacker who shot me? I thought I got him before passing out.”
“Oh, you got him, all right. Mayor Coggins paced it off. Eighty feet across and thirty feet up. He had three .36 caliber balls in his chest. The group was about four inches. Wild Bill says it was unbelievable for a .36 and at such a range, even without considering it was a fast draw and you had already gotten a solid hit from a .44 Henry rifle. He was probably dead before he hit the ground and broke his neck, one leg, and one arm,” Sara said.
“Do we know who he was?”
“We do now. I identified him myself, sore butt and all. It was the young Mexican who gave us the letter in Prescott,” Sara answered.
“Excuse me for not asking already today, but how is your hip healing? You don’t seem to be favoring it as much.”
“It’s coming along. The doctor says the stitches can come out tomorrow. I have had to twist around and put the ointment on by myself. It sure is more convenient to have a brother for things like caring for you when you are shot.”
“Of course, it is. Have you been here the whole time?” Reno asked.
“Where else would I be? Or where would you be if I was seriously wounded?”
“Thanks, Sara. You are the best,” he said.
“The best what?”
“The best everything,” Reno responded.
“And thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For saving Wild Bill, for running into gunfire with just a Bowie knife to kill the person who shot me, for kneeling in front of me while shooting the rifle at the horsemen to keep me safe, for covering my nakedness when I was down, for giving me immediate first aid to stop the bleeding, for carrying me in here in your arms after. I guess I’ll stop the thanks for now. I do have more, but I’ll hold those for some other time,” Sara said.
“I didn’t do much. Of course, I’d do those things, I—”
She interrupted with a finger on his lips to shut him up, so he shut up. Reno Bass was a lot of things. A fool was not one of them.
Reno did not want to move to Mayor Coggin’s house, despite the friendship and help he had been. He was more interested in getting to their interim home in Prescott, checking on Apache, an integral family member, and on Thunder. Sara agreed and swore her hip could stand a seven-hour ride if taken at a walk, which would be more like a ten- or twelve-hour ride. But, they reasoned, what else were they going to do?
They had a good bounty to split with Wild Bill on top of a solid grubstake in gold coins already. They were not sure Prescott was their choice of a place to settle. They knew Kansas was not. Colorado had everything they wanted, except for one issue: Reno wanted it because of Isabelle Mando. Sara did not want it because of Isabelle Mando, and because Isabelle’s brother felt about her like Reno did Isabelle. One day, they might have to work it out. Today, one had a sore butt, and the other had a sore chest. Neither felt like arguing. They felt like being thankful, and knew they had every reason to feel very thankful after the past weeks.
“We have a pretty solid amount of money, especially once we split the Holmes bounty with James,” Reno said as they rode along.
“I think determining where you want to settle down is the first step,” the scout said.
“Prescott is nice. We also like the people in Wickenburg. They sure stepped up and helped us when the chips were down. Mayor Coggins told me they were going to help with the fight against Holmes and his first six, but reckoned when the deadly Wild Bill stepped up, seven against three might be about even.”
“He was pretty much right,” Hickok said. Sara nodded seriously from atop Grace.
“What did you all think about Colorado and New Mexico when you were there?” Wild Bill asked.
“We have some people in Colorado we don’t agree on,” Sara said. “And my preference is for trees, so most of New Mexico and the parts of Arizona we’ve seen are a bit sparse on them. And forget our native Kansas. I’ve had enough windy plains to last a lifetime,” she added.
“I have to go with Sara on those objections. Yes, I do like a girl in Colorado, but her brother has feelings for Sara she doesn’t have in return. It would be awkward. After almost three years, both of them might be married, for all we know. I guess we focused on bringing down the scourge of the earth and neglected to write letters to either,” Reno said.
“I’ve heard tell parts of California are nice. Colorado is a big territory, so don’t write it off completely. There are some wide-open places like Wyoming and the Dakotas, too. I only know about the middle of the country. I haven’t been back East, but doubt you’d ply your trade as bounty hunters too well back there. I kinda think you will end up a lawman, Reno. Sara, I just can’t call it on you,” Wild Bill said.
“I’ve been thinking of a house for wayward whores,” she began, “where they could learn housekeeping and cooking and become wife material,” she said. Reno’s mouth dropped open. It was the first he had heard of this, he told his scout friend.
“Well, there’s probably a bigger market for wives than for soiled doves,” the man in buckskins thought aloud.
“But Sara, Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves. You can’t sell those women.” Reno objected.
“No, but I can charge a fee, like mail-order brides,” she said decisively.
They rode for another few miles in silence. Sara was grinning inwardly, the other two perplexed about the mind of the female of the species.
Finally, Wild Bill spoke up and said, “Sara, you got our goat there, didn’t you?”
She just looked at him and grinned. As he did so often, her brother rolled his eyes. He used to hate it when she used words like “whores,” but he had given it up as a losing battle some time ago. Whatever was in her active mind was going to eventually come out of her mouth, like it or not.
They arrived at Prescott early in the afternoon. Wild Bill Hickok bought tickets on the late afternoon stage. Since the Army mule he had ridden in on was dead and he was exhausted still from his injuries and interrupted recovery, he decided to let someone else drive him back to Dodge. The circuitous trip was almost nine hundred miles by stage.
They did not have time for a celebratory dinner, so they went straight to the Yavapai County sheriff’s office and claimed one lonesome dog and one bounty to split on Cudgel Holmes.
Wild Bill did not want to split the bounty, but the Basses insisted. He had traveled a long way, almost dying in the process, to help two friends.
“You killed him, James,” Reno insisted. “He was still standing when you shot him dead.”
The sheriff was at the office and had accumulated the total of the bounties on Holmes. Nine hundred dollars went to Sara and Reno, and nine hundred to Wild Bill. Nine hundred dollars was equal to thirty times a cowboy’s monthly pay, so it contributed nicely to Sara’s and Reno’s grubstake. Since Hickok did not call anywhere home, it meant some really meaningful poke
r games.
They accepted their gold coins and signed receipts from several jurisdictions.
“We have to come back up to Kansas to check on the new cemetery for our folks,” Sara said. “We’ll write you first and try to get together for a meal or something then.”
“I look forward to such a dinner,” he replied.
“James, thank you for everything you’ve done for us. Stay safe until we see you again. And like those folks down in Sonora say, ‘Vaya con Dios.’”
“You two take care of yourselves. If you find a place to light before we see each other again, write me care of Fort Dodge, okay?” They promised to, shook hands, and parted like the good friends they were.
11
Apache was ecstatic that his master and mistress were home. He led them as they rode back to the little cottage they had rented on the outskirts of town.
Sara wrote to Reverend Salzman and asked whether the cemetery had been laid out and when their family would be moved to it. It would take weeks for an answer, so she wanted to initiate the process.
The ride up from Wickenburg had been painful on her hip, but excruciating for Reno. He had not healed enough for such a level of bumping up and down on a saddle.
She sent for the doctor in Prescott, and he checked the rifle wound and prescribed another week in bed. Sara continued applying the ointment to her wound. Reno had been shot getting it for her, and she did not find it in his jacket pocket until days later. She was healing well, a three-inch stitched scar on a beautifully rounded hip—a scar virtually no one would ever see.
Apache stayed by Reno’s side and guarded him while he recuperated.
After two weeks, he was impatient and walking around the cottage, then the small acre of land they had rented outside the town limits of Prescott.
Jack, his buckskin gelding, and Grace, her coal-black mare, were getting fat in the small corral. These were spirited animals used to long, fast trips down bad trails. Trips in the worst weather. They were not used to warm days and sweetgrass.
