Sky tried the door, found it open, and stepped quickly inside. O’Malley followed him into a store room dimly lit by the light that filtered through the single window. The sound of voices drifted through as Sky moved carefully across the floor and turned the knob on the door very slowly. He cracked the door and heard Dave’s voice.
“ . . . violated the law, and you’ve got to give him up.”
Ingerson’s voice followed, and Sky held his breath and pushed the door half open. The door opened directly into the saloon, and he saw at once that the tension was high, ready to break.
Dave had advanced halfway to where Rolfe Ingerson and a slender man sat at the rear of the room. Al Riker and Pete had moved to the outer edges of the room, and the man called Omar was just behind Dave, his eyes fixed on the two men. One glance and Sky realized that the four men were surrounded by several roughs he knew to be in Ingerson’s pay, including Jack Stedman.
“You got the wrong man, Lloyd,” Ingerson was saying. “It was a fair fight. Lake drew on Roy here, and we ain’t lettin’ you take him.” Then he said roughly, “Where’s the mayor? I thought he was going to be in on this arrest.” He got to his feet, and Hart stood up as well. “You’re here to make trouble, Lloyd, and I don’t aim to stand for it.”
Sky knew that it was some sort of a signal, for out of the corner of his eye he saw Stedman and another one of Poole’s men drop their hands to their guns, ready to draw.
He shoved the door open, letting it swing wide; and as it banged against the wall, Ingerson and Hart jumped and wheeled to face Sky. “You’re not going to stand for it, Rolfe?” Sky said loudly. “Well, maybe you better sit for it then—watch your hand!” Ingerson’s hand had dropped to his gun, and Sky’s words froze the action.
Ingerson looked around, catching Hart’s signal, then moved to his right. “That badge means nothing here, Winslow,” he taunted. He looked around the room and added, “You’re not taking Hart in.”
“So this is Winslow, the gunfighter.” Hart laughed and stepped forward, his thin lips twisted in a parody of a smile. “Heard about you—but I think I heard lies.”
It was clear to Sky that they were ready to open up, and he said quickly, “Jim, bring that Greener in here.”
“I’m all dressed up for the party, Mom,” O’Malley replied cheerfully. He stepped past Sky and laid the muzzle of the shotgun on the six Poole men who stood at the bar. “Just think,” O’Malley mused, “all I have to do is touch this trigger—and the undertaker will sell six nice new coffins!”
Jim’s threat knocked them out of the action, Sky saw. They stared at the blunt muzzle of the shotgun, and knew that if for any reason O’Malley pulled the trigger, they’d be blown to bits by the weapon.
“Easy with that thing,” one of them pleaded.
Dave and Omar wheeled to their right, not having to fear the men frozen out by O’Malley, and Dave called, “Al—Pete!” And the Rikers moved to stand beside them.
Jack Stedman and the other four men who were along that wall found the odds had changed. Omar Skates had a shotgun, and the muzzle of it was weaving back and forth, lined up on the five men against the wall. “Rolfe—!” Stedman choked. “They got us boxed!”
“We just want Hart, Ingerson,” Sky said in a reasonable tone. “No sense dying for him, is there?”
Ingerson glanced around and saw that his plan had failed. “You better go along with them, Roy,” he told him. “We’ll take care of you.”
The words struck Hart like a whip, and he cast a hateful glare at Ingerson’s bulky form. “You’ll take care of me? You’ll let them hang me, Ingerson!” Then he cried, “Winslow!” His voice was high pitched and desperate as his hands darted for his guns.
Sky saw at once that the man was a much faster draw than Del Laughton had been—a draw he could never beat. Desperately he threw himself backward, pulling his guns as he hit the floor.
Hart had not counted on Winslow’s fall, and his bullets went high. He never got a chance to fire again, for Sky got one gun free and sent a bullet that caught Hart in the chest, knocking him down. He rolled over once, gave a gurgling cry, and was still.
Ingerson had pulled his own gun and got off one shot that caught Sky in the thigh. In response, O’Malley’s shotgun roared, and the charge of it caught Ingerson in the chest. He was driven backward as if struck by a mighty fist, and ended up in a ball on the floor, lifeless.
“Hold it! Hold it!” Dave Lloyd shouted. He had drawn his own gun, as had the Rikers, and the five men along the wall threw up their hands at once. “We’re out of it, Lloyd!” Jack Stedman shouted. The men at the bar put their hands up as well, for the deadly muzzle of O’Malley’s shotgun had swung in their direction.
“Sky! You all right?” Dave called out.
“Okay, Dave.” Sky struggled to his feet and looked down at the blood on his thigh. “Got me in the leg.” He glanced at the two dead men, then said wearily, “I guess we got off pretty cheap at that.”
“Better get that slug out, Sky,” Dave suggested. “Jim, you take him down to Doc Ellington’s while we put this scum in the jail.”
“Better go tell him to come here,” Jim suggested, looking at the wound.
“No, I’ll make it.” Winslow’s pride was stronger than his sense, and he limped toward the door. The leg was numb, but the pain would come soon, he well knew.
He was almost to the door when there was a scuffling noise over his head, and he heard a woman’s scream. He turned to see Rita struggling with Dandy Raimez on the landing. He had a rifle in his hands, and Rita grasped it with both hands, crying out, “Sky—look out!”
He whirled and the sudden action made his wounded leg collapse. He fell, and as he struggled to his knees, he saw Raimez knock Rita aside with one blow of his fist, then swing the rifle toward him. Sky tried to draw his gun, but the explosion of the rifle and the blow in his chest came at the same time.
So this is what it’s like to die! he thought. Just as he was swallowed up by the vast, empty pool of darkness, he heard one last explosion—and then, nothing at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
PILLAR OF FIRE
Sometimes a light would penetrate the darkness of the depths, and he would try to go deeper, but always there was a voice, a familiar voice, but one he could not identify, and it would plead with him to come back and face the light. Over and over this voice continued to call, pulling him out of a cool, comfortable place into a world of noise and pain, and he would mutter and twist, trying to slip back into the tarry darkness.
Time was nothing. Seconds and years were all the same, but he measured only those times that the voice and hands pulled him toward the light. Visions drifted by with terrifying reality, and more than once he found himself crying out as the past rose up and filled his mind—a faceless, mindless specter that tore at him with white hot talons. At those times the voice would be there, soft and gentle, and the hands that touched him—holding him as he fought to dispel the visions—were as gentle and firm as the voice.
Sometimes, though, the voice was different, and the hands as well. One voice came from far away, far back in time, and he felt comfortable when that happened. The other voice was no less gentle, but it frightened him, and he would shrink back from the hands that went with it.
He awakened suddenly while the first voice was speaking to him. Coming out of the deep pit of blackness with a rush of consciousness, he opened his eyes to see a woman’s face bending over him.
The room swam, and he quickly closed his eyes again. The faint movement must have caught the attention of the woman who was doing something to his chest. “Sky? Are you awake?”
He opened his eyes, squinting painfully against the brilliant sunshine that filtered through a window to his left. He tried to say something, but his lips were parched.
“Here—drink some water.”
A strong hand lifted his head, and he gulped thirstily at the cool water. Lying back, he whispered, “Missy? Is it yo
u?”
“Well, praise be to God and the Lamb forever!” Missy lifted her hands into the air as she spoke, her eyes wet with tears. She put her hand on his forehead, saying, “Like Lazarus back from the dead! How do you feel?”
He tried to sit up and was amazed to discover he couldn’t. “What’s the matter with me, Missy?”
“Well, you were shot twice—and caught a bad case of pneumonia that would have killed most men,” Missy said as she caressed his forehead. “But your fever’s broken at last. You’re going to be all right—though you’ve caused Chris and me a sight of prayer!”
“Help me sit up.” He struggled and, with her help, got into a sitting position with a pillow wedging him upright. The room tilted crazily, and he shut his eyes until it stopped rolling. When he opened them, he looked around the room, then back at her. “I remember that Dandy Raimez shot me from the balcony.”
“He’s dead, Sky,” Missy informed him. “Jim O’Malley shot him.”
“How long have I been here?” He felt a pressure on his chest and touched the thick bandages. “How bad was I hit?”
“The bullet was angling down, Sky,” Missy explained. “It hit you in the chest and ran into some ribs. Broke several of them, but they saved your life. Dr. Ellington says if the ribs hadn’t deflected the bullet, it would have gone right to your heart.” Missy looked intently at him, saying, “God saved you, Sky.”
“Guess so,” he replied weakly, adding with a slight smile, “Reckon Jim O’Malley had a little to do with it.”
“God uses what He can get,” Missy replied firmly.
“Maybe so. Can I have another drink, Missy?” He took the glass, holding it with both hands, and drank all of it.
“Now,” she said, taking the glass from him, “how about something to eat? I’m tired of wrestling broth down your throat, so if you can sit up, you can feed yourself.” With that she got up and left the room. After she had gone, he looked around, trying to get back into the present. When she came back and put the soup bowl into his hands, she said, “I’ll go get Chris, Sky. He’s sat beside you so much he’s just about worn himself out.” She smiled. “Lots of people have been doing that, Son. You’ve got many friends here. This is Mike Stevens’ house. He insisted that Chris and I use it as long as you need help.”
She rose to go, and he asked quickly, “Missy, did you take care of me all the time?”
She stopped short. “I had some help from time to time. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just dreaming, I reckon.” He began to eat the broth, and she left the room. The first bite awakened his hunger, and then he could not spoon the hot soup down fast enough. When he was finished, however, he was so sleepy that he could hardly sit up. He managed to put the bowl on the table, then slumped back in the bed and fell fast asleep.
He was awakened some time later by the touch of a hand on his arm. “Sky? You all right?”
He opened his eyes and struggled to sit up. “Sure, Pa. I’m fine.” He looked up at his father, adding, “But you look terrible!”
The craggy face of Christmas Winslow, though worn and pale with fatigue, was reamed with a smile and a glad light in his eyes as he protested, “Blast you, boy! We come all the way to the coast to see you, and you pull a stunt like this! Ought to bust your britches.”
“Wouldn’t be too hard to do right now, Pa,” Sky mused, holding up a hand that trembled slightly. “Got no more strength than a newborn calf.”
They were interrupted by Missy, who announced, “Have another visitor for you.” Before she could say any more, Joe rushed in and ran to the bed.
“Pa, you gonna be all right?” he asked anxiously.
Sky put his arms out, and the boy immediately hugged his dad. “I don’t look like much, Joe, but I’m gonna make it.”
Joe stepped back, the past forgotten for the moment, and said accusingly, “You never told me all the things Grandpa did! Why didn’t you ever tell me about how he raided a Pawnee camp to get you and your mother away? And you never told me about how he hung at the pole—!”
“Whoa up, boy,” Chris laughed. He put his heavy arm on the boy’s shoulder and winked at Sky. “Reckon I can embroider my own tales—but this here is my idea of what a grandson ought to be. He’s already agreed to come for a visit with his grandparents—if it’s okay with you, Son.”
“We’ll talk about that later!” Missy interrupted. “Now you two get out of here and let me get some more food into this poor boy. Why, he’s nothing but skin and bones!” She shooed Chris and Joe out of the room, then came back with another bowl of soup. “Eat this, Sky. When you’ve finished, you get right back to sleep. For a few days, I’m your ma again, just like when you had chicken pox!”
Sky smiled, and ate the broth. Settling back into bed, he asked drowsily, “How’s Sam doing? What happened to Poole?”
“Don’t you fret about that, Sky,” she replied firmly. “You’ll have plenty of time to catch up on politics when you get better.” She peered at him, satisfied that he was already asleep before she turned and left the room. Chris was seated at the kitchen table with Joe, and she said, “I’m going to tell Rebekah that he’s awake.”
She put on a light coat and walked out of the yard toward the Birdwells’. The last of winter was gone, and in a few more days it would be April. The relief over Sky’s dramatic improvement put a joy in her heart, and as she passed under a plum tree with a small bird perched in the top branches, singing his heart out, she smiled. “I’d sing like that, too, if I had a voice.” Instead, she settled for a silent prayer of thanksgiving that lasted all the way to the Birdwells’, where Edith met her at the door.
“Come in, Mrs. Winslow,” she said eagerly. “Is Sky better?”
“Yes, praise the Lord!” Missy smiled. “He woke up a little while ago, and the fever’s gone. The doctor will be checking in on him, but I’ll have to tell him plainly that it was the Almighty God who did the healing!”
“Oh, I’ve got to tell Sam!” Edith cried. “He’s been going crazy, worrying over Sky!” She yanked a coat from a rack and ran out the door, calling as she went, “Rebekah’s in the kitchen!”
Missy went through the parlor and walked into the large kitchen, where Rebekah was stirring something in a pot at the stove. Rebekah heard her come in and turned to see who it was. When she saw Missy, she panicked and dropped the spoon. “Missy! Is he—?”
“He’s fine!” Missy replied with a broad smile, and when Rebekah turned back to the stove abruptly to hide her face, Missy understood and went to put an arm around her. “It’s all right, Rebekah—God has spared him.”
“I’ve been so afraid . . . !” Missy held the girl close until Rebekah drew back and began to dab at her eyes. “Thanks for coming to tell me,” she said. “I’ll bet Joe is hopping for joy.”
“He is,” Missy beamed. “Maybe you’d like to go over and see Sky, Rebekah?”
“Oh no! I don’t think I ought to.”
There was something fearful in Rebekah’s face, which puzzled Missy. “Why—it would be good for him, Rebekah,” she insisted. “You’ve done as much of the nursing as I have.”
“I know—but he didn’t know I was there.” Rebekah clasped her hands and walked over to the window. “He doesn’t want to see me, anyway. We’ve done nothing but hurt each other since the day we got married.”
“Come and sit down, Rebekah. I want you to tell me everything—all about yourself and your marriage.”
“You’ve heard most of it, I expect!” There was a defiant look in Rebekah’s eye, and she colored slightly. “Our grapevine works pretty well here in Oregon City.”
“Rebekah,” Missy reproved sternly, “I don’t give a sow’s ear for that sort of talk. But I’ve been talking to Rev. Penny, and he tells me you’re a Christian. Is that right?”
“Yes. I was saved at a meeting in New York, but—”
“Come and sit down, then, and begin as far back as you want.” Missy led her to the parlor, and after t
hey were both seated she said, “God is going to do a work in my son’s life, Rebekah. Now, you tell me all about yourself—then we’ll know how to pray for you both.”
Her gentle words and kind face put Rebekah at ease immediately, and soon she found that it was not difficult to share her life with Sky’s mother. She began with her family history; then as Missy listened quietly, Rebekah told her something that she had never revealed to anyone else—how she had been betrayed by Tyler Marlowe.
By the time she was finished, the shadows were growing long, and both women were misty-eyed. “Sky was so good to the children—to Mary and Timmy,” Rebekah whispered. “Just like they were his own. But he’s got such a bitterness for his first wife . . . !”
“I know,” Missy responded gently, “and that’s what we’ve got to pray about—that he’ll be able to forgive Irene. Do you believe God can change him?”
Rebekah nodded slowly. “For a while I thought that Sky had started to change—” She broke off, thinking that she should not bring up the Jim O’Malley incident now. “But it didn’t last. Oh, Missy, I’ve been so alone! I guess I’ve just stopped believing in anything!”
“Then start!” Missy fell on her knees and began to cry out to God, and soon both women were engaged in such fervent prayer that they did not hear Edith come in. Seeing them there, Edith, too, began praying for the man who’d saved her husband’s life.
****
Missy allowed no visitors the next day, but within three days Sky’s room was filled with a constant swarm of company.
Jim O’Malley took up his station in a straight chair across from Sky’s bed, and laughed when Sky marveled at the number of people who came by. “Why, it’s the fate of a hero, Sky. You’ll run for office now for sure. Little fracas like you had, why, it ought to be enough to get you elected to Congress, at least!”
“I’d settle for a pair of pants and a chance to get out of this place, Jim,” Sky complained. “I appreciate folks being so nice, but to tell the truth, I’m feeling sort of hemmed in. Why don’t you get my clothes, and we can hightail it out of here?”
The Reluctant Bridegroom Page 31
