Sawbones

by William W. Johnstone

  Knight joined the others. Lattimer and Porkchop seemed not to know they rode toward the main band of Comanches. Nott looked ready to kill. The Lunsford brothers rode to one side, giving Knight the chance to speak with Hannigan.

  “You saved us back there, Sam. Ready to do it again? This time we’ll face three or four times as many Indians, if the early scouting’s right.”

  “Can Nott count?”

  “You don’t like him much, do you, Sam? It’s mutual. The two of you grate on one another, but I wouldn’t trade either of you when the lead starts flying. The fight with the Indian chief showed that.”

  “He saved me. Or maybe I saved him. It got confusing.”

  “This can’t be, if we’re to get out of it alive. Truth is, I’m thinking of leaving those rancher fellas to their fate. Why get all shot up for people we don’t know and who wouldn’t give us the time of day if we ran into each other in town?”

  “You promised to help. You said you’d take their money.”

  “Always the stickler for doing the honorable thing. Is that something doctors practice or did you grow up that way?” Hannigan gave a curt shake of his head. “Never mind. Just over the hill’s one hell of a fight, if the gunfire means anything.” Hannigan signaled the others to gather around. By the time they did, his words were almost drowned out by the rapid reports echoing to them.

  “Here’s the rub, boys. We don’t have much in the way of ammo and there’s no telling how many redskins we face. So we won’t go charging in, not like Sam here did before. What we do is get on top of this ridge and find as many Indians as possible to take potshots at.”

  “Good idea, Hannigan.” Nott stood in his stirrups. “With all the shootin’ goin’ on, they won’t know we’re cuttin’ ’em down until it’s too late. Let’s get to it!”

  “Whoa, slow down. Who’s the best shot? We only have a couple rifles able to knock the Indians off their horses at that distance.”

  “It’d be Doc. He’s the best shot.” Ben Lunsford thrust out his jaw belligerently, daring the others to contradict him.

  “I’m not—” Knight was cut off when Hannigan tossed him a rifle.

  “I’ve seen you hunting. You don’t miss. Give him that box of ammunition, Lattimer.”

  “I’m a better shot,” Lattimer protested. “I can take the eye out of a squirrel at a hundred yards.”

  “Good thing we’re not huntin’ squirrel. We don’t need blind rodents runnin’ around. Give him the ammo.” Hannigan rapidly sketched out how the attack would go. When he finished, he turned back to Knight. “You have to take a half dozen or more out of commission before we can attack. If the ranch house is in danger of bein’ set on fire, we have to go in quicklike. Otherwise, it’s up to you, Sam.”

  “I’ll do what’s necessary.” He stared at Seth and saw how the youngster studied him. He had given a fine speech about courage and honor. Now he had to demonstrate it. If he gave in to his urges and galloped away, Seth Lunsford would remember that until his dying day. Even worse, he might be scalped and dead before the sun set.

  Dismounting and hiking to the top of the hill felt like mounting the gallows to be hanged. Knight dropped to his belly, opened the box of shells, and began loading the magazine until it wouldn’t take another round. Wiggling forward, he slipped over the crest and studied the ranch house and the dangers there. Indians galloped around the house, occasionally firing into the building. They whooped and hollered to frighten the occupants. Knight didn’t know how well it worked on the rancher and whoever remained of his cowboys, but it scared him spitless. No matter what Hannigan claimed, the instant he squeezed off a shot, the Indians would know they weren’t being fired on by anyone inside the house.

  He hesitated, trying to count the attacking Indians. After a dizzying minute, he gave up. More than thirty, that was for sure. Realizing Hannigan wouldn’t launch his attack until that number had been reduced by a few, Knight put the front sight bead on an Indian and swung the rifle to take the motion into account. He fired. Nothing happened. The report sounded and the rifle kicked back against his shoulder, but nothing happened. And then the Indian he had targeted fell from his horse.

  Knight bit his lip. He had forgotten the time it took for the bullet to cover the distance between him and his victim. As Hannigan had predicted, the Comanches rode past their fallen warrior. Knight fired again. A second rider flopped to the ground. This one was only winged and climbed to his feet, pointing toward the hill where Knight fired. Another shot ended that threat.

  He wounded two more and then his luck ran out. Or his marksmanship suffered because he started thinking about the lives he took with every shot. Enough Comanches to overwhelm him started in his direction. Hannigan attacked then.

  Firing slowly, Knight took out two more Comanches, but from the corner of his eye he saw Seth fling up his hands and tumble from the saddle. He hit the ground and lay still.

  “No! You killers!” Knight got to his feet, snugged the rifle against his shoulder and fired like a machine. When the rifle came up empty, he tossed it to the ground and faced a warrior riding down fast on him. He slapped leather, took the Colt in hand, drew and fired in a smooth motion. His aim was deadly. The bullet hit the brave in the middle of the chest. As he slumped forward, he exposed himself to Knight’s second shot. This took the Comanche down.

  Knight fired wildly into the seething battle below. As far as he could tell, he hit nothing else. He started to run down to join the fray, then good sense took control of his emotions. He took the time to load the last of the cartridges into the rifle and put in the last loaded cylinder in the six-shooter. Only then did he rush down to where Seth lay sprawled on the ground.

  Astride the fallen youth to protect him, he kept two Indians from attacking. Then his rifle came up empty again. He slid his revolver from its holster, but he had to look around for someone to shoot. It took a second to realize the pressure in his ears came from sudden silence. No one fired. The distant thunder of receding hooves told the story.

  The Comanches had been driven off.

  He dropped to his knees and pressed his fingertips into Seth’s throat. The pulse was strong. Eyelids fluttered, and Seth looked up. His eyes were glazed over but words formed easily. “I knew you’d keep me alive, Doc.”

  “You’ve been shot. A couple bullets are lodged in your chest.”

  “Get your medical bag and dig the lead out. You can do it. You can . . .” The youngster’s voice trailed off. Horrified, Knight thought Seth had died, then realized that the youngster had lost consciousness.

  “Doc!” Ben said as he rode up, reined to a skidding halt, and swung down from the saddle. “Is he—”

  “He’s passed out. I have to operate. Ben, get my bag.”

  “Seth’ll be all right, won’t he, Doc?”

  “My bag. Now!”

  He saw that Nott hobbled on a wounded leg. Lattimer sat on the ground, bent double and rocking back and forth. He looked up when he felt Knight’s eyes on him.

  “I’m next. Got gut shot. Hurry and get the boy fixed up so’s you can get to me.” Lattimer bent over again, always moving as if he could squeeze the bullet out of himself.

  Porkchop and Hannigan stood at the foot of the steps leading into the ranch house, speaking with the rancher and one of the cowboys. Knight ignored them and ripped away Seth’s vest and shirt. Using fabric from the shirt, he pressed hard on the worst of the wounds to stanch the bleeding until Ben returned with the medical bag.

  When he did, Knight ignored simple surgical procedure and launched into cutting out the bullet. Antiseptic had been ignored, but he wanted the lead out before worrying about infection. After a few moments of frantic effort, he worked the bullet free from Seth’s body.

  The second slug hadn’t penetrated too deeply. Knight plucked it out with his fingers. Only then did he hunt for antiseptic.

  He didn’t have any.

  “I need—” He looked up. The ranch hand held a bottle of whi
skey. Knight sprang to his feet and with a quick grab he snatched the bottle from the man. He poured a generous amount on Seth’s wounds, then dribbled some into his open mouth. It was a good sign that Seth gagged and protested at the liquor’s bite. He wasn’t much of a drinker, or so Knight thought from the bragging the youngster had done. When a couple ounces drained down his gullet, Seth murmured and relaxed.

  “How is he, Doc? He looks mighty pale.”

  “I’ll drink to his recovery, Ben.” Knight upended the bottle and knocked back a couple ounces of the fiery potion. He gagged, then took another drink before passing the bottle. “Help me get him into the house. Is there a blanket where we can lay him?”

  “I’ll see to it,” the cowboy said. He started to ask for the bottle back, then thought better of it and ran for the house.

  By the time they had carried Seth up the steps, a crude bed had been laid out for him in the parlor. Knight made sure he was resting easy, then said to his brother, “Watch over him. If he starts to thrash around, fetch me. I’ll be looking after the others. Lattimer looked to be in a bad way.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I don’t know how to repay you for savin’ Seth like this.”

  He nodded, hefted the bottle with the few drops of whiskey sloshing in it, and headed out to look after Henry Lattimer.

  Lattimer sucked down all the whiskey and let Knight stretch him out flat on the ground in spite of the pain.

  “You’re not in as bad a shape as it feels,” Knight said. “One bullet grazed you. That’s causing most of the bleeding. The other slug hit you in the diaphragm but didn’t go too deep. You’re going to feel a whale of a lot of pain if you try riding the next few days, but there’s nothing that’ll kill you.”

  “I just feel like I wanna be dead.” Lattimer groaned and tried to curl up. Knight kept him flat.

  “So we didn’t lose anybody?” Milo Hannigan towered above Knight and Lattimer. “That’s good.”

  “Seth and Lattimer are the worst. We gave better than we got.”

  “You deserve another medal, Sam. That’s if I gave out medals. And I don’t.”

  “Are there any wounded among the rancher and his men?”

  “Nothing they can’t take care of themselves.” Hannigan looked around and shook his head. “We were lucky not to get our damn fool heads blown off. You killing their war chief kept us from getting shot up worse than we were, but they’ll elect a new one and come back. The Comanche are known for carryin’ grudges.”

  “I never heard that, but Pine Knob avoided the worst of the Comanche attacks when I was growing up. The Indians ranged farther south and west.” Knight closed his medical kit and got to his feet. Every joint ached and his eyes blurred for a moment until he rubbed them. “I need a dozen hours of sleep.”

  “Do that and we all might get our scalps lifted. I sent Nott out after one band of Indians to find what they’re up to. I’m after another. You have to track the third. I’m letting Ben stay with his brother and help out the rancher, if the Comanche come back quicker’n I think.”

  “I’m not much of a scout.”

  “But you’ve become a marksman. You might be a better shot than me, and that’s saying something. Practice getting your iron out of the holster fast and you can be a real terror on the frontier, the best gunfighter around.” Milo Hannigan smiled crookedly. “But you’d have to work at it to get better’n me.”

  “I’m no gunman.” Knight rubbed his eyes again. “I can’t even focus right now from shock at . . . at all this.” He made a sweeping gesture to take in the half dozen dead Indians.

  “Get on the trail. If you haven’t found anything in a day, come on back. We’ll regroup and make sure the rancher pays us so we can move on.”

  “Lattimer will take a few days to get into shape to ride. I’m not sure how long it will take Seth to get on his feet.”

  Hannigan didn’t say anything more. He spun and went to strip the Indian bodies of any usable weapons and ammo. Knight watched and wondered when Hannigan picked up bows and arrows. They had gone through most of their ammunition. It might be necessary to fire arrows at any new war parties attacking.

  In spite of his exhaustion, both physical and emotional, Knight secured his kit to his horse and stepped up. From his ghoulish thievery, Hannigan pointed east, then gestured for Knight to get on the trail. Every jolting step his horse took rattled Knight’s teeth until he got into the rhythm. Then he conducted a quick inventory of his weapons. He had a rifle with a full magazine. His Colt Navy was loaded, but the spare cylinders were spent. Six rounds plus whatever rounds he had in the rifle. Hardly enough to hold off a real attack, but that wasn’t what Hannigan wanted from him.

  “Scouting,” he muttered as he rode. “That’s all. No shooting.”

  He rode to a rise a half mile from the ranch house and looked back. From there, everything seemed peaceful. Hannigan had dragged the dead bodies out of sight. The arrows stuck in the house walls and the windows shot out by Comanche bullets were invisible from a distance. He slowly surveyed the land around him. Rolling hills and heavy forest blotted out much of the territory, but he saw evidence of where the Indians had fled. A dead horse a ways to the east gave mute testimony to the deadly attack and the pell-mell retreat.

  Making sure his rifle slipped freely in the saddle scabbard, he rode down the hillside to where the dead horse drew flies. Some scavengers had already picked at its bones. No sign of its rider remained, but tracks from several horses led directly to a wooded area farther east. Riding this way made him uneasy. It felt as if he erased the distance between him and Gerald Donnelly, him and Captain Norwood. Pine Knob was his past. He had no idea what lay in his future, but it had nothing to do with East Texas or unfaithful Victoria.

  He argued with himself over following the trail. What he had learned so far amounted to nothing useful, but riding into an ambush doomed him and kept any real information from getting back to Milo Hannigan.

  He walked his horse slowly. Every sense strained so he wouldn’t fall easily into a trap. The soft wind blew cool and humid, a touch of fall in the air. Leaves whispered and in the distance a cattle egret let out a mournful call. He looked up. The few clouds in the sky occasionally outlined a turkey vulture. Nothing disturbed the peace. That struck him as odd—especially after the passage of a retreating Comanche war party—unless he’d followed the wrong trail.

  Lungs expanding, he sucked in a deep breath. Nothing unusual carried on the wind. Whatever lay upwind didn’t threaten him, not that he could tell. He continued to walk forward and entered the woods. Quiet descended around him. Only normal forest sounds continued until he had gone a half mile. He drew rein when he heard horses ahead. Knight started to reverse course and get away from what he suspected were the Comanches. He froze when he saw a rider behind him fade into shadows. Without being aware, he had been followed through the woods.

  “Why don’t you get your hands up, mister? I got a rifle trained on you.”

  The demand came from a thicket not far from the game trail he had been following. Since the demand had come in English, with a Yankee tang to it, he knew the Comanches hadn’t gotten the drop on him. Without doubt, they would have shot him from ambush, not given him a chance to surrender.

  “I’m looking for a war party that attacked a ranch a few miles away. There’s no call for you to point a gun at me.”

  “I’m not so sure of that, Dr. Samuel Knight.” The hidden voice belonged to Private Reilly, Knight realized. “You’ve gotten me into so much trouble that my feet ’bout wore off with extra guard duty. Takin’ you back’s gonna win me a medal.”

  “More likely, Captain Norwood won’t even tell you that you did good.”

  “You know him ’bout as much as I do, sir. Not havin’ him on my neck all the time’s good enough. Swing around and ride slow in the direction you were goin’.”

  “I am hunting for Comanches. A big party of them. Let me report back that—”

  “We saw a passel of
Indians ridin’ hell-bent for leather to the north. Wasn’t important, not when the corporal and me were sent to find you. I can’t believe you just rode up and let me capture you.”

  “I’ve done what I can for you, Private. I think you might have let me sneak off before. Do it again.”

  “That’s not so. I got careless.”

  “You’re lying, Reilly. You know I don’t deserve to be hanged, and that’s why you let me go.”

  “You escaped, damn it. Anything else and the captain would have me in front of a firing squad. Now keep ridin’. Try to get away and I’ll shoot, and it don’t matter if I shoot you in the back. The captain gave orders.”

  “Dead or alive. Yes, sir, that’s what he said.” The corporal who partnered with Reilly stepped out of some brush on the other side of the trail, his carbine trained on Knight.

  Caught in a crossfire, he stood no chance to escape now.

  Knight’s brain seized up. Arguments that might have gotten him free refused to surface. Too much had happened for him to be alert and able to react.

  In that instant, he experienced something that he had never felt before. Giving up seemed like a decent alternative to fighting. Not once during the time spent in the Union prison camp had he considered giving up. Now? Now he did because his entire life had been twisted inside out. His home was gone. His wife was unfaithful. He was a criminal, wanted by both the marshal in the town where he had grown up and the military commander of the region.

  Giving up was so easy.

  “Climb on down. Keep them hands graspin’ a piece of the sky.” The corporal moved around to keep his rifle on Knight as he obeyed.

  “He said he was lookin’ for Comanches and that a ranch had been attacked.” Reilly stood next to the corporal.

  “He’d say whatever it takes to keep from gettin’ arrested and taken back to camp. Get them shackles from my saddlebags, Reilly, and put them on our prisoner.”

  The private obeyed the order. He fished in the saddlebags of a horse tethered nearby and came out with two sets of shackles, one for Knight’s wrists and the other to secure his ankles. The heavy iron links clanked as he returned with them, draped over his left forearm to keep the rifle ready for use.