Moran and McKenna lay Garcia on his back on the bed.
“Where was he shot?”
“In the back, just inside the shoulder blade, I think,” McKenna said.
The doctor opened Garcia’s shirt. “That’s not good,” he said.
“What?”
“The bullet didn’t go all the way through him. It’s still inside. I need you to turn him over so I can have a look. And do it carefully. It is going to be quite painful for him.”
With help from McKenna and Moran, Garcia was turned over, but the doctor was correct in suggesting that it would be painful, and Garcia grimaced as they moved him.
“Well, he’s lucky in one thing,” the doctor said. “I don’t think there’s any festering. But, I expect he has lost a lot of blood, and like I said, the bullet is going to have to come out.”
“Hell, why bother?” Pogue asked. “He’s goin’ to die anyhow, ain’t he?”
“Probably,” the doctor agreed. “But it’s not an absolute. I can at least try.”
“You want to waste your time on him, go right ahead,” Pettigrew said.
Turning, Pogue saw the doctor’s wife standing close by. “Lady, I ain’t seen you put no more pork chops in that skillet,” he said.
“I don’t have any more pork chops,” the doctor’s wife answered, her voice quivering with fear.
“Well what have you got?”
“Fix them some bacon, Pearl. We’ve got a whole slab of bacon,” the doctor said.
“Is bacon all right?” Pearl asked.
“Hell, bacon is fine. Just get to cookin’ it,” Pogue said.
“I have a basket of fresh eggs, maybe two dozen or more. I can scramble them. And I have a couple of loaves of bread I baked yesterday, if that’s all right. I had no idea there would be so many to feed.”
“Woman, quit talkin’ so much and get to cookin’,” Shaw said.
“And, don’t forget,” Malcolm added, “there are two more outside.”
“Actually, whenever my husband doctors a person, I have to help. I’ll cook you some food as soon as he is through attending to his patient.”
Pogue pulled his pistol and pointed it at Garcia, who, by now, had passed out.
“Well hell, if that’s all that’s stoppin’ you, I can take of that. I’ll just shoot the son of a bitch now and get it over with.”
The doctor stepped between Pogue and Garcia. “If you shoot him, you’re goin’ to have to shoot me, too,” he said.
“Hell, that’s all right by me,” Pogue said easily.
“And me,” Pearl said, stepping in front of her husband.
“I don’t have no problem with that, either,” Pogue said, and he cocked his pistol.
“No, Pogue,” Pettigrew said. “You ain’t goin’ to shoot either one of ’em.”
Malcolm, who had been surprised by the sudden turn of events, was glad that Pettigrew had spoken up. He didn’t want to shoot the doctor and his wife, but it wasn’t because of any sense of compassion. He knew that if they did kill the doctor and his wife, the entire territory would be after them. He wondered for a moment how he had gotten himself into this position. He had come to America to deal with one man, and though he had no real police authority, he did have some cover for what he was doing because Duff MacCallister was wanted back in Scotland. That was before. Now, he was an outlaw pure and simple, a bank robber, a party to murder, and in league with the most disreputable bunch of men he had ever known, or even heard about.
Malcolm was supposed to be in charge, but was he? He knew that he had no wish to challenge these men—especially Shaw, Pogue, or Pettigrew. He was glad that, on this issue at least, that of not killing the doctor and or his wife, Pettigrew was on his side.
Pogue looked at the defiant doctor and his equally defiant wife for a moment longer, then he eased the hammer back down. “All right, have it your way. McKenna, you fix the food.”
“Why me?”
“Why you? ’Cause you’re the one that was so determined to get Garcia to a doctor. Now, fix the damn food like I told you to.”
Pogue’s voice was cold and demanding.
“All right, all right,” McKenna mumbled.
“Doc, you got yourself a brave woman there,” Pogue said. “She’s pretty, too. Makes a fella wonder how someone like you ever managed to come up with a woman like that.”
When the doctor didn’t answer, Pogue smiled at both of them, then left them and walked over to join the others. By now McKenna had carved off several pieces of bacon and they were twitching and dancing in the frying pan.
The doctor slapped Garcia in the face.
“Here, what did you do that for?” Moran asked.
“I have to wake him up,” the doctor said. “I have to give him some laudanum. He’s goin’ to need it when I start probing for the bullet.”
Garcia opened his eyes, and the doctor held the bottle to his mouth.
“Drink this,” he said.
Garcia took the liquid, then closed his eyes again.
“Help me get his shirt off, Pearl.”
The doctor and his wife removed Garcia’s shirt. Then the doctor picked up a long, slender instrument and began probing for the bullet. As the doctor and his wife worked on Garcia, the others began to eat the bacon and scrambled eggs McKenna had cooked for them, totally unconcerned with the ordeal Garcia was going through.
“Mr. Moran, would you be for making a couple of bacon and egg sandwiches and taking them out to the Hill brothers?” Malcolm asked Moran when he saw that Moran was finished eating.
“All right,” Moran said as he went about his task.
“How are you progressing, Doctor?” Malcolm asked, calling over to the bed where the doctor and his wife were busily attending to Garcia.
“We are doing quite well, thank you. The bleeding has stopped, and digging for the bullet hasn’t initiated any new hemorrhaging.”
“Good. Continue with your task.”
For the next several minutes the doctor and his wife bent over the unconscious form of the wounded outlaw, talking quietly between themselves, using words that none of the men could understand. “Good, I was worried about secondary atelectasis, but despite the bullet insult, I don’t think the lung has collapsed,” Dr. Tillman said.
“I don’t think so, either,” Pearl said. “He seems to be aspirating normally.”
After what seemed like several minutes, the doctor announced that he had successfully removed the bullet and he dropped it with a clink into the pan of warm water. The bullet lay in the bottom of the pan with tiny bubbles of blood rising to paint a swirl of red on the water’s surface. None of the eaters seemed particularly interested in his announcement.
“So, you’re finished up, are you, Doc?” Pogue asked, coming over to stand by the bed.
“I’ve got the bullet out.”
“Good, hurry up and get him patched up so’s we can put him back on his horse and get out of here.”
“Are you insane? If you move him now, it will kill him.”
Malcolm came over to join the conversation. “What is going on?” he asked.
“This fool wants to put this man on a horse and leave,” the doctor said. “I just told him that he can’t do that. If he tries to move him, it will kill him.”
“Doctor, you don’t seem to understand our situation,” Malcolm said. “We must be going. We can’t stay around while Mr. Garcia recovers.”
“Then, by all means, go. Leave your friend here. I will take care of him until he is recovered.”
“And, no doubt, turn him over to the law,” Malcolm said.
“Suppose I do turn him over to the law? Isn’t incarceration preferable to dying?”
“You ain’t never been incarcerated, have you, Doc?” Pettigrew asked.
“Of course not.”
“It ain’t necessarily preferable,” Pettigrew said.
“Come on, Garcia. Get up!”
Garcia blinked his eyes a couple of times,
then closed them again.
“He can’t even hear you now,” the doctor said. “He has passed out.”
“Why don’t we leave him here, like the doc said?” McKenna asked.
“We can’t do that. He knows where we’re goin’, He might talk.”
“Garcia won’t talk,” McKenna said. “He’s a good man, he won’t talk.”
“We killed two people in that holdup,” Pettigrew said. “That means if we get caught, we’re goin’ to hang. If they tell him they won’t hang him if he’ll help ’em find us, are you tellin’ me he won’t talk?”
“We didn’t kill two people in the holdup, Pettigrew,” McKenna said. “You did.”
Malcolm listened to the discussion between the two men and knew that there was only one thing to be done. He knew also that, if he was to maintain the position of leadership among these men, he was the one who was going to have to do it. He walked over to the bed and picked up a pillow, then pushed it down over Garcia’s face.
“Here, what are you doing? Stop it! You are killing him!” Pearl shouted. She reached for pillow, but Malcolm continued to press it down over Garcia’s face.
“Doctor, do you want your wife to risk her life to save an outlaw?” Malcolm asked, sharply.
“Pearl, come away!” the doctor said.
“But, John, don’t you see what he is doing?”
“Yes, he is killing the patient,” the doctor said. “But better him than us.”
Malcolm smiled. “You have more sense than I gave you credit for, John,” he said.
Garcia offered no struggle at all, but Malcolm saw him arch his back slightly, as if trying to breathe. Malcolm held the pillow for at least two more minutes, then he pulled it away.
Garcia’s eyes were open but blank, and his face was slightly purple.
“John, if you would, sir, please confirm for me that he is dead,” Malcolm said.
The doctor picked up Garcia’s wrist and felt for a pulse. There was none. Then he put his hand to the carotid artery. He nodded.
“Mr. Garcia is dead,” he said.
Pearl crossed herself.
“Thank you, madam,” Malcolm said. “I am sure that Mr. Garcia needs all the prayers he can get.”
“I have to hand it to you, Malcolm,” Pettigrew said deferentially. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Malcolm said, starting toward the back door.
The others obeyed instantly.
Chapter Twenty-six
Sky Meadow
Falcon was tightening the cinch strap on Lightning as Duff stood by watching.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay awhile longer?” Falcon asked. “If this man Malcolm finds you, I might come in handy. Besides, I can help you build the barn.”
“Falcon, you have been more than helpful,” Duff said. “But the time has come when I must stand on my own. Besides, I’ve hired Mr. Gleason. As far as any further construction is concerned, I think the two of us can get the job done.”
“I’m sure you can as well. It looks like you’ve made a fine start.”
Gleason came out of the house carrying a little cloth bag. He handed it to Falcon.
“This is in case you get hungry on the train,” he said. “I baked you somethin’.”
“Mr. Gleason, you didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” Falcon said.
Gleason chuckled. “What do you think, that I cooked up a rat? I didn’t always eat rats and bugs and such. Before I got the gold fever, I was a belly robber for Mr. Richard King on his ranch down in Texas. And I was a good one, if I say so myself. I cooked you up a batch of sinkers. I think you’ll like them.”
Falcon opened the sack and looked down inside. As the aroma hit him, he smiled. Then he pulled one of them out and took a bite.
“Uhhmm,” he said. “Mr. Gleason, this is delicious. Cousin, if he can’t drive a nail for you, he’s worth keeping around just for his sinkers.”
“I don’t know what a sinker is,” Duff said.
“Some people call them doughnuts,” Falcon said. He broke off a piece of the one he was eating and handed it to Duff. “Try this.”
Duff tasted it, then smiled. “Mr. Gleason, I do hope you didn’t give all of them to Falcon.”
“Sonny, do you think I don’t know where my bread is buttered?” Gleason said. “I gave him a few, but I kept most of them back.”
Falcon laughed, then swung into his saddle. “Duff, I think I am leaving you in good hands,” he said. “You know how to get hold of me if you need me.” Slapping his legs against Lightning’s sides, Falcon rode off, throwing a wave as he left.
“He’s a good man,” Gleason said.
“Aye, I have found that to be so,” Duff agreed.
Chugwater
It created some curiosity when eight men rode into Chugwater together. That was because while groups of cowboys who were involved in trail drives often traveled together, this was not the time for a trail drive. Also, news of the bank robbery in Cheyenne had already reached Chugwater by telegraph message. So when Malcolm and the others tied up in front of Fiddler’s Green, Fred Matthews, who was standing at the window in the front of his mercantile store, saw them.
“Lonnie,” he called to the sixteen-year-old who worked for him.
“Yes, Mr. Matthews?”
“Go down to Marshal Craig’s office and tell him that he might want to check in on that bunch of men who just went into Fiddler’s Green. I’ve got a feeling about them.”
“Who do you think they are?”
“I think they may be the bunch that held up the bank down in Cheyenne.”
“You think they’re maybe goin’ to rob our bank? I got me near thirty dollars in that bank.”
“I don’t know,” Fred admitted. “But I think the marshal should know about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Biff Johnson had just finished tapping a new barrel of beer, and he held a mug under the spigot, then operated it to see if it was working properly. A steady stream of golden liquid flowed from the spigot, so, satisfied that the flow was all right, he shut it off, then took a sip to see if the beer tasted all right. It was necessary that he do that, because the beer came by train from Denver to Tracy, then by wagon from Tracy up to Chugwater, and sometimes it got a little stale. But that wasn’t the case now, because this beer was fine.
Biff was putting the mug in a tub of water when he saw the eight men coming into his saloon. Though that wouldn’t have been unusual during the cattle season, it was unusual now, and he looked up at them in curiosity.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to Fiddler’s Green.”
“We’ve ridden long and hard, and we’re thirsty,” one of the men said. He was a small man, with nostrils so prominent that they reminded Biff of a pig’s snout. He chided himself for having such a thought, though. After all, these were customers.
“Well, gentlemen, I have just the thing for thirst. I have only this moment tapped a new keg of beer.”
At the marshal’s office, Russell Craig, a man in his early sixties, had just poured himself a cup of coffee when young Lonnie Mathers came into his office. “Good morning, Lonnie,” the marshal said.
“Marshal, them folks that robbed the bank in Cheyenne is in town,” Lonnie said.
Craig had just lifted the cup to his lips, but he brought it down quickly when Lonnie said that.
“What? How do you know?”
“That’s what Mr. Matthews said. They’s eight folks just rode into town an’ they all went into Fiddler’s Green. Mr. Matthews said he’s sure they was the ones that robbed the bank.”
“He said that? He said he’s sure?”
“Well, no, sir, not exactly. But he said he believes they might be the ones.”
“He believes they might be the ones,” Craig repeated. This time he did raise the cup to his lips.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, Lonnie. You can tell Fred that I will l
ook into it.”
“Yes, sir,” Lonnie replied. “I’ll tell him that.”
Marshal Craig watched Lonnie walk back down the street to the mercantile store, then he went over to a hook on the wall and took down his holster and pistol. Strapping the gunbelt on, he pushed through the door of the marshal’s office and started toward Fiddler’s Green.
Back at Fiddler’s Green Lucy and Peggy, the only two bar girls remaining since Annie had been killed, were sitting at a table in the corner having a cup of coffee. It was just ten-thirty in the morning, and their normal work hours didn’t start until two o’clock in the afternoon, but they had no place else to go and they often just relaxed and visited with each other before starting to work.
“Peggy, let’s get out of here,” Lucy said quietly.
“Get out of here? Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t care. Anywhere but here. I don’t like the looks of this.”
“What? You mean all those men?” Peggy asked.
“Yes,” Lucy said. “There’s something not right about this.”
Marshal Craig came into the saloon, then stopped and stood for just a moment inside the door. Malcolm and the men with him looked around at him.
“Liam Pettigrew,” Craig said, recognizing one of them. “I thought you were in prison.”
“I got out,” Pettigrew said.
“So I see. What are you men doing here?”
“Good morning, Constable,” Malcolm said. “We have come to find a friend of mine, a fellow countryman.”
Upon hearing Malcolm’s accent, Marshal Craig’s eyes narrowed. The telegram he had received telling about the bank robbery in Cheyenne identified two of the men by name. One was Pogue, no first name available, and one, who spoke with a Scottish brogue, was Rab Malcolm.
“You would be Rab Malcolm, I take it?”
Malcolm looked surprised. “Aye. How do you know that?”
“Son of a bitch!” Pogue shouted. “Malcolm, he knows about the bank robbery, that’s how he knows about it!”
Upon hearing Pogue’s shout, Marshal Craig went for his pistol, but he was too late. Pogue, Pettigrew, and McKenna all beat him to the draw. Their three guns fired almost as one. Craig pulled the trigger on his pistol, but as he had not brought his gun to bear, the bullet plunged into the floor. Craig fell facedown with three bullets in him.
MacAllister Page 23
