by R. W. Stone
He decided that if Red lived, he would bequeath him to the veterinarian, who had so candidly told him about his love for a childhood dog. Ellis seemed like a caring man and could certainly provide Red with a good home. If he were unwilling to take care of Red, well, then, he was certain he would find Red a proper home with a good family.
Any possessions of consequence back home in Canada, he would leave to the Mounties. He felt sure that the money from the sale of the ranch would be put to good use by the force. As for the money he had saved, he would leave that to Miss Victoria Marston. While she had not been in the forefront of his thoughts since their meeting, an unfamiliar feeling rose inside whenever an image of her unexpectedly popped into his mind. He felt it was a suitable gesture on his part for one who had made him feel so special.
He folded the paper, deciding he would ask for an envelope down at the front desk and then leave the document with the clerk. He got up and glanced over at the mirror above the wash basin. In the reflection he saw a man in plain clothes, just like any other man. That’s not who I am, he thought. If I go out … hell, I’m going out a Mountie. From his bag, he pulled out his scarlet tunic and gray pants, the two pieces of his uniform he had brought along even though he had thought it was a bad idea at the time since he would not be in the service of the NWMP in the States.
Minutes later, Donovan stood facing the mirror in the most distinctive pieces of his dress uniform as a constable of the Canadian North-West Mounted Police. He buckled on his holster, checked the Webley. As an afterthought, he took out a folding pocket knife and used it to cut the flap from the Webley’s holster. Donovan knew he could get a new regulation holster, and since he no longer had his Sharps rifle, he would have to depend solely on the revolver. At close range, speed with a pistol would make a huge difference and the flap would merely get in his way. Without the holster flap, his cross-draw would be significantly improved.
Donovan’s intention all night long had been to shoot Jack Emerson on sight and damn the consequences. However, as he turned to study his profile in the mirror, the image before him seemed to say: Right or wrong, good or bad, that is not how a Mountie behaves. He thought of Jamie and knew that, if the tables were turned and he stood in Lucas’ place, he would never just shoot a man, that the fight would have to be fair. He then thought of Victoria Marston and how difficult it would be, if he saw her again, to tell her that he had gunned Emerson down.
Donovan inhaled deeply. The words of the motto of the NWMP came to him: “Maintiens le droit,” which means, “Uphold the right.” He thought of the core values of the constables, values that Jamie personified—honesty, professionalism, integrity, respect, compassion, and personal accountability. He knew then that he had to face Emerson square on—and act according to the code of the force.
He looked around the room one last time, feeling the absence of his dog with whom he had such a strong bond. Donovan considered going to the vet’s office first, but thought seeing Red would redirect his focus. Besides, he feared Red might get excited at the sight of him and he knew rest was most important for his recovery. Lucas decided he would go directly to the center of town and await his fate.
He closed the room door quietly and walked down the stairs. He left his will with the clerk after he had put it in an envelope. Once he was out on the street, Donovan put on his hat and pulled the brim down in front. He liked to wear the hat like that, pulled down low, keeping his face in shadow.
The morning was cool, but for a Canadian used to frigid air, he felt refreshed as a gust of wind hit him squarely. As he stood there on the plank walkway outside the hotel for a few minutes, Lucas reflected that life was good. He felt that it was as good a day to die as any other, if that was what was in the cards for him. He headed toward the center of town.
As he walked, he couldn’t help noticing how people he passed were watching him closely, some were staring. In Canada, a Mountie’s uniform was always impressive and demanded respect, but, here in the States, it apparently made for a rather unusual spectacle.
He was on the alert now, scanning the rooftops and the windows. He would not put it past Jack Emerson to try to shoot him again from hiding, as that appeared to be the usual way he worked.
Overall, the town was quiet, and the Mountie detected nothing out of the ordinary. A wagon went by and joined two others parked outside the feed store, while a couple of women entered the dry-goods store.
He took out his silver pocket watch and glanced at it. Eleven thirty. One half hour till noon and whatever it would bring. Lucas still had three blocks to walk until he reached the town center where he would wait for the man who had murdered his twin. Maybe killed his dog.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jack Emerson was furious. This stranger knew his name and had trespassed on his family’s property while hunting him down. Not only that, but the man had insulted him, called him a coward. Worse yet, he had ruined the telescopic sight on his favorite rifle. The fact that Emerson had been in the process of trying to kill this man meant absolutely nothing to him. Even though his rifle was still perfectly functional, the scope was destroyed. And although he would not need it today, Emerson had liked the edge that scope gave him, and because it had been custom made to fit the Remington rolling-block, it was unlikely he would be able to replace it anytime soon.
After a quick breakfast of eggs and beans, together with a cup of bad coffee, Emerson mounted his bay horse and set out for the town of Bannack. He feared little as he rode, least of all any interference from the local law. Emerson had eliminated that threat weeks earlier when he had ambushed the local sheriff three miles outside of town, killing him with a shot between the eyes. Although it was unusual for him to do so, he had buried the lawman’s body in a ditch and covered it with brush, which is why he knew no one would stand in his way today against the damned stranger.
Because Emerson had grown up in these parts, he knew exactly how long the ride to town would take. He had traveled this road hundreds of times through the years. He never carried a watch, so every once in a while, he would look up at the sun to gauge his progress.
Right as the sun was hitting its midway mark, Emerson reached the outskirts of Bannack. He carried the Remington rifle sideways across the saddle in front of him. He ran his hand over the rifle barrel where the missing scope should be mounted, reigniting his hatred of this man named Donovan. Carried lengthwise in his saddle’s rifle sheath was the Sharps rifle he had found on the ground near his cabin. The one the stranger had dropped. Emerson had made up his mind this morning what he was going to do with it.
Normally he would have no compunction about assuring his own safety by ambushing an opponent, but, in this case, Emerson’s curiosity got the better of him, which is why he was heading to the center of town for the showdown. Emerson wanted to see the face of the man who had insulted him and temporarily bested him, the one who had dared to challenge him, the one who had ruined his fine rifle scope.
Emerson stopped his horse a block short of the town’s center and tied him to a hitching rail. He pulled the Sharps rifle from the sheath and headed to the spot where the two men were to meet.
The Sharps, like his Remington rolling-block, was also a single-shot firearm, but he had no ammunition for this particular Sharps since its caliber differed from his rifle. Emerson appreciated a fine gun as much as the next man, so if everything went as planned, he would keep it and buy bullets for it later.
Emerson walked down the middle of the east-side plank walk with a rifle in each hand. When he turned the corner and looked down the street, he stopped in his tracks for an instant when he saw the scarlet Norfolk jacket of the Canadian Mounties on a tall man, standing there, waiting for him.
Suddenly it made sense to the bushwhacker that the NWMP would be after him, but what this particular Mountie was doing here in the States baffled him. Besides, Emerson knew they had no legal authority down here.
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As soon as Corporal Lucas Donovan spotted Jamie’s Sharps, he knew he was about to face the man he was after. He saw before him a bulky man with a neck the size of a bull. The description he had been given by Grant and Stanton had been accurate. Emerson was not particularly tall, perhaps five eight or nine, but what there was of him looked solid as a rock. He had scraggly hair and beard, and deep furrows were etched into his forehead.
The outlaw glared at his opponent as he approached confidently. Since the Mountie had his hat pulled down in front, Emerson couldn’t make out his facial features, but what he could make out of the man meant nothing to him.
“You the one who was at my place yesterday?” he asked.
“I am,” Donovan replied. “And I’m sure you know it.”
Emerson laughed. “I know nothing of the kind, ’cept that you’re gunning for me. Mind telling me why? After all, you Mounties got no authority down here.”
It was Donovan’s turn to laugh. “Truthfully, it doesn’t matter a hoot in hell to me whether I have authority or not. This matter is personal. I shouldn’t do this, but I’ll tell you what … you give yourself up right now, come back with me to Canada, and I’ll see that you get a fair trial. Otherwise, you won’t leave here alive.”
“Mighty big talker, ain’t you?” the man-killer said boldly. “You Mounties have trailed me all over Canada without one bit o’ success. Never even seen me.”
“But I tracked you down now, didn’t I?” Donovan said pointedly.
Emerson thought things over for a moment. “Wait a minute, you said it’s personal. What do you mean by that?”
“You killed the wrong man, Emerson. Now it’s time for you to pay.”
“Pay? Why should I have to pay a law dog like you in a red clown suit?”
“Because of who you killed and how,” Donovan replied.
“Well, it’s my turn to make you an offer. Here, take this.” He leaned down and skidded the empty Sharps rifle across the ground. It stopped several yards from the Mountie’s feet. “My rifle against yours. Go ahead. Pick it up. It’s loaded.”
Donovan was certain that if he made even the smallest move toward the rifle, the outlaw would fire. Moreover, the Mountie sensed that Emerson was lying, that the Sharps would be empty. If, however, Lucas were to draw on the man, there was still a chance for success. Donovan was one of the best shots on the force, and he had calculated that he could cross-draw and fire his revolver before Emerson could get his rifle cocked and raised up to his shoulder to fire.
The Mountie slowly lifted his left hand and grasped the bottom of his pistol’s holster in order to steady it. The movement was not lost on Emerson who moved his thumb up and over onto the Remington rifle’s firing hammer. His finger was already on the trigger.
In a life and death situation, only a fool would give his opponent an edge, and Donovan was in no mood to make a noble gesture, such as stupidly letting this murderer make the first move.
Without another word, Donovan went for his pistol and was as fast as lighting. An open-holster draw from the waist can be blindingly fast, and at that range the Mountie knew he would not miss. What hadn’t crossed his mind, however, was that Emerson might not have to raise and sight his rifle.
For a man as experienced as Emerson, it was almost reflex to cock his rifle and just flip its barrel slightly upward, shooting low, from the hip. Donovan took the rifle bullet straight in the stomach before he could get off a single shot.
The impact of the rifle bullet pitched Donovan backward and around. He was on the ground, face down. Upon impact, his hat had flown off, and the Webley slid out of his reach.
Satisfied, Emerson took a moment to reload his rifle. He grunted with pleasure and was about to turn and leave when he heard a groan coming from the man he had just shot dead.
He watched as Donovan lifted himself back up to his knees with great effort and then slowly turned back around to face his assailant.
As the man-killer turned, there was a look of pure amazement on Emerson’s face. “Impossible. This rifle would take down a buffalo,” he muttered to himself. Without thinking, he glanced down at the rifle’s breech, wondering if somehow the cartridge had misfired.
The outlaw then looked up, and this time he raised the rifle up to his shoulder, intending to shoot the man right between the eyes. But, as he raised the gun and prepared to shoot, he hesitated, for this experienced man-killer always remembered the faces of those he had killed. Without his hat on, he could clearly see the Mountie’s face.
Emerson lowered the rifle slightly. “You? I … I killed you,” he said, a shiver running down his spine. He was shocked to his core.
The pain in Donovan’s belly was so profound it almost sapped him of his voice. “Apparently not,” Lucas replied with a harsh cough.
“No, not just now. Back … there. Out on that trail in Canada … in the snow. I shot you right in the chest. I watched you die.”
“Did you?” Donovan asked.
For perhaps the first time in as long as he could remember, Emerson was frightened. He had never confronted a ghost before. But ghost or no ghost, he had to bring an end to this man’s life.
He tried to make his rifle move back to his shoulder, having convinced himself he was mistaken, that this man just looked like the man he had killed up there in the gully filled with snow. But again he stopped as he saw tears begin to trail down the cheeks of the Mountie. As he watched in disbelief, the man’s chest began heaving as he sobbed heavily.
Emerson shook his head and laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day a Canadian North-West Mounted Policeman would be on his knees crying like a baby. Afraid, are you, tough guy?”
Lucas shook his head, ran the sleeve of his shirt across his face. “They’re not for me,” he said.
“No? Then who they for?”
“They’re for him,” Donovan said, nodding his head in Emerson’s direction.
“Who?” Emerson said. “I think you’ve …” He stopped talking as he heard the growl behind him. “What the …?” He swung around in time to see an enormous red-and-white dog leaping at him, wearing some sort of swaddling. Emerson tried to back up, but he was too slow. The dog landed on him, knocking him over, sending the Remington flying. Emerson had not had enough time to react.
Red attacked him with the fury of a starved wolf, biting deep into his shoulder, shaking his head, ripping fabric and tearing flesh. Emerson screamed in both pain and fright.
The pain was excruciating, but Emerson’s wits were coming back into focus—at the same time, the dog was weakening as he tried to fight on. After a few moments of thrashing back and forth, which had turned him around, Emerson was able to fling the dog from his arm and away. The dog yelped when he hit the ground. Emerson got up and reached for the Remington rifle with the arm that hadn’t been torn into by the dog. He pulled it over and tried with one hand to raise it and point it in Red’s direction.
“This one’s for Jamie,” he heard a voice say from behind. Quickly he turned back around just in time to see the Mountie, still on his knees, but with a large revolver in his hand. The Webley’s heavy bullet penetrated his head right between his eyes. Darkness came instantly, as Emerson fell over backward.
The big malamute struggled to its legs and hobbled slowly over to the man who had raised him from a pup. Lucas hugged the big dog, tears still streaming down his face as he thought of Jamie. Red was whimpering again, but this time it was not from pain. It was because of the joy he felt at this reunion with his master.
Dr. Ellis came running up to where Donovan and the dog had fallen.
“I’ve been chasing him,” the vet said, slightly out of breath. “That big brute of a dog managed to get out of his cage and sneak out the door at some point. Only one day after surgery! I never saw anything like it. He really doesn’t like being away from you
, does he?”
“Will he be all right?” Lucas asked, as he tried to determine if Red’s wound was bleeding again.
The veterinarian stooped down and did a quick check of the dog. “Aside from a few new scratches, I don’t think there is any great damage done.” He shifted the remnants of the bandage, most of which had unwound and lay strewn on the ground, to examine the bullet wound. “The sutures seem intact. His pulse and his color are good. Yeah, I think with rest and care, he’ll be all right.”
“Thank God,” Lucas sighed, pushing himself up to his feet with some help from Dr. Ellis.
“Whoa, wait a minute man. I saw that you were shot.” The vet pointed at Lucas’ belly. “Right there. How the hell are you still alive?”
Donovan pulled open the tunic and shirt to reveal his money belt. “I guess money belts are good for more than just hiding coins.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Dr. Ellis exclaimed. “The coins must’ve stopped the bullet.”
Both men laughed and spontaneously hugged each other.
“Now let’s get this dog of yours back to my office. I need to get a new bandage on him, and you look like you could do with something for the pain.”
Donovan holstered the Webley, and then stooped down to recover his hat. Bending over, hurt more than he had anticipated. “Yeah, I guess so, Doc,” he groaned, as he straightened up. “Got anything for pain, about ninety proof, made in Canada?”
“Coming right up,” the vet said, leading the pair slowly back toward the two-story house.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Two weeks later, Dr. Ellis and Corporal Lucas Donovan were sitting at the dinner table in the vet’s dining room. Lying under the table, close to his master’s feet, was a large red-and-white malamute. The bandages were off, and Red was now declared fit for duty.
