Cross Draw

by J. R. Roberts

  He dropped the saddlebags and rifle into a corner and sat on the bed. He was able to lift his arm to shoulder length and extend it out in front of him, but the hand just hung loosely at the end. He thought he felt some tingling in the hand when he woke up, but it did not reoccur during the day, so he started to think he’d imagined it. Tingling, the doctor had said, would be good. At least it would be some kind of feeling.

  He stared down at his hand, keeping it in his lap, willing it to move, or even to tingle. But there was nothing.

  He left the room and went down to the lobby to meet the others.

  His hand may have not been moving, but he sure was hungry.

  He found Rosemary, Delilah, and Abigail waiting in the lobby.

  “I checked with the desk clerk for a good place to eat,” Rosemary said. “He recommended a café down the street.”

  “I’m not going to be particular today,” Clint said. “As long as they can burn a steak.”

  They stepped outside to wait for Jenny and Morgan.

  “How’s your hand?” Rosemary asked.

  “The same.”

  “No movement or feeling at all?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I also asked the desk clerk if the town had a doctor,” she said. “He said yes.”

  “This is a little bit of a town, Rosemary,” he said. “I doubt the doctor here would know more than Doc Jacobs did.”

  “There’s no harm in checking with him, is there?” she asked.

  “Probably not,” he agreed.

  Jenny and Morgan appeared at that point and they all walked to the café down the street.

  They did indeed know how to fire a steak. In fact, they burned them good. Clint, Rosemary, and Jenny ordered steaks and got them well done. Abigail and Morgan ordered chicken, while Delilah had the beef stew.

  After they finished eating Rosemary—who had once again cut Clint’s meat for him—said, “I’m going to go to the doctor with Clint. Jenny, you and Delilah go over to the general store and replenish our supplies. It shouldn’t take much.”

  “What should we do?” Abigail asked.

  “You and Morgan go to the livery, ask the man to check that wheel and make sure it’s still secure.”

  “But, why do we—”

  “We’ll take care of it, Rosemary,” Morgan said. “Don’t worry.”

  “When we’re all done, we can go to our rooms and get some rest,” Rosemary said. “We’ll be leaving again at first light.”

  They all nodded, except for Abigail. Out in front of the café, they split up.

  “How much longer can you put up with it?” Clint asked as they went in search of the doctor.

  “Put up with what?”

  “Abigail, and her attitude.”

  “We left St. Louis together, Clint,” she said. “We have to stay together. That’s just the way it is.”

  “And what if she decided to leave, on her own?” he asked.

  “Then that would be her decision,” Rosemary said. “I wouldn’t stand in her way. Here it is.”

  They stopped in front of a shingle that read: DOCTOR E. SHALE

  “Rosemary—”

  “Would you just do this for me?” she asked.

  He sighed. “All right, yes. Let’s go in.”

  “Thank you.”

  They opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately, Clint smelled the whiskey, and the odor of stale sweat.

  “Oh, what is that?” she asked.

  “Hopefully,” he said, “it’s not our doctor.”

  They were in an office, a small, roll-top desk up against one wall. There was another door, which they imagined led to a surgery.

  “Shall we?” he asked.

  She looked as if she had changed her mind, but she nodded and they went in.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The man was lying facedown in a pool of whiskey. On the floor. An empty bottle was lying next to him.

  “I wonder if this is Doctor Shale?” Clint asked.

  “Oh, it can’t be,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a doctor.”

  “Doc Holliday was a dentist, and he was a drunk,” Clint said.

  “You knew Doc Holliday?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  “Well . . . well . . . this must be different,” she said. “I mean . . . a doctor?”

  “Then where is he?” Clint asked. “Where is the doctor?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but what do we do about . . . him?” She pointed at the man on the floor.

  “Well,” he said, “first let’s keep him from drowning in whiskey.”

  Clint reached down and turned the man over onto his back. They were surprised to see that he was young, maybe in his thirties.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “Well, we could just leave.”

  “But he needs help.”

  “He needs more help than we can give him,” Clint commented.

  “I mean, right now.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “We can clean him up, wake him up, and find out who he is. Maybe he knows where the doctor went.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s do that.”

  “First, we need some water . . .”

  When the man opened his eyes, he stared up at them, frowning.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Clint, and this is Rosemary,” he said. “We came in looking for the doctor and found you facedown in a pool of whiskey.”

  “We saved you from drowning,” she said, “and cleaned you up. How do you feel?”

  “Awful,” he said. “So you have a drink?”

  “No,” she said. “My God, that’s how you got in this condition.”

  “Believe me, I know how I got this way,” he said. “I’m a doctor.”

  That stunned Rosemary. Clint could see that.

  “You’re . . . a doctor? Are you . . . the doctor? I mean, Doctor Shale?”

  “That’s me,” he said, rubbing his face and sitting up. “But I’m closed today.”

  “Just today?” Clint asked.

  “Yes, look,” Shale said, hanging his head, “I’m just not . . . in any condition . . .”

  “Coffee,” Clint said.

  “What?”

  “You need coffee,” Clint said. “Is there a kitchen here?”

  “Yeah, in the back, but—”

  “Make some coffee, Rosemary,” Clint said. “For all of us.”

  “A-all right.”

  As she left the room, Shale asked, “Is she your wife?”

  “No, we’re just friends,” Clint said.

  “Lovely woman.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Shale looked down at himself and said, “Oh God. I should wash up.” He stood up. “You did come here looking for treatment, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well . . . let me wash up, and then have some of that coffee,” Shale said, “and we’ll see.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  They got Shale cleaned up and put a couple of cups of coffee into him. He stared at them with bloodshot eyes, as if seeing them for the first time.

  “Say, you’re very pretty,” he said to Rosemary.

  “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t get your names, though.”

  “Clint and Rosemary,” she said.

  “I’m Ethan Shale.”

  “Doctor Ethan Shale, right?” Rosemary asked, still dubious.

  “Yes,” he said, “I know it’s hard to believe considering the condition you found me in, but I am the town doctor.”

  “What happened to you?” Rosemary asked.

  “That’s a fair question,” the doctor said. “It was a woman. Need I say more?”

  “Yes,” Rosemary said.

  “No,” Clint said. “That’s enough.”

  Rosemary looked at Clint, but did not press the issue.

  “Well,” the doctor said, “maybe you folks shou
ld tell me why you’re here?”

  Clint rolled up his sleeve and explained his injury to Doctor Shale.

  “Can I have your hand, please?” Shale asked.

  Clint extended it. The doctor felt the hand, moved the fingers, asked about pain.

  “You mind if I see the wound itself?” he asked then.

  “No, go ahead.”

  Shale unwrapped the wound with remarkable steady hands, considering how they’d found him.

  He leaned in to look at the wound, the stitching, to poke a bit at the edges, causing Clint some pain.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s fine,” Clint said.

  “Let me see you move the arm?”

  Clint moved his arm up and down, in a circular fashion, while the doctor asked for reports of pain.

  “Now hold your arm out and try to move your fingers, please.”

  Clint did so. His fingers did not move at all, but the doctor seemed to be more concerned with his wrist and his forearm.

  Shale newly wrapped the arm with care and then sat back.

  “What’s the verdict, Doctor?” Rosemary asked.

  “Well, the hand and fingers seem to be fine,” Shale said.

  “Fine?” she asked.

  “I’m finding dexterity in the hand.”

  “Which means what?” Clint asked.

  “Well, that mechanically, the hand is fine.”

  “Then why can’t I move it?”

  “I don’t think your hand is getting the message.”

  “What?”

  “From your forearm,” he said, “or your brain. See, your brain sends a message to your hand to move.” The doctor leaned forward and waved his hand over Clint’s forearm. “I don’t think the message is getting past here.”

  “What does that mean?” Rosemary asked.

  “Let’s say the tendons in your arm are like telegraph wires,” Shale said. “I’m sayin’ that one of the wires has been cut.”

  “But . . . with a telegraph wire you can fix it,” Rosemary said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you saying you can fix it?” Clint asked.

  “Well, theoretically, with surgery, I should be able to reattach the tendon.”

  “Well, that’s great,” Clint said. “When can you do it?”

  “Who, whoa,” Shale said, sitting back, “I should have said that theoretically, someone should be able to reattach the tendons.”

  “Someone?” Clint asked.

  “Someone better than me.”

  “The doctor in Big Rock didn’t mention any of this,” Rosemary said.

  “Doctor Jacobs?”

  She nodded.

  “He’s a good man, but this would be beyond him,” Shale said.

  “And beyond you?” Clint asked.

  “Well . . . I have the knowledge. I mean, I went to medical school in the East, learned a lot of new procedures that somebody like Doc Jacobs wouldn’t know, but . . .”

  “But what?” Clint asked.

  “Would you want to put your arm in the hands of the man you found facedown on the floor an hour ago?” Shale asked.

  “I’d want to put myself in the hands of a good doctor who knows what he’s doing,” Clint said.

  “You could probably find a doctor in another town . . . or back East . . .”

  “I don’t have the time,” Clint said.

  “Why not?”

  “I may not live that long, Doctor.”

  Shale scoffed.

  “This wound is not fatal—”

  “It is to me,” Clint said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you my name is Clint,” Clint said. “My full name is Clint Adams.”

  “Clint . . . Adams?” The doctor sat back, stared at Clint. “I see,” he said finally, “I see now what you mean.”

  “Can you do it, Doctor?” Rosemary asked.

  The doctor ran his hands over his face, frowned when he felt the stubble there.

  “It could make you famous—” Rosemary started.

  “No, no,” Shale said, waving her off, “that doesn’t come into play in my decision. In fact, I’m sure Mr. Adams would not want the word to get out.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “No,” Shale said, “but there would be a certain amount of personal satisfaction for me . . .”

  “And I’d pay you, of course,” Clint said. “Anything.”

  “Anything within reason,” Rosemary said.

  “No,” Clint said, looking the doctor in the eye, “anything!”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “We’re what?” Abigail asked.

  “Not we,” Rosemary said, “me.”

  They were all gathered in one of the hotel rooms—the one Rosemary was sharing with Abigail.

  “But you can’t abandon us,” Abigail said.

  “I’m not abandoning anyone,” Rosemary said. “Clint is going to have a surgery on his arm. I want to be here to see if it works. And to support him. I’ll join you all in California.”

  “No,” Jenny said.

  “What?” Rosemary asked.

  They all turned and looked at the youngest of the group.

  “If you’re staying,” Jenny said, “I’m staying, too. I want to support him, also.”

  “Well,” Morgan said, “I might as well stay, too.”

  “If you’re all staying,” Delilah said, “I am, too. I say we all stick together.”

  “You’re all crazy,” Abigail said. “We don’t owe this man anything just because he fixed a wheel.”

  “He did more than that,” Rosemary said.

  “He saved us from those men,” Jenny said. “Risked his life.”

  “We’ll still go to California,” Morgan said. “Just later.”

  “Where is he?” Jenny asked Rosemary.

  “In his room.”

  “You better go and tell him that we’ll support him,” Jenny said. “All of us.”

  “Unless Abigail wants to take the wagon and go ahead alone,” Morgan said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Abigail said. “You all know I can’t and won’t do that.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Jenny said with a big smile. “We’re all staying.”

  “When will the surgery be done?” Morgan asked.

  “We don’t know that yet,” Rosemary said. “It’s up to the doctor.”

  “Is there a problem?” Delilah asked.

  “There might be one.”

  “What is it?” Jenny asked.

  “Well,” Rosemary said, “the doctor is, uh kind of a drunk.”

  Clint was in his room, lying on the bed with his boots off, his gun hanging on the bedpost as usual, but on the left side.

  He was staring at the cracks in the ceiling, thinking of each as tendons in his arm. Doctor Shale said he could open Clint’s arm and reattach the tendon that was damaged. Then they’d just have to wait and see if movement returned to his hand.

  There was no guarantee.

  Doctor Shale sat in his office, thinking about what the day had brought. His drunken stupor had begun the night before, and apparently lasted until morning. Or until Clint Adams and the woman, Rosemary, found him and revived him.

  Revived.

  Could fixing the Gunsmith’s arm revive him, as well? Perhaps revive his whole life?

  It wouldn’t bring back the woman he loved, who had left him, but it might just bring him back to life.

  Rosemary knocked on Clint’s door. When he opened the door, he looked tired.

  “I’m sorry, were you asleep?”

  “No,” he said, “counting cracks in the ceiling. Come on in.”

  He let her enter and closed the door. She turned to face him.

  “I wanted to tell you that we all decided to stay and see you through this.”

  He smiled. “That’s really nice, but there’s no need for that,” he said. “You ladies have a trip to finish—”

  “We can put it off for a
few days,” she said, “or a while. However long it takes you to heal.”

  “Rosemary—”

  “Please,” she said, “this is something we’d like to do. We still feel responsible for the way you got hurt. We’d like to know that you’re going to be all right.”

  “Well . . . okay,” he said. “Thanks. It would be nice to have some support.”

  He felt sure he would have been fine without them, but for some reason this seemed to be something that they needed. All but Abigail.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Dillon stared at the town ahead.

  “Small town,” he said.

  “We shoulda took them on the trail,” Raymond said.

  “Town’s better,” Dillon said.

  “Why?” Raymond asked.

  “More witnesses,” Quentin said.

  “You want witnesses when you kill a man?” Raymond asked.

  “When it’s a fair fight, you do,” Quentin said.

  “And this is gonna be a fair fight,” Dillon said.

  “What if his right hand ain’t hurt. Like they said?” Raymond asked. “What then? You still gonna try him?”

  “We’ll have to see,” Dillon said.

  “We goin’ in?” Raymond asked.

  “We’re goin’ in,” Dillon said. “We’re only about half a day behind them. They can’t be too settled.”

  “Shouldn’t we go in one at a time?” Raymond asked.

  “No,” Dillon said. “Three strangers riding in one at a time might even attract more attention than three men riding in separately. Let’s go.”

  The three men started their horses forward.

  Clint entered the sheriff’s office and found it empty. He took a look into the cellblock, found two cells, doors wide open. When he stepped back into the office, a man was coming in. He wore a badge and looked like he was in his late twenties.

  “Sheriff?” he asked.

  “Deputy,” the man said, “but I guess I’m the temporary sheriff.”

  “Where’s the regular one?”

  “He had to leave town, go to the county seat,” the deputy said. He walked around behind the desk, but didn’t sit. “My name’s Web Kane.”

  “Clint Adams.”

  The deputy rocked back on his heels. “The Gunsmith?”