Sawbones

by William W. Johnstone

  This set off the deputy on a wild tale-telling session that lasted until he passed out a half hour later. Hannigan stared at the unconscious lawman, sipped at his own whiskey, then left to return to his camp. He had a bank robbery to discuss with his men. Stealing paper money wasn’t as good as having a few gold coins jingling together in his vest pocket, but it went a long way toward keeping his men happy and making their stay in Pine Knob worthwhile.

  * * *

  “We’re all gonna get rich?” Porkchop licked his lips. “I like that. I’m gettin’ sick of eatin’ nuthin’ but beans. I want a good meal.”

  “Pork loin?” Johnny Nott mocked the man, but Porkchop either ignored his attitude or didn’t notice.

  “That’d be good. Ham steak. If I get enough money from this bank, I’ll pay to have a piece of pineapple put on it. You ever had pineapple, Nott? You don’t strike me as the kind what enjoys food.”

  “Shut up.”

  They were just outside of town, waiting where they had drawn their horses to a stop in the shade of a tree.

  Hannigan looked around at his companions. “All right, men. Everyone shut up. You’ve seen the bank. In the past couple days, everyone’s ridden past at least once, looking for places where we might run into trouble. Give me a report on what you saw.”

  Nott and Porkchop shrugged. They hadn’t seen anything to trouble them. Lattimer frowned and started to speak, then clamped his mouth shut.

  Hannigan said, “Go on, Henry. Spit it out. What’s eating you about the job?”

  Henry Lattimer scratched his chin and finally got his words all in a row. “We go in guns blazin’ and get the money. We load up our saddlebags with the greenbacks.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I scouted the inside of the bank. That’s a safe, not a vault. The president just closes the door and never locks it since he’s such a lazy bastard.” Hannigan grew anxious. He wanted to get the robbery done with.

  Lattimer scratched his chin again. “What if the safe’s not open?”

  Nott and Porkchop listened as Hannigan gave answer. “I told you already. I stick a gun in the president’s ear. His name’s Fitzsimmons. He opens the safe, and we’re out of there.”

  “Where?”

  “What do you mean ‘where’?”

  “If we come back this way, we ride past the bluecoats in the camp. There’s not much of a road north. They can track us real easy across such soft earth.”

  “So we ride south. Or east. I don’t care if we head back toward Louisiana. It might be fun to get onboard one of them side-wheeler boats and spend our money going down to New Orleans.”

  “So which is it? We get the money and ride south along that road or do we head back east?” Lattimer wrestled with this decision to the point that Hannigan wanted to pistol-whip him and leave his writhing body in the middle of the road.

  “Don’t make me mad,” Hannigan said. “We come out, might be good to split up. You choose whether you want to go south or east. Or ride through the damn Yankee soldier camp hurrahin’ them. It doesn’t matter.”

  “He’s right, Milo,” said Porkchop. “We need a getaway plan. It can’t hurt to have a place all picked out where we’ll regroup.”

  Hannigan wanted to add another of his men to the pile of bodies in the middle of the road. This kind of questioning amounted to insubordination. They asked the questions but didn’t trust him. That worried him. Would they question his decisions during the robbery or would they obey?

  “Nothing’s going to go wrong. But if you want a rendezvous, you boys remember that hilltop where we camped on our way into Pine Knob.”

  “That’s been awhile, Milo,” said Porkchop. “You mean the spot where we camped that Doc found for us?”

  “That’s the one. We stayed a couple days because the hunting was good. It was the first decent meal we’d had since riding into Texas.”

  They all nodded, remembering. Hannigan hated mentioning Knight. It gave them someone else who had left without so much as a word—a traitor—and the traitor had taken the Lunsford brothers with him. Right now he could use a man like Ben Lunsford backing him up. Seth lacked the spine to ever be a reliable outlaw, but Ben had the makings of a man with a quick gun and no morals.

  “We rob the bank, we hightail it out of town, and meet up on that hilltop. It’s got a clear view of the land around so we can tell if a posse’s after us. Is there anything else? No? Good. Now let’s go get rich.” Hannigan pulled up his bandanna and drew his six-shooter.

  Without waiting to see if the rest followed him, he galloped down the main street and brought his horse to a dusty, abrupt stop in front of the bank. He jumped to the ground and kicked open the door. Two tellers looked up, surprised. Three customers looked over their shoulders to see what the commotion was.

  “This is a stickup. Reach for the sky!” He fired a round into the ceiling. Plaster came crashing down in a large lump that caused a billow of dust to momentarily hide the tellers and customers.

  Hannigan felt the hot sting of a bullet before he heard the report. Then he realized it was a second shot fired at him that he heard. The small lobby echoed with gunfire, all of it directed at him. Both tellers and at least one of the customers had opened fire.

  He shot through the dust. A grunt told him a customer had been hit, but the tellers crouched behind the counter, shooting over it. His three men crowded in close behind.

  “Fill the counter with lead. Smoke ’em out!”

  Both Lattimer and Nott fanned their six-shooters until their guns emptied. Twelve slugs tore through the thin wood. One teller stopped shooting. Hannigan figured he was either severely wounded or dead. He hadn’t expected any resistance, much less men dying.

  “There’s one left,” Porkchop said. As cool as could be, he walked around the end of the counter, aimed and fired three times. He motioned to Hannigan to join him. “Ain’t nobody left now, ’less you want them dead, too?” Porkchop aimed at the two surviving customers.

  “No need if they don’t move. Keep ’em covered.”

  Hannigan kicked his way through a flimsy railing separating the president’s desk from the lobby. It took a second for him to realize Fitzsimmons was nowhere to be seen. He circled the desk, thinking the coward had ducked into the knee well. Empty. Spinning around, he hunted for the bank officer. The only two standing, other than his own men, were the customers.

  He cursed under his breath, but he didn’t need the president. Two quick steps brought him to the safe. The handle refused to turn. The door didn’t budge. The safe was securely locked. Suddenly angry, he fired at the door. His bullet ricocheted off and broke the Regulator clock on the far wall.

  He spun on the customers. “Where is he? Fitzsimmons?”

  The two looked fearfully at each other, then one summoned enough courage to say, “He’s not here.”

  “I know that, you fool.” He pointed his pistol at the man and fired. The hammer fell on a spent chamber. “What’s the combination to the safe?”

  “The tellers might know,” Porkchop said. “Only I kilt them. Well, one of ’em, anyway. You filled the other with ten pounds of lead.”

  “Lattimer, you still got the shotgun?”

  “It’s with my horse.”

  “Get it. Blow open the safe.”

  “But all the gunfire’ll bring the marshal runnin’.”

  “Get the damned shotgun. Do it!” Hannigan’s fury exploded. He started firing his six-shooter, every time the hammer falling on a spent chamber. Only a rising panic wiped away his anger. Their time in the bank before the law arrived was running out. “Get the shotgun,” he said in a more controlled voice.

  Lattimer ducked out and returned with his sawed-off shotgun. Four times he fired at the safe, denting the door. All he accomplished beyond this was blowing off the handle. Unless they used a chisel to remove the hinge pins, the door was permanently frozen shut.

  “Ain’t workin’, Milo. I don’t have any more shells.” Lattimer futilely hammered
at the safe with the butt.

  “Forget it. Get what you can out of the tellers’ cages and take everything of value off these gents.” He pointed his empty gun at the two customers.

  Hannigan realized his mistake in that instant. The pair came to a conclusion that they were goners. Both went for their six-guns. Hannigan dived behind the counter as bullets tore past him. He felt a sharp sting as one customer’s bullet almost took off his right ear. Then came more gunfire. Not being able to see what happened magnified his imagination. A loud crash confused him. Hannigan popped up like a prairie dog. The front door had been knocked out of its frame by a retreating customer. The other lay dead on the lobby floor, filled with lead from Nott and Porkchop.

  “Get the cash. Come on. Hurry it up.” Hannigan pulled himself to his feet, took a second to get his senses about him, then ran for the destroyed door.

  Outside he faced a dozen men coming toward the bank, all with their six-shooters drawn. He yanked down his bandanna and waved his pistol around.

  “I tried to stop them. They’re getting away!” he shouted. “A dozen men. They rode west!”

  He vaulted into the saddle and headed west, only cutting down a side street to the south when he was out of sight of the mob forming outside the bank. Whether his men escaped mattered less than getting away himself.

  He rode until his horse began to collapse under him. Then he got off and walked.

  CHAPTER 24

  “I’m tellin’ you, Doc, she’s in need of your skills. At least her pa is. From what she told me, he’s in a bad way, and the old town doctor lit out for the goldfields with the rest of the men in Buffalo Springs.” Ben Lunsford idly wiped rings off the bar, tossed the rag aside, and began rearranging glasses.

  “You like working here?” Knight looked around. The empty saloon mocked him even as it suited him. Being around too many people worried him that they might recognize him off a wanted poster. He had learned from Ben that the town marshal, by the name of Hightower, wasn’t very efficient, but he didn’t have to be because most of the troublemakers had rushed away to the goldfields. Knight wanted to avoid coming face-to-face with the lawman as long as possible, though it struck him as unlikely that a wanted poster had come to West Texas so fast.

  “Not a whole lot,” Ben said in answer to Knight’s question. “I was gettin’ to like ridin’ with Hannigan and the others. And you, Doc. I enjoyed bein’ out on the trail where there wasn’t nobody tellin’ me what to do.”

  “Is that your problem working in the Golden Gate?”

  “The owner’s a real harridan. She hired me and then watches me like a hawk, thinkin’ I’m stealin’ from the till. Hell, there’s hardly any till to steal from. A good night’s a half dozen men comin’ in for a single drink before goin’ home. ’Course, I haven’t been here long enough to see what a Saturday night’s like, but the land’s so poor here, all desert sand and dry, that cowboys ’d have to ride a lot of miles to get in here for that drink.”

  Knight saw this as a benefit for him, not a detriment. The fewer people to ask questions, the better.

  “Where’s she live? This Amelia Parker with the banged-up father?”

  “Not far outside town. They got a small place from what she says. The only medicine her pa gets is a quart of whiskey a week.”

  “That might be good enough, depending on his injury. I should go see.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Doc? If you set up shop, all informal and out of the way, here in town, you can see what demand for your medical skills might be.”

  “If the former doctor’s gone, I can guess. Amelia Parker? I’ll go make a house call.”

  “He’s been in a bad way for a spell. You sure this is a good idea?” Ben Lunsford belligerently leaned onto the bar as if challenging Knight.

  “Don’t get your dander up. Is there a reason you don’t want me going there? You were the one who mentioned how bad off he is.”

  “I was just blowin’ off steam. You know how it is.” Lunsford poured a shot glass of whiskey and downed it. He choked, then chased it with another.

  “I never knew you were much of a drinker, Ben. Don’t swallow all the profits.” Knight looked around the empty saloon again. “If there even are any profits.”

  “You don’t—aw, hell. Do what you want, Doc.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I will. I took an oath to mend people who need it.” Knight gave Ben Lunsford one last speculative look and left.

  The day had turned stormy. Dust clouds whirled about with no hint of rain to hold down the sand cutting at his face. He pulled up his bandanna and tugged at his hat to protect his forehead. From what Ben had said, he knew where the Parker spread was. He kept his horse moving into the teeth of the storm for several miles until he saw the sandblasted sign directing him to the simple whitewashed house.

  Leading his horse to the barn, he put it into a stall next to a frisky colt. It was the only other animal in the barn. Head down, he made his way to the front porch and knocked on the door. A woman opened it. His eyes watered from the dust and grit caked his mouth, turning his words indistinct.

  “I’m a doctor. Heard in town ’bout a man needing help.”

  “A doctor? You’re a doctor?” She eyed his dusty black coat and the six-gun he wore slung low on his hip. He looked more like a gunfighter—or an undertaker—than a doctor. “Who told you?” She shrank into herself, arms hugging her body and her foot tapping nervously. Then she opened up like a blossoming flower and stepped forward so he got a better look at her.

  “Ben Lunsford, the new barkeep at the Golden Gate.” Knight wiped at his eyes. He blinked hard, not believing what he saw.

  “Is something wrong? You look surprised.”

  “Miss Parker? Amelia Parker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ben never told me you were so good-looking.”

  “He’s a kind man. I think he’s a bit sweet on me.” She pursed her lips as if this thought just occurred to her.

  “I can see why. I mean, I think I can see. My eyes are watering from all this dust.”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “I hail from . . . the Piney Woods. East Texas.”

  “Oh, forgive me. Please come in out of the dust storm. It’s one of those things people who live out here get used to. Well, not used to, but we can tolerate it better than folks used to a storm being rain and hail.” Amelia Parker had to use her shoulder to close the door against the gusting wind. “You’re a doctor? That’s your medical bag?”

  “I’ve had it since I was a medical student. It’s seen better days.” He placed his battered bag on a table.

  “Haven’t we all?”

  “You look to be in fine shape. I mean physically. No infirmities.” Knight bit his lip to keep from babbling. The woman was pretty as a picture, something Ben had neglected to tell him. Her appraisal that Ben was sweet on her explained a lot about him not wanting Knight to go out to the farm.

  “Why, yes, thank you. It is my father who requires a doctor’s attention.” She glanced toward a door off the parlor.

  “Ben said he was run over by a wagon and it broke both legs.”

  “Crushed them. Even if there had been a doctor to tend him, I doubt he would ever walk again. And lately, something awful is happening to his legs.”

  “Are they turning black?”

  She nodded. “And the smell is overpowering. I can barely change the bandages without, well, without becoming sick to my stomach.”

  Knight sucked in his breath and held it. He had seen too many cases of gangrene during the war. Never had he gotten used to the injury or what had to be done.

  “You look concerned, Doctor. I know I have been, but there’s nothing I have been able to do other than make him comfortable.”

  “I need to examine him.” He picked up his bag, aware how little it contained. “Do you have any laudanum?” He knew asking for chloroform would gain him nothing. During the war, he had never been given
an adequate supply of the anesthetic. The lack only increased the pain of his patients and led to more deaths.

  “I don’t think so. What is that?”

  Knight ignored the question and said, “I’ll need boiling water and that whiskey Ben sold you.”

  “He said he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “Don’t think poorly of him. He understood how serious your need was—how seriously your pa needed surgery.” Knight smiled just a little. “He wondered why a proper young lady wanted an entire quart and came to the proper conclusion.”

  “I’m glad, but he promised not to tell anyone. Anyone.”

  “I’m a doctor. Your secret is safe.”

  “Don’t I have to be your patient first?” She flashed him a small smile. “That would mean you have to examine me.” She turned and hurried away after such boldness. He heard her rattling pots and pans, then pumping water from a well.

  He closed his eyes and tried to settle down before examining her father. He knew what he would find. After pulling back the sheets covering the unconscious man’s legs, his worst suspicion was confirmed.

  “Where do you want the water?” Amelia Parker turned her face away from the sight of her father’s mutilated, decaying legs.

  “There. Then you should leave. This is not going to be pleasant.”

  “You . . . you have to amputate, don’t you?” She turned pale, and her hands shook as she put the kettle down on a bedside table.

  “I do, but that’s not the worst news. He is so weak he might not survive the operation.”

  “You’ve done this before? This isn’t the first time you have operated to . . . to cut off a man’s legs?”

  “The war left many men in worse condition who lived, but you should leave in case the operation isn’t successful.”

  “I’ll stay. He is my father.”

  “Once I begin, I have to continue or certainly lose him. If you faint, I cannot tend you without neglecting him.” Knight saw resolve harden in her.