"There now," Kate encouraged, taking his chin in her hand and wiping away his tears as she would have a child's. "You look so much more handsome when you ain't cryin' like a baby." She gave him a smile that seemed to distract him briefly.
"Who did this to him?" he demanded.
Her gaze fell and the smile faded. "Burly Jones," she answered flatly. "But he's dead now." Their eyes met, and an unspoken understanding seemed to pass between them. The boy wouldn't ask any more about it. She was glad of that. She couldn't bring herself to think about what she'd done. "Percy went for the doctor," she went on, sitting tall and taking a breath. "Great day for him to be outta town. Anyhow, they should be back tomorrow. You'll see," she did her best to console him, squeezing his shoulder. "Everything will be fine."
"Has he woken…at all?"
She shook her head. "Not yet."
Clarence fell quiet for a long time, his eyes fixed on Guthrie. The grief he felt was written all over his face, clear for anybody to see. Kate could tell that he needed to talk, but she let him be for now. The words would come when he was ready.
And she would be right there, waiting.
Chapter 22
"Slick, you gotta hide me!" Buckeye begged the hotel clerk at the Royale. "I ain't gonna swing from no gallows!"
"No way, Buck," Slick retorted with a resolute shake of his head. "The whole damn town's after you, and you come here? Just my luck." Slick moaned suddenly, bumping the back of his head into a low-hanging lantern. "Quick Buck, hand me that ice pack!" He waved toward a soggy towel on his desk. "If you'd let me light a lamp, I wouldn't've knocked my fool head." He cupped one hand over the lump where Kate Carson had slugged him earlier. "Can't see a damn thing in here!"
Buckeye handed him the ice with an impatient curse. "We can't light no lamps, Slick. Carson's sure to be puttin' a bounty out on me. Every cowpoke and train hand will be searchin' high and low." Desperation overcame him, and he grabbed Slick by his moth-eaten undershirt. "You gotta hide me!"
"Looks like your reputation ain't much good 'round here no more." Slick smirked, turning his attention to soothing his head wound, wincing and cursing as the ice slowly numbed the pain.
Buckeye jumped back from Slick. "You want me to threaten you? Is that it?" A wild gleam shone from his eyes. "Well?" His hand hovered over the Bowie knife sheathed at his belt.
"Hey now," Slick said, eyeing the blade. Buck had his full attention now. "No need for that. Don't get yourself all riled up. We've always been friends." He swallowed hard, knowing Buckeye could be a hot-headed man at times, liable to do just about anything. "Well-uh, how long would you need to stay here?"
Buck grinned at the change in attitude. He relaxed slightly, cracking his knuckles. "Just 'til dark. I'm riding out under cover of night."
"Where'll you go? Carson's likely to raise any bounty she's promised, once you've lit out. Won't be safe for you anywhere 'round these parts."
Buckeye stepped beside the front window and peered around the drawn shade. Dusk would be coming on soon. "I'll head southwest, toward Tombstone." He caught sight of two rough-looking cowpunchers across the street. They leaned casually against a hitching rail and stared straight at the front of the hotel. "Must've seen me come in here..." he muttered to himself, his eyes darting. "Must be waitin'—"
"Tombstone, you say?" Slick scoffed. "You loco, Buck? Them Injuns will skin you alive within a day's ride! There's a reason the railroad ain't gone through here yet, y'know."
Buckeye smirked confidently at the clerk. "Who was here first, Slick? The railroad? This town? Or me?"
It was a rhetorical question, and Slick took it as such (though he wouldn't have known what rhetorical meant). Everyone in these parts knew that Buckeye Daniels had been there first, trading with the natives and establishing friendly relations with them that a town and a railroad could later be built upon.
Those were the old days, though, and Buckeye didn't seem to notice that times had changed. The natives were no longer peaceful or friendly. They'd been disrupting stage lines, attacking cattle drives, and interfering with the completion of this stretch of railroad for months. The raids on the settlers and ranchers were getting bloodier, to boot. It seemed the more people who moved westward, the angrier the natives got, and the more blood stained the ground. Even so, Buck Daniels believed himself to be somehow immune to it all.
"You leave them redskins to me," Buckeye said. "I'll be alright. They know me."
Slick's head waggled side to side as he cussed to himself. But then he shrugged and sighed in defeat. "Go on, then. Make yourself at home."
Chapter 23
Clarence paced the length of Kate's bedroom, his eyes focused on the floor. Whenever his gaze turned to Guthrie, a sick heaviness would sink to the pit of his stomach, his knees would turn to jelly, and his eyes would sting and blur. Then he would need to sit for a while and listen to Kate's consolations. But he could not really hear her very well. His mind raced uncontrollably, his thoughts a jumble as he desperately tried to think of something he could do for Guthrie. Anything. He'd never felt so helpless in all his life.
Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do but wait. And the waiting was enough to drive him mad. Patience had never been his strong suit.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Kate watched the young Englishman as he strode back and forth like a caged tiger she'd once seen at the circus. She could only imagine how scared he must be: alone in a foreign country with his only friend on the brink of death. She had no idea what was wrong with Walter, and the way he wouldn't wake up was really starting to worry her. But she knew she had to distract the boy—and herself—for both their sakes.
"You feel useless, don't you," she said quietly.
He nodded stiffly and kept pacing.
"And helpless. And small?"
He nodded again.
"And…you know there's nothin' you can do, but it's eatin' you up inside and you're so mad you want to—"
"Scream my head off at the heavens!" he finished, shoulders slumping as soon as he'd made the confession.
"Well, I don't know about any heavens." She caught his eye as she got off the bed. "But you can holler at me if you want. C'mon, it'll do you a lot of good." She came to him and leaned her face in close. "Go on now, really make my ears bleed."
"I-I can't scream at you." Clarence backed away in bewilderment.
"Plenty of men have done worse," she countered. "Now you cuss me out real good, and you'll feel a whole lot better. I promise you!"
Clarence narrowed his gaze. "Is this…some sort of bizarre American tradition?"
"C'mon, you can do it."
"I shan't." Clarence shook his head vehemently. "I've never raised my voice to a woman—besides my mother—and I don't intend to start now."
"Stubborn one, ain't you," she remarked. "I thought you wanted to scream your head off at somebody." On a whim, she reached up and pinched his cheek. "Well?"
He glared down at her, indignant now. "Perhaps I did, a moment ago. Just not...you."
"Hmmm," she murmured, eyeing him coyly. "You wouldn't happen to be attracted to me, would you?" She leaned against him. "You like older women?"
"Uh-wha-haa?" He gulped nervously.
She breathed into his face, accentuating the words with her lips as she mouthed, "Remember the last time I kissed you?"
The room was whirling around poor Clarence. His eyes couldn't focus, and he fought to keep himself from fainting again at the soft pressure of her lips against his. But it was in vain. He could feel himself slowly drifting away as his knees buckled—
"Walter!"
Clarence came to his senses, wobbling on unsteady legs, and found Kate at Guthrie's side. The old butler coughed hard, straining to sit up.
"Guthrie!" Clarence rushed to him and rambled excitedly, "Oh, are you all right? Do you hurt anywhere? Do you need anything? The doctor is on his way. Don't worry, old boy, you'll be fine! You'll be up on your feet in no time. How do you feel?
"
Kate tried to prop up Guthrie with an extra pillow. "C'mon now, take it easy," she gently urged him. "You don't want to bust a lung or anything."
Guthrie nodded, and his coughing subsided.
"Deep breath if you can. C'mon now, breathe in..."
Guthrie struggled against another coughing fit to inhale deeply. Then with a sigh, he let his head fall back into the thick pillow, and his face relaxed.
"There," Kate said with a smile. "You're doin' fine, Walter."
"Wh-where am I?" His voice sounded husky and labored.
"In my bedroom," Kate said simply, stroking his forearm.
"Y-your—?" he started.
Kate almost laughed out loud at his expression. "Aw, don't fret, Walter. We ain't alone." She turned to Clarence and winked.
"Hello Guthrie."
"Oh, Master Clarence..." Guthrie rolled his head on the pillow, and there was a sparkle of recognition in his eyes. "It is good to see you, sir. Fear not. I'll be up on my feet again soon." He frowned, seeming to search for the words to say. "I-I don't seem to recall what happened exactly."
"How do you feel, Walter?" Kate asked, her fingers wandering to his cheek, rough with afternoon stubble.
"I have a headache, I'm afraid."
Kate smiled broadly. "Well, if that's the worst of it."
Clarence grinned as well. After so many hours of seeing Guthrie just lying there, neither dead nor alive, it was so good to see him awake now and able to speak. Clarence felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest, his nerves almost jittery with joy.
"Can you move, old boy? Your arms…and legs?" He was almost afraid of what the answer might be. Last term for a paper, he'd researched several cases of paralysis caused by severe trauma to the spinal column. Many of the victims had eventually died.
Guthrie held his master's gaze. "There is only one way to be sure, sir." He looked up at Kate. "Miss Carson, would you please be so kind as to turn down the sheets?"
With a nod, she slid off the bed and carefully pulled back the layers so that Guthrie—clad only in a long nightshirt—was free of them.
"Oh my..." Guthrie stared down at his attire—or lack thereof.
"Now don't get flustered, Walter. I left your shorts on!" She grinned at him and winked.
"Uh-yes, thank you, Miss Carson," he replied.
"Try your arms first, old boy," Clarence suggested. "One at a time."
"Yes, sir."
Flat on his back, Guthrie stared up at the lace canopy above him and clenched his right hand into a fist. The muscles in his forearm twitched slightly as his fist tightened. For a few moments, he just lay there. Then, gritting his teeth, he raised his trembling arm away from the bed.
"Hurrah!" Clarence cheered.
"Good job, Walter." Kate kissed his cheek.
The butler reddened slightly at all of this attention, but instead of insisting that they stop their encouragement, he focused instead on moving his other arm.
During the hour that followed, Guthrie did his best to move each of his limbs, one at a time, until his two nurses were satisfied. Exhausted from the effort, he fell into a deep sleep, and Kate covered him up with the sheets and quilts. It was late, and the room was dark, but no lamp was left burning. Both Clarence and Kate hoped Guthrie would sleep through the night.
"Sweet dreams," she said as she tucked the quilt up around his chin. Giving him a kiss on the forehead, she left the bed and quietly opened the door. A soft glow from the hall lamp flickered upon her as she lingered in the doorway. "I reckon you'll want to stay with 'im."
Clarence remained at Guthrie's bedside and nodded. "Yes. I reckon so."
She hesitated. "He's gonna be fine, you know. He's quite a man. Never met anybody like 'im." Her gaze lingered on the older Englishman. "You'll see. He'll pull through, sure enough." She blew Clarence a kiss before she shut the door.
In the dark, he found himself alone with the jumble his thoughts had become. They made very little sense. He was confused, and worried, and scared. And to top it all off, he was homesick, dreadfully so. He blamed himself for everything that had gone wrong so far, and he regretted leaving England in the first place. He should have talked his beloved butler out of making this horrible trip. Then their lives could have been just as they were before, and Guthrie would not be lying in bed on the brink of death.
But Guthrie was here for a reason: to find his daughter, a woman without a father, a complete stranger bound to him only by blood. He was determined to locate her, and nothing Clarence could have said would have swayed him from his course.
Yet the idea of him setting off on a journey for hundreds of miles was inconceivable! One had only to look at him to know it would be weeks, perhaps months, before he would be well enough to travel through the hostile American wilderness. He was not a young man. The blow he'd suffered would have crushed another man his age. Though it appeared he was able to move his arms and legs, only a doctor would be able to diagnose internal injuries invisible to the naked eye. And if it turned out that he was physically unable to make the journey to Virginia City? What then?
"The poor fellow's hopes will be completely dashed," Clarence muttered to himself, shaking his head at the thought of it. "He'll never see his daughter. They'll never meet. All of his dreams—smashed by an insane ogre with nothing better to do than pick a fight. It's so very senseless!" He felt another sob coming on.
A woman screamed outside.
The sound sent a sudden jolt through Clarence's system, and he rushed to the window. Pushing aside the curtain, he peered at the dark street below, his abdominal muscles tensing as the woman screamed again.
"Where the devil is she?" He scanned the street from side to side but could distinguish nothing apart from shadows.
Then he caught sight of them: two figures struggling in the alley between Madam Carson's and the building next door, their shadowy forms almost out of view. One was a short and stocky man, brandishing a gleaming knife. The other was a woman who screamed bloody murder and beat against the man with her fists. She was obviously a lady in distress.
A surge of chivalry overcame Clarence then and there, no doubt passed down to him from a great medieval knight in his lineage. Without another thought, he threw open the window and called down in a loud voice,
"You there! Cease and desist!"
The screaming stopped abruptly, as did the scuffle.
"Who goes there?" he demanded.
"Clarence!" the woman cried as she lunged against her assailant in an attempt to knock him down. Both of them fell to the ground, and the woman's blonde hair caught the moonlight.
"Kate?"
Leaving Guthrie to sleep soundly through the disturbance, Clarence rushed out of the room, charged down the hall, and nearly fell down the stairs in his haste. Then he hurled himself outside.
There he stood, gasping, as a horse galloped out of town and into the night. In its saddle rode the assailant with the knife. Slung over the man's lap, her head jostling unconsciously, was none other than Kate Carson.
Chapter 24
Clarence's pounding heart lurched into his throat as he watched the horse disappear into the darkness, the sound of its hoofbeats swallowed by the night. For a few moments, he stood there, unable to think of what to do. His mind raced as adrenaline coursed through his system. How could he possibly rescue Kate?
Then a brilliant idea came to him: "I'll go after them!"
Being an experienced rider, he knew he would be able to overtake them in no time. After all, hunting fox wasn't all that different from hunting a kidnapper. There was, however, one major problem: he had no horse.
Would he have to steal one? He hoped that wasn't the only option. He'd never stolen anything in his life. But with the kidnapper getting away—
"I'll steal one!"
Running to the nearest hitching rail, he came upon the first horse in the lineup. Untying the reins, he swung into its well-worn Western saddle.
"Hyaaah!" Clar
ence shouted with a touch of his spurs against its flanks. Expecting to bolt away in a sudden burst of speed, he crouched forward and raised his backside.
But the horse hadn't moved.
"Yaaah!" Clarence yelled, jerking the reins.
Nothing.
"What's wrong with you? Hyaaah!" He took a breath. "YAAAH! YAAAH!"
The horse snorted and scuffed its hoof idly across the dirt. It didn't seem interested in going anywhere.
"Come on, you stupid beast!"
The horse raised its head to glance at Clarence with a bored look in its dull eyes. Then it snorted again.
"Oh, blast you!" With a grunt, Clarence leapt from its saddle and landed on the horse beside it—a muscular, oil-black steed. It jerked its head up instantly at the unexpected weight in its fancy-looking saddle and snorted fiercely, stomping its hoofs.
"Ah, now here's a fellow who enjoys a good run." Clarence reached down to loose the reins from the hitching rail. Once free, the horse backed away without a touch of Clarence's spurs and pawed the ground expectantly. "There's a good boy." Clarence patted his solid neck. "Shall we go?" The horse snorted and almost reared, but Clarence held him firmly under control. "Well then, YAAAH!"
Like an arrow shot from a bow, the black steed bolted forward, its mighty muscles rippling beneath the saddle, its mane flying, its nostrils flared, its eyes wide—and Clarence looked pretty much the same. He fought to stay in the saddle as the town whipped by in a blur and the night air blasted past him, blurring his vision. Blindly he groped in the dark until he'd pulled himself into the correct rider's posture. Then, as the horse galloped across the dimly moonlit terrain at breakneck speed, Clarence steered him in the direction of the escaping kidnapper.
A few minutes after Clarence had thundered out of town on the stolen horse, a tall, fancily dressed gent exited the raucous gambling hall. A pleasant smile stretched his gaunt face as he counted his winnings for the night.
Westward, Tally Ho! Page 8
