“I won’t faint. What do you want me to do?”
“I need a tarp or blanket for the legs once I remove them. Put it there on the floor.” He turned his full attention to the man on the bed. He had been robust once. Now he lay a skeleton. However, his condition wasn’t as bad as many Knight had seen. Amelia had kept him clean and had given him water when possible.
He wasn’t sure she had done him any favors. Knight used the hot water to sterilize the bone saw. This wasn’t as good as using carbolic acid, and he wished he had chloroform to take away any remaining feeling. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. He began sawing.
Now and then he felt Amelia Parker swiping sweat from his forehead and keeping it from blurring his vision as he worked. The horrendous odor of decayed flesh quickly paralyzed his sense of smell; he no longer noticed. The sight of the broken legs would haunt him forever, though. Now and again he ordered the woman to give her father as much whiskey as he could drink. It was little enough until the man passed out.
After an hour, he finished. The last of the small arteries had been cauterized, preserving what blood the man had left. He stepped away and looked at his handiwork. During the war some amputations had been measured in minutes—even less. The numbers of soldiers waiting for surgical care had been overwhelming. Taking his time with Amelia’s father hadn’t been any less monumental. If anything, he felt a more personal pressure to do well for the woman’s sake. Never during the war had a son or daughter, a father or mother, been watching his every move.
“I’ll dispose of the legs,” he told her.
“I . . . thank you. I wouldn’t know what to do. Bury them? Or save them and bury them with him.”
“He made it through the amputations. He’s stronger than I thought.”
“My pa isn’t one to give up or give in.”
“I know. You’re the same way.”
She started to protest, then turned away. “I’ll boil more water. I need to clean up all this blood. His bed.”
“It should be burned. He’ll be all right on a pad on the floor.”
“My bed. I’ll move him to my bed in the other room.”
Knight didn’t argue with her or point out that her pa might die in that bed. He rolled the legs into the blanket and lugged them out back. He found a shovel and dug a shallow hole for them. What she said about burial of the body with the amputated limbs stuck with him. He saw no way for the man to live, but miracles happened. If Amos Parker lived, it wouldn’t have much to do with the operation or anything his doctor did.
He returned to the house to find Amelia dithering about in what he thought was an uncharacteristic fashion.
She looked up, distraught. “I don’t know how to move him. Even . . . even so much lighter, he’s too heavy for me.”
“I’ll show you how we transported patients during the war.”
Together, each grabbing a corner of the blood-soaked sheet, they heaved Parker off the bed and jockeyed him to Amelia’s bedroom. As gently as possible, they lowered him to the small bed. Knight stepped away and looked around. The Spartan room had a few personal touches. He noticed a faded photograph on a table. “Your ma?”
Amelia nodded. She picked up the picture and ran her finger around the wooden frame. “She died a few years ago. Pa insisted that she have this picture taken right after we moved to Buffalo Springs. It was expensive, and the photographer looked to be a fraud who only wanted to take our money and run off.” She replaced the frame on the table, then used a clean bit of her skirt to wipe away blood she had transferred with the brief, loving touch. “He did a good job, in spite of charging so much. I’m glad Pa paid for the best because it’s about all but memories I have of her.”
Knight turned from the woman, checked her father, then herded her from the room.
“It’s best to let him rest now. I poured enough whiskey into him to take away some of the shock, but his body has to adapt.”
“What about infection? Shouldn’t we watch over him? I mean, shouldn’t I stay with him?” She stood on tiptoe to look past Knight.
“There’s nothing you can do for a spell.” He didn’t add there was nothing anyone could do, this side of heaven. “Let’s sit in the parlor.”
She laughed without real humor. “You call this a parlor? That sounds so elegant. One day I hope I can have a real parlor, a sitting room, a kitchen big enough to work in. Why, I couldn’t swing a cat without hitting the walls here, but it was all we could afford. After Ma died, it was hard enough just to keep up with the chores. Then Pa . . .”
“Sit down here,” Knight said, guiding her to a short divan with well-worn cushions. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He went into the kitchen, heated water, got clean rags, then returned to sit beside her. He started cleaning off the blood staining her face and hands with gentle strokes.
“Whatever are you doing, Doctor?”
“Taking care of a patient. Or should I say nurse? You held up well in a difficult situation.”
“You just want to . . . examine me.” Again the tiny smile darted across her ruby lips.
“Do you mind?”
For an answer, she moved closer. Her body pressed into his as she laid her head on his shoulder. Knight held her, wondering what he should do. Then he realized from her slow, regular breathing that she had fallen asleep. Somehow, he didn’t mind being used as her pillow.
CHAPTER 25
“It’s a grand job, Ben. I’ve learned a whole lot, and I don’t mind smellin’ like gun oil all the time. Not a bit.” Seth Lunsford bent over a worktable and lowered a jeweler’s loupe to better see the burr on a sear taken from a S&W break-top pistol. He took a small file and worked to get rid of the offending scratch of metal, then buffed it smooth and put a drop of oil on it. He looked up at his brother and smiled. “All ready to be put back into a pistol. It’ll work just fine now, and I figured it all out myself.”
“Yeah, good,” Ben Lunsford said glumly. “I’m glad you like what you’re doin’. Does it pay worth beans?”
“Well, no, but I’m only an apprentice. Mr. Yarrow says I can work up to assistant in about a year. There’s a lot to learn about guns. There’s so many different kinds, and the new ones are better’n anything else. The six-guns with cartridges are a lot more complicated, but then they’re easier to load and fire. I’m learning how to load shells, too.”
Ben Lunsford looked around. He picked up a Remington and cocked it. With a smooth move, he lowered it and pointed it straight at the door as it opened and a man swung in. For a moment, they stood frozen, then the newcomer pushed back his coat and laid his hand on his iron. Sunlight shone off the worn thumb rest on the hammer . . . and the star pinned on his chest.
Ben lowered the pistol and laid it back on the table. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was comin’ in.”
“That’s a relief. I’d hate to start the day flinging around lead in a gunfight I didn’t even start.” The marshal closed the door behind him. He eyed Ben critically, then turned to Seth and asked, “Is my new Winchester all fixed up?”
“Yes, sir, Marshal Hightower. I got it right here. It’s a beauty, too. They’re calling it a Yellow Boy, or so Mr. Yarrow told me. I sighted it in. It’s got that octagonal twenty-four-inch barrel and a full magazine. I polished up the wood till it looks like a mirror. And whoever engraved it did a right fine job.”
Seth Lunsford pulled the rifle from under the table and laid it across a pad. He stroked it as if it would purr. Ben stepped back and kept his eyes on the lawman. It had been bad luck to point the pistol at the door just as he came in, and now the marshal was suspicious of him. That might be enough to make him move on. He was sure he could get Doc Knight to agree. The man hadn’t shown his face in town over the past week, since he told the surgeon about Amos Parker being all busted up.
He frowned as he wondered if Knight had kept riding after tending to the injured man. If so, good. Amelia Parker was a fine-looking filly and one he could snuggle up against all ni
ght long. He had seen her first, and it wasn’t right if Doc tried to snake her away from him.
“You’re Seth’s brother.”
“What?” Ben Lunsford jumped, pulled from his reverie by the unexpected question.
“Yeah, Marshal, that’s my brother Ben. He gets all dreamy now and again.”
“It’s good to have dreams. Is that what brought you to Buffalo Springs?”
Ben Lunsford cut off his brother before he responded. “We’re just passin’ through, but we needed to make a little money before ridin’ on.” Anything said to the marshal counted against them in the long run. Worse, Knight might be the reason they all got thrown into jail. If the army caught up with them, he and Seth might share Knight’s fate.
“Hattie says you’re doing a good job for her at the Golden Gate.” The marshal smirked. “Of course, her idea of doing a good job is salted with enough cursing to burn the ears of a lop-eared mule. And from the look of the work you do, Seth, you’re turning into a damned good gunsmith.” He held up the Winchester and ran his fingers over the elaborate etching on the side. “If it shoots half as good as it looks, this is the best rifle I’ve ever owned.” He laid it back down. “And your friend. He’s fitting into Buffalo Springs better than anybody has in years. We don’t usually take to strangers so quick.”
“Friend?” Ben looked at Seth, whose eyes had gone wide. “Who do you mean?”
“The doctor fellow. Dr. Samuel Knight. It’s nothing less than a miracle the way he saved Amos Parker. Poor Amos isn’t out of the woods yet, from all accounts, but he’s not fixing to up and die like he was.” Hightower fished out a ten-dollar piece and dropped it onto the table for the rifle. “You might pass on a word of advice to the doctor, though. Tongues are wagging about him staying out at the Parker farm, just him and Amelia and her papa, who can’t properly chaperone them.” He grabbed the rifle and went to the door. Over his shoulder Marshal Hightower said, “When Amos is better, there’s plenty of work for a good doctor right here in town. Doc Sparkman took off to the gold mines to make his fortune. He wasn’t bright enough to realize he had a gold mine right here in town. Good day, boys.”
Ben Lunsford sagged when the lawman left, shuffling because of a gimpy leg and arthritis.
“How’d he know Doc was with us? Did you tell him, Seth? That was a damn fool thing to say.”
“I poked around and asked about wanted posters. Oh, don’t look like that, Ben. I told a fib about being robbed by a highwayman. Not a one of the posters carried Doc’s likeness.”
“It was still wrong to link him and us. What if there had been a poster? Or what if Captain Norwood comes this way? The Comanches are kickin’ up a fuss all over Texas. There’s no way to know where that blue belly will show up.”
“I didn’t mean to. He mentioned as to how it was a coincidence Doc and us showed up in Buffalo Springs at the same time. I didn’t say we knew him, but then again I didn’t say we didn’t. The marshal’s not a stupid man.”
“Not as stupid as my brother.”
“Ben, I’m sorry, but I can’t unsay what I did. And you just confirmed that we know Doc.”
“Doc, Doc, Doc. Always goin’ on about Dr. Samuel Knight, like he’s some kind of hero.”
“He got you through Elmira. You and him—”
“I got him through that damned prison camp.” Ben Lunsford left his brother protesting. He stomped outside and looked around. For two cents, he’d get his horse and leave Buffalo Springs.
Amelia Parker had come to town a couple times and had even bought a bottle of popskull for her pa. She had hardly remembered Ben’s name. And she had thanked him for sending Dr. Knight out to save her pa. All she wanted was to take the whiskey and rush on back to the farm, no matter that he offered her a free drink. Talking to him had become a chore compared to bragging on Doc Knight.
“I saw her first, damn your eyes.” Lunsford went to the Golden Gate Drinking Emporium, paused a moment, then pushed through the yellow-painted doors.
It looked no different from when he had left. Echoes sounded in the empty saloon as the swinging double doors flapped back and forth. Hattie Malone sat at a table just inside the door, a bottle of Billy Taylor’s in front of her. She got soused earlier every day now that he worked behind the bar.
“Glad to see you decided to show up. There’s plenty of glasses to clean. And you’re doing a piss-poor job of wiping the foam off the beer glasses. When you got ’em all spotless, refill the whiskey bottles.”
“We don’t have any more whiskey mixed up.” He ducked behind the bar and put on the canvas apron. It felt more like slave’s chains than a way of protecting his clothes from spills and stains.
“Then get to mixing up some. There’s plenty of rusty nails to give it body. Must be ten gallons of pure alky back there somewhere. Mix that with enough water and throw in a horseshoe and some nitric acid and you got prime whiskey.”
“Trade whiskey,” he muttered. “Trade whiskey that’ll burn out your guts and leave you mewling like a baby.”
“I heard that. You whump up a batch that can do that, and I’ll think about paying you this week.” Hattie Malone laughed and downed another shot of whiskey. She let out a belch and closed her eyes. For a moment Ben thought she had passed out, but no such luck. Her eyelids flickered open. “Don’t forget to sweep out the back room after you mix the whiskey.”
“Are you going to pay me?”
“Oh, don’t make it sound so terrible. It could be worse. I could pay you with shares of the Golden Gate. This albatross hardly brings in enough to pay me. We can split the profits. If there ever are profits.” She belched again and laughed like a cackling crow.
“Where do the cowboys go to get drunk? This is the only saloon in town. They ought to be crowdin’ in here shoulder to shoulder.”
“A whole passel of Baptists settled the place. Dancing and drinking are ag’in their beliefs. The ones what don’t cleave to that mostly left to dig their fortune out of the ground. Gold mines.” Hattie spat and missed the cuspidor by a foot. “Danged fools. The only ones who get rich off gold rushes are the shopkeepers what sell them the picks and shovels.”
Ben Lunsford began his chores but stopped when two customers came in to break the monotony. Hattie had laid her head on crossed arms and snored loudly.
“Welcome to the Golden Gate, gents. Name your poison.” Ben waited to hear what the two cowboys wanted. From the condition of their clothing, they had been on the trail a long time. Every move caused tiny dust clouds to form.
“What can we get for a dime?” The two exchanged a look that told Ben even this much would tap them out.
“A beer for each of you.” He snared the coin and dropped it in the till. “That’ll cut the dust on your palate. Where you from?”
“We’re on our way to the Guadalupe Mountains. Heard tell of a gold strike there.” The shorter of the two sipped carefully at his beer, nursing it so it would last a spell.
His partner gulped his down in one long swallow, belched, and clicked the glass down on the bar. Using the back of his sleeve, he wiped foam from his lips. He left muddy tracks.
“We were over in Louisiana when we heard of the tons of gold bein’ hauled out of the ground. How can we pass that up?”
“You come through Pine Knob? Over in the Piney Woods?” Ben knew the question lacked subtlety, but he wasn’t up to teasing the information from the two.
“I reckon we passed through. If it’s the town I’m thinkin’, wasn’t too hospitable a place.”
“Why’s that?” Ben perked up, wanting to hear the reason. It took some discipline on his part not to laugh aloud when he heard the answer.
“Damned carpetbaggers run the place. One’s seized all the land and is givin’ it out to his cronies, declarin’ a state of emergency. He’s got an entire detachment of Union soldiers under his thumb. Believe me, it was a good day when we rode through that place.”
“What caused the emergency?”
; “No tellin’. There’re Texas State Police swarmin’ all over, but they’re at odds with the fellow. What’s his name?” The cowboy turned to his partner.
But Ben Lunsford answered before he thought better. “Gerald Donnelly.”
“Yup, that’s the owlhoot. You been there?”
“A while back. I didn’t cotton much to the way he ran things, either.”
“This place—Buffalo Springs—looks like a nice place, but it’s kinda quiet.” The one who had been sipping at his beer downed the half glass remaining. He stared at the foam inside the glass rim with some longing.
Lunsford put his finger to his lips, cautioning them to be quiet, got on tiptoes and looked out past the bar. Hattie snored peacefully. He ducked back and gave the two pilgrims fresh glasses of beer.
“Much obliged, mister.”
“Don’t mention it. Ever.” He jerked his thumb in Hattie’s direction. “She finds out I’m givin’ away the product, I’m kicked out on my ass.”
“Then we’re toastin’ you.” They lifted their glasses in silent salute and worked on the new glasses of brew.
“You saw that there’s not a whole lot goin’ on in town. I’m hungry for word of what’s happenin’ anywhere else. Since I left Pine Knob, I ain’t heard squat about it. What else can you tell me?”
“Is that your hometown?” The shorter of the pair leaned closer, as if sharing a deep, dark secret. “You done good leavin’ that place. The carpetbagger has recruited hisself a gunfighter to be his private bodyguard. That didn’t set well with the army officer, so they’re always squabblin’. You know who gets hurt in a case like that.”
“Neither of them,” opined Ben Lunsford. “Is the marshal still there or have the bluecoats run him off?”
“We didn’t stick around long enough to ask.”
“I saw a deputy,” the other cowboy said. “Didn’t look like he had the sense God gave a goose. There’s no way he could be the only lawman in that town.”
“So the soldiers and the marshal are stickin’ close to Pine Knob? They aren’t castin’ about to find any outlaws that have been bedevilin’ them?” Ben waited for the answer since it would help him decide whether to ride on or stick it out a while longer in Buffalo Springs. The longer he stayed, the less he liked it, but Seth had taken a fancy to the place.
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