Six-Gun Law

by Jory Sherman

  A woman came up to them. She was wearing a brightly colored skirt, banded with blue and red cloth, a low-cut yellow blouse, large, dangling earrings made of silver and turquoise. She carried a small wooden tray.

  “What’ll you gentleman have?” she asked. “You’ll never make it to the bar.”

  “Whiskeys,” Jeff said before Lew could say anything.

  “Give me two dollars,” she said.

  Jeff whistled, but gave her two dollars. She disappeared, melting through the crowd that parted to let her pass.

  “I hope she brings us something to drink,” Jeff said. “Anyone with a tray could do that. Just take our money and go out the back door.”

  “You’re mighty suspicious, Jeff.”

  “I’m skeptical of most everything in a city like this. This is the kind of town our preacher used to preach against when I was a kid. A regular Sodom.”

  “Or a Gomorrah.”

  “I don’t see Wayne nowheres,” Jeff said.

  “I wouldn’t know him if I saw him.”

  The woman did not return. Instead, a burly man who looked like a bouncer approached them. He handed Jeff back the two dollars.

  “Leave,” he said to Jeff.

  “Why?”

  “Sheriff Smith don’t want you in here.”

  Jeff took the two dollars. The man glared at them, his hands on his hips as if ready to do battle.

  Jeff put the money in his pocket and turned to leave.

  A man leaned over to Lew and whispered, “Watch yourself.”

  Lew looked at him. “Why?”

  “Outside. They’ll be waiting for you.”

  The burly man came up and started shoving Jeff toward the door.

  In moments, they were outside, the noise of the cantina muffled as the door slammed behind them.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Lew said.

  They had taken two steps when Lew saw something flash from the shadows. The light from one of the cantina windows caught it, just for an instant.

  Lew grabbed Jeff and pulled him down as he went into a crouch, clawing for his gun.

  A pistol exploded, filling the dark with an orange flame.

  An instant later, there was no longer time for Lew to think.

  15

  JEFF GRUNTED AND LEW KNEW HE HAD BEEN HIT. HE SHOVED his friend to the ground and cleared leather, hammering back on the Colt. He fired at the afterimage of the orange flame, then dove for the dirt. Two more pistols opened up and Lew rolled away toward the opposite side of the street. He fired once, then again.

  Jeff moaned in pain.

  Then Lew heard footsteps pounding as the gunmen ran away. The sounds faded and it was quiet. The people in the cantina probably hadn’t heard a thing, he thought. He waited a few seconds, then crabbed over to where Jeff lay. He reached down and felt something sticky on his hand. He had touched Jeff’s side.

  “Who?” Jeff gasped in pain.

  “I don’t know. Jeff, you’ve been hit. I’m going to carry you out of here. Try and hold on.”

  Jeff did hold on until Lew got him to the hotel. He told the night clerk to send a doctor up to the room.

  “It’ll cost you,” the clerk said.

  “I’ll pay. Just get us a doctor, right away.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Lew laid Jeff out on the bed in Jeff’s room. He found the lamp on the dresser and groped for a box of matches that he knew was there. Jeff’s room was just like his. He struck a match, lifted the chimney, and lighted the wick. He adjusted the flame and slid the glass chimney back in place. He carried the lamp over to the nightstand next to the bed and set it down. Then he walked back to the dresser.

  He poured water from the pitcher on the highboy into a bowl and soaked a small towel in it. He ripped Jeff’s shirt and washed the blood away. Some was still pumping out around a small black hole rimmed with pale blue flesh.

  “Lew,” Jeff rasped, “in my boot. Cash. For Carol.”

  “You just hold on, Jeff. The doc’s on his way. He’ll fix you up in no time.”

  Jeff raised his hand, beckoned to Lew.

  Lew leaned over to hear what Jeff had to say in his halting speech.

  “I won’t,” Jeff said. “Make it. Drowning. Hard to breathe. Take my. Boots off. Money for Carol.”

  Jeff’s breathing was labored, shallow. His lips had turned bluish. Lew could see that his friend was in a bad way. He picked up the towel and wiped Jeff’s forehead. Sweat had beaded up in the deep furrows. His face was pale, turning waxen in the lamplight.

  Lew didn’t take Jeff’s boots just then. Instead, he stuffed a small piece of towel into the bullet hole to stanch the flow of blood. Jeff passed out as a shudder of pain rippled through his body. A few minutes later, Lew heard a knock. Not on Jeff’s door, but on his own. He went to the door, opened it, saw a man with a black satchel standing in front of his door.

  “Lew Zane?”

  “Yeah, but it’s Jeff Stevens who’s hurt. In here.”

  “I’m Doc Renfrew,” he said as he entered Jeff’s room. He walked over to the bed, set his satchel on one end of it, and opened it. He took out a stethoscope and put it around his neck.

  “Would have been here quicker,” Renfrew said, “but Charlie, the clerk here, said you had been shot. I wanted to get some pine tar in case I needed it.”

  Renfrew was efficient. He put the cup of the stethoscope on Jeff’s chest, lifted one hand, and touched the wrist with two fingers.

  “Heartbeat could be better. It’s skipping a beat, a couple of beats every so often. His pulse is thready, too. Shock.”

  “I put a towel in the wound to stop the bleeding,” Lew said.

  “I see that. Not the best way to stop the bleeding, but it probably helped. Did he lose a lot of blood?”

  “I don’t know,” Lew said.

  Renfrew pulled the towel out of the wound and turned Jeff over on his side for a better look. “Hmm,” he said.

  “What’s ‘Hmm’ mean?”

  “It means it’s a clean hole and the bullet’s probably still inside. I’ll check.”

  He turned Jeff over, rolling him from side to side so that he could see if the bullet had come out or was still inside.

  “What’s your friend’s name again? I always like to know the name of my patients.”

  “Jeff Stevens.”

  “Stevens. Sounds familiar.”

  “It’s a common enough name.”

  “To be sure. Well, I’m going in after the bullet. Here, take this.”

  The doctor reached into his bag and pulled out a flat stick that seemed to have been planed down from a cut stick of lumber.

  “What’s this for?” Lew asked.

  “If he wakes up, you poke that stick between his teeth and hold him down by the shoulders. I’m going to take his shirt off and then probe for the bullet.”

  “What are his chances, Doc?”

  “Ah, the question.”

  “The question?”

  “The most asked question, I should have said. People want to know how long they have to live, but when someone’s hurt badly, the question is ‘What are his or her chances?’”

  “And the answer?”

  “I don’t know. Only God does.”

  “I understand,” Lew said, turning the stick over and over in his hand.

  Doc Renfrew cut away Jeff’s shirt, tossed it onto the floor. Then he pulled out a long metal probe with a little hook at the end. To Lew, it looked like a heavy piece of wire that had been bent to make the hook. But whoever had done it had used a vise, most probably, because the piece of metal was straight and uniform.

  “Bring me that bowl over on the dresser, will you, Mr. Zane?”

  Lew took the bowl to the doctor. Renfrew set it down on the floor, held the probe over it, and poured alcohol over it.

  “To sterilize it,” he said. “I brought some whiskey if he wakes up.”

  “You a surgeon?” Lew asked.

  “I am.
Served in the Army, was with Zeb Pike when he came out this way. I loved the country, came back to stay. Now, let me get at this little booger.”

  The doctor knelt down beside the bed, moved the lamp to throw light on the wound, and then stuck the probe in very slowly and carefully. He looked up as he went deeper, as if listening for a sound. Deeper and deeper he went, then stopped.

  “Find it?” Lew asked.

  “I think so. Just below the liver, though it might have nicked it. I think it’s buried in his large intestine, but could be in his abdomen. I’ll know in a minute. Ah, here we go.”

  The doctor moved the probe up and down and twisted it around. He pulled a little bit, then moved the probe. Then he pulled again.

  “It’s inching its way out. Won’t take long.”

  Jeff stirred, but did not wake up.

  “Hold him down, Mr. Zane, just in case.”

  Lew stuck the piece of wood in his back pocket, went to the head of the bed, and placed his hands on Jeff’s shoulders.

  Renfrew continued to work the bullet toward the entry wound with deft and delicate manipulation of the probe. Jeff began to squirm. Lew put pressure on his shoulders.

  “Just a little bit more,” the doctor said.

  Beads of sweat broke out once again on Jeff’s brow and he made a low moaning sound in his throat.

  The doctor stopped pulling on the probe. He set it down on the bed and reached into the wound, pried the flesh apart slightly, and grasped the lead bullet with his thumb and forefinger. He pulled it out and held it up to the light.

  “There we are,” Renfrew said.

  Lew felt a little sick to his stomach as he stared at the bloody slug.

  “A nice addition to my collection,” Renfrew said, then pulled a thong out of his shirt. There, in a string, were other bullets, neatly drilled, dangling from a necklace.

  “Those are all bullets?” Lew said.

  “Ah, not just bullets, Mr. Zane. These are bullets I’ve removed from wounds since I came to Pueblo. As you can see, this is a violent town. A lot of shootings.”

  “Did . . . I mean, are those bullets from people who are walking around now? Alive?”

  Renfrew shook his head and got to his feet.

  “No, alas, some of the victims died. But not from lead poisoning.”

  The doctor pocketed the bullet after wiping it on the damp towel, and then reached into his bag. He brought out a small jar of unguent. He opened the jar and then picked up the probe again. He wrapped the probe with cotton, which he wound around it until it was tightly packed. Then he smeared the unguent on the cotton. The soft material had a pungent odor.

  “Pine tar and gunpowder,” Renfrew said. “My own concoction. I wish I had a hot poker, but I don’t.”

  He then gently pushed the probe inside Jeff’s wound and twirled it around. He did this four more times, then covered the tip of his finger with the unguent and pushed it into the wound, leaving some on the outside.

  “Now, then,” Renfrew said, and reached into his pocket for a box of matches. He lit one and touched it to the unguent. It caught fire. The flames raced along the pepperings of gunpowder, clear into the wound.

  Jeff jumped and cried out in pain.

  Lew jammed the stick between his teeth as the fire burned, cauterizing the wound.

  Renfrew stepped away and looked down at Jeff.

  “That’ll stop the bleeding, help him to heal more quickly.”

  “Then Jeff will be all right?” Lew said, pressing down hard on Jeff’s shoulders as the wounded man writhed and kicked, tried to scream.

  “I don’t know. He could develop peritonitis and die. Depends on what the bullet ripped when it went in there. The liver will heal if it’s been cut. The intestine might cauterize over any tears in it. Hard to tell. I’ll give you some powders, some morphine for the pain. You’ll just have to watch him and see. If you see any sign of him failing, just send for me and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “How far away are you?”

  “Oh, I live in the hotel. My office is a few doors down. The clerk will know where I am.”

  The ignited gunpowder died out and Jeff stopped struggling.

  “The pine tar will seal it pretty well,” Renfrew said. He then began to wrap a bandage around Jeff’s waist. “Watch this bandage and if there’s any more blood, send for me. He might leak a little, but I think we burned all the little blood vessels pretty nicely.”

  Lew felt his stomach turn again when he thought about what he had just witnessed.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him, Doc.”

  “Where did this shooting take place, by the way?” Renfrew asked.

  “We were in the Double Eagle. A man kicked us out. Someone was waiting for us. The first shot hit Jeff and he went down.”

  “The Double Eagle, you say. Bad place that.”

  “It was crowded. We could hardly move in there.”

  “You came in between fights.”

  “Huh?”

  “They have cockfights out back. In between, the patrons all come in, get more drinks, then go back outside to bet on the fighting cocks.”

  “I wondered. Seemed like an awful lot of people jammed in there.”

  “There’s another thing, Mr. Zane. You probably didn’t look up, but there’s another story to that establishment. When you came in, someone was watching you from a slit-hole up there at the far end of the room.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Well, if they wouldn’t sell you a drink, they wanted you outside so they could kill or rob you. You had a very close call, if you ask me.”

  “You’ve run into this before?” Lew asked.

  “Sadly, yes. I’ve complained to the authorities, the sheriff, the judge, but to no avail. Too many shootings happen at that place. Someone wanted you dead, Mr. Zane. You or your friend Jeff here.”

  Lew eased up on Jeff, who had stopped struggling. He removed the stick from Jeff’s mouth. Jeff’s eyes fluttered, but he remained still. Then he opened his mouth.

  “Wayne,” Jeff breathed, and the doctor looked startled.

  Lew stared down at Jeff, wondering if he knew for sure who had shot him.

  Renfrew stiffened and his eyes clouded over as if they were filled with smoke.

  For a long time there was only the sound of the flame sputtering as the wick in the lamp burned low.

  16

  RENFREW APPEARED STARTLED WHEN LEW LOOKED AT HIM, as if some bolt of recognition had struck him like lightning.

  He walked over to the head of the bed and looked at Jeff. He leaned down to speak to him.

  “Did you say Wayne?” he asked Jeff.

  “Wayne done it. Shot me.”

  “Wayne Smith?”

  “Yeah.”

  Renfrew stood up, looked at Lew again.

  “Now I know where I heard that name before. I treated two children several months ago. They both had earaches and a woman brought them in. Her name was Carol Smith. But as I was examining her children, a boy and a girl, she said her maiden name was Stevens. She even mentioned that her father’s name was Jeffrey. Is this the same man?”

  “Yes, Doc. Jeff Stevens is Carol’s father. He rode out from Missouri to see her.”

  “Good Lord. What a small world. And Wayne Smith is a deputy sheriff here in town. With a bad reputation, I’m afraid.”

  “Yeah, we know. I don’t think Jeff knows who shot him. He just thinks it was his son-in-law.”

  “I’ve treated a number of patients who were hurt at the Double Eagle. Only one or two were shot, however. Most were beaten. And robbed. Why would Wayne Smith want to kill his father-in-law?”

  “I don’t know, Doc. Guilty conscience maybe.”

  “That man has no conscience. I do know he took his wife and kids up to Leadville, then returned by himself. I never knew why. I never asked him and he never told me.”

  “You know Smith?”

  “He’s brought in a prisoner or two who needed medical atten
tion. I gathered this was distasteful to him, but he was following orders from the sheriff himself, Andrew Coolidge. Andy means well, but he’s tied to politics tighter than a tick to a dog’s behind. I asked Andy once why he hired such a man as Smith, and he just shrugged and said that Wayne kept the drunks off the street in broad daylight.”

  “A hell of a reason to hire a man like Smith,” Lew said.

  “Well, you and Jeff here had no business going to the Double Eagle. Smith lives there at night when he’s off duty, and I’ve heard stories about a woman named Flora who works there. She looks out that peephole up in the second story and picks out who she’s going to rob. Did you by chance pay money for drinks and a man gave your money back to you?”

  “That’s exactly what happened.”

  “The man who gave you your money back and who told you to leave was probably Ed McDermott. He’s a tough who beats people up there when they get loud or rowdy. I’ve had to sew a lot of stitches in the heads of men he’s thrown out of the Double Eagle, and wire up a jaw or two he’s broken. You’d be wise to give the Double Eagle a wide berth, Mr. Zane.”

  Lew said nothing. He watched as the doctor packed up his instruments, put away his stethoscope. He laid some packets of powders on the nightstand and closed his bag.

  “That will be four dollars, Mr. Zane, and I thank you.”

  Lew paid him, counting out four one-dollar bills.

  “I’m in Room 200, if you need me. Sleep is what Mr. Stevens needs right now. Let the wound calm down, the blood coagulate. The packets are clearly labeled. Give him the morphine only as a last resort.”

  Lew let the doctor out, then sat at the small table in the center of the room.

  He looked over at Jeff, who seemed to be sleeping soundly and peacefully. His face was flushed, but he was breathing normally, even and deep. After a while, Lew turned up the wick on the lamp. He sat in the easy chair, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes. He would not enjoy the luxury of sleeping in a bed that night, he knew. And he hoped he would not have to take Jeff’s boots off, except to make him more comfortable. The idea that Jeff might die made his blood run hot with anger.