by Anna Murray
"Sure. That matter?"
"Yes, it does." Rutherford hovered over his patient. "She's lucky, this is mostly bluster, but it does need stitches. She'll be fine, " he added. The doctor reached into his bag and brought out a needle, thread, and bandages. He saw the bottle on the table. "You can give her some of the whiskey."
She'll be fine.
Rutherford didn't miss a beat. He soothed Cal with a smile and knowing look.
Cal poured a glass of the whiskey and held the glass while Sarah drank. She made a face as she swallowed, and asked if the burning feeling was normal. The men grinned.
Anticipating pain, she bit down on the leather strap. Rutherford asked her to hold steady while he stitched the edges of the wound back together, and she felt only a few dull pricking sensations as he worked. He finished by covering the wound with a bandage. Throughout the procedure the men kept up a steady banter, and Rutherford sprinkled Cal with advice.
"Keep this bandage in place for several days," he instructed. "Your wife can get up and back to her regular duties by tomorrow, but she shouldn't do any heavy work that might pull out those stitches. She'll be fine so long as infection doesn't set in. Send for me if she takes a fever." Rutherford's cursory glance at Cal became a close inspection. "Why is your arm in that sling?"
Cal hadn't expected that. And he hadn't corrected Rutherford's error when he'd addressed Sarah as his wife. "I was shot in the shoulder about three weeks back. Doc told me not to use the arm."
"Let's take a look at it." Rutherford motioned for Cal to remove his shirt.
Cal lifted his arm in a gesture of resignation and stripped off his shirt.
Rutherford examined Cal's left shoulder.
"It's healed well. No putrefaction." he murmured. "You feel pain?"
"No."
Doctor Rutherford grabbed Cal's right arm and studied it.
"You're looking at the wrong arm," Cal grunted. "That one's fine."
Rutherford smiled. "Indeed it is. I'm looking to see what the other one should look like." Rutherford looked thoughtful. "You haven't used your left arm in too long. Look at how much thinner and weaker it is against your healthy right arm."
Cal looked down. Rutherford was dead on. His left arm was a pale weak cousin next to the right.
Rutherford grimaced. "I want you to start exercising your arm immediately. Use it every day. Make it strong again. Arm wrestle with your wife or Ned if you have to, and burn the blasted sling. If you don't move this arm, it'll be useless as an old nag."
"But Doc said—"
"My training's up-to-date. Chandler's isn't. You do as I say. Doctor Chandler didn't serve in the war . . . he hasn't treated the gunshot wounds like I have." Rutherford packed his supplies back into the leather bag as he spoke. "I'll be back in a few days to check on the missus and you." He'd made it clear; he wouldn't entertain any arguments.
Cal sighed. "OK, Doc. Honestly, I was about to throw away the dang sling."
Rutherford's mouth tightened. "Right. Do as I say and your arm will be normal before it rains again." His eyes studied the knotted pine flooring. "The wounds we can see are the easiest to heal."
Cal didn't respond to the strange muttering, but it seemed the man was full of good advice.
Chapter 13
Trailing his mules, Roy Easton rode into the bustling mining camp. He'd slept the previous night along the river, south of the Lazca mine, where he was pleasantly lulled by the gentle sounds of prairie grasses whispering in the wind.
He'd wanted trout from the river for dinner, but instead he cooked beans and warmed Sarah's leftover biscuits, owing to the runoff from the mining operation. Fish were dead and rotting, washed up along the banks. And the stench and the yellow, brackish water had persuaded him to camp a healthy distance from the water.
This morning he led his string to a shack that served as mine foreman's office, occupied by a fellow named Howard McHenry. McHenry's red hair made him easy to find among the herd of men. When Roy spied him, clad in his dusty trademark overalls, thumbs hooked under his suspenders, he was loitering not twenty paces from the gray office. A fat calico cat lounged in the dirt nearby, nursing a posse of kittens. As usual McHenry was arguing and cursing, this day with a crusty-looking old miner.
Roy bent his head to listen in on the conversation.
"Lord, why'd Dullen bother me with you? I'm running a copper and silver mine here!" McHenry thrust his hands onto his hips and grimaced. "He thinks I've got time to burn pussyfooting with every lousy greenhorn he sends up." His voice faded to a grumble.
Roy had seen McHenry in foul moods before, and he'd hoped today would be different. Just as he was beginning to think about turning around and trailing his mules back home, Howard caught sight of him and stepped around his problem man.
He jerked his hand and snarled. "Well, here's a bright spot. I see you've brought the mules I need, Easton." He waved at the stranger. "This here's Mr. Peck from Denver. Peck, this here's Roy Easton. Peck's a metallurgist," he explained, "Dullen brung him up to do prospectin'." Then he spit a crooked grin, and his mop of hair bounced. "Sell Mr. Peck a couple of them mules too. He's gonna need 'em to haul his freight," he laughed.
"Pleased to meet you Peck," Roy drawled as he extended his hand to a man with eyes set deep beneath bushy gray brows.
Peck shook his hand and cast a glance over Roy's shoulder at the mules. "I'll take your best pair, son," he said. "I'm fixing to prospect a ways east of this place. After that Dullen says to make a trip south to Wounded Colt, a place called Mineral Creek," he muttered.
McHenry's gaze locked on Roy. "Ain't your ranch there?"
Roy's expression was flat, but his blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Thereabouts." He rubbed his chin. "Heck, nothing shiny in Mineral Creek. All the gold was panned out years ago." He gave the man his best naïve smile. It was the truth; he and Cal and the hands panned, and it produced only than a few flakes for their efforts.
"If there's placer in the creek it can signal deposits nearby -- gold, silver or copper." Peck spread his legs in an authoritative stance. "Er, you raise mules?"
Roy threw back his head and let out a peal of laughter. "No, lessin' these get a mind to drop young 'uns," he said when he caught his breath. "I won these critters from two fools, in a poker game when they couldn't cover their bets. I'm here passing along my good fortune and making a quick dollar. Cal – my brother—and me raise beeves. Cattle keeps us plenty busy." He chortled again as he imagined what his brother Cal would say to the idea of running a "mule ranch".
Peck laughed heartily. The man turned out to be a rollover sale, but McHenry drove a hard bargain, and Roy caved, but he was preoccupied as he turned the mules over to their new owners. He was still thinking about what Peck had said about Mineral Creek.
McHenry brushed a bit of dust from his sleeve and faced the man from Denver. "Peck, we'd better get a move on if'n we plan to get to Crowley River. Daylight's burning."
"Right," replied Peck. He turned to follow McHenry, then glanced at Roy." Maybe we'll see each other down at Wounded Colt," he muttered with a farewell wave.
Roy was looking at the mules. "How long you gonna be prospecting around here?" His eyes caught Peck's and held them.
"Just today. Then I'm headed down south."
Roy peered at McHenry. "I know the Crowley. I 'spect I could sashay Peck over there."
McHenry was delighted. "I'd be mighty obliged!" He eagerly began pitching Roy's guide service to Peck. "Roy Easton is the man you want protecting your backside. Them Easton brothers are the best shots this side of the territory. Ain't a sane man alive who'd draw on Roy. An' they've already taken down any insanes." McHenry's smile stretched up to his grateful green eyes.
Peck smoothed his hands over his worn shirt. "OK Easton, but I can't pay you gunslinger wages."
Roy put on his best sheepish grin. "It's on the house, Peck. Heck, I overcharged you for the mules."
An hour later Peck had loaded gear onto h
is new pack mules, and they were ambling their way out of camp, making their way to a site several miles east of the Lazca mine.
"We can cross the river here where it's low," said Roy with a wave in the general direction of the water.
"Bad idea."
"Come to think on it, you're right. Closer I get the more it stinks." Roy eyed the water suspiciously. It was a murky yellowish color, even worse than the area further south, where he'd found the dead fish.
Peck frowned. "See the dead trees and grass." He pointed along the banks.
Roy lifted his brow curiously. "Yep. It wasn't near so bad last time I was up this way. Over a year ago," he stated. "On the ride up there was fishkill along the river."
"Wouldn't eat those fish if I was you." Peck sighed and looked toward the horizon, resting his arm on the pommel of his saddle. "Mining is a dirty business. Can't be helped. Poisons in slag piles are carried by rainwater to the river. Last time I came I took samples", he explained. "I ran a Marsh test when I got back to Denver. Those heaps are full of arsenic poison. Kills damn near every living thing. Damn good reason to steer wide and cross north of it," he added tersely.
Roy gazed at the trails of hard gray that covered the ground between the waste and the river. He hadn't understood everything Peck said, but the barren landscape told the story. He guessed the miners simply headed upstream and hauled the clean water for drinking and bathing. But what did people living downstream do? He'd passed a few abandoned homesteads on the way up.
Soon the two men settled into a steady pace, drifting across flat plains. Peck carried a crude map to guide them to the site once they arrived at the north fork of the Crowley River. At their slow rate it was at least a three-hour ride, and that gave Roy plenty of thinking time.
When at last they drew close to their destination Peck stopped and surveyed the banks of the river. He unfolded the map and peered at the rough markings, tracing the lines with his bony finger. Roy tried to look nonchalant, as though he had little interest in what the man was doing.
Roy knew a bit about gold digging. His father had panned gold and was even half owner of the Lazca mine before Dullen bought them out. Roy and Cal always assumed their father had searched for signs of gold on their property. Now it occurred to Roy that maybe his papa hadn't really looked. Or maybe looked but didn't want to see. The man had preferred ranching. He'd always said mining was a boom or bust venture, and raising cattle was a good and steady moneymaker, a better business for his sons.
Roy laughed to himself. What with cattle diseases, rustlers, blizzards, and droughts, he'd never call the cow punching business steady. At best it was a mix of hard work, steely determination, and luck.
"Is it difficult to find a copper lode?" He asked in a deliberately offhanded manner.
"Can be," snorted Peck. "Almost always find gold and copper together. Sometimes a little gold, sometimes more. Prospectors can think they've found the sure thing only to be wrong." Peck walked over to a large reddish rock outcropping and motioned to Roy. "Fall off and cool your saddle." He waved his hand at the mules. "And grab that pick and hammer, will ya'? A pan, too."
Roy swung down and walked over to a mule, unlashed the tools. He brought them to where Peck squatted and leaned them against the rock. Peck grunted when he stood up, and Roy heard a knee crack. Peck took up the pick and swung at the rock until he he broke off several chunks. Peck was a short, compact man, but he had the swing of a lumberjack.
Peck paused and wiped the sweat off his brow with his shirtsleeve. "This rock outcropping is called a gossan." He reached behind his back for the hammer, caught it between his fingers, and swung it around to pound one of the rocks into fine dust. He collected the dust in his cupped hand and poured it into the pan, walked down to the river and dipped it in the water. Swirling the mix, he looked at the deposit and murmured under his breath. Then he straightened and wiped his hands on his dark cotton shirt.
Roy pulled a plug of tobacco from his pocket and bit off a chew. "You're like my grandma. She used to read tea leaves in a cup," he chided with a bold lazy smile.
"Hmmm . . . maybe it ain't much different." Peck grinned. Then he put some of the rocks into a bag and slung it over his shoulder. "I'll send these for assay later," he mumbled, as if he were reminding himself.
Roy spit and thought about the rock outcroppings on the ranch. He and Cal often climbed them to get a look at the herd. It was always easier to count steers from a higher elevation. He made a mental note to look at those rocks more carefully when he got back home.
"Mind if I take a couple of rocks? Er, my little sister Emily collects pretty rocks. Say, what do you call these?"
It wasn't a buffalo-goring-in-the-backside lie. He figured that Emily would be his little sister-in-law soon enough, and if she didn't have a rock collection, well, he just started one for her.
"Take all you want." Peck laughed. "You can tell her this is hematite. Rich in iron."
Peck loaded the bag of rocks onto a mule. Then he waded into the water downstream from the gossan and dipped his pan into the silt. He shook the pan. Water leapt over the sides.
"Dullen ain't paying you enough? You need to make a little extra panning today?" Roy's eyes teased.
"No," Peck threw back. He'd decided Roy Easton was a likable fellow. Being taken by the young man's charm and easy manner was natural, like falling off a log. "Getting rich takes hard work for most."
Roy laughed. "Yep. I expect cattle ranching is about one of the hardest ways."
Peck hauled himself out of the river and staggered up the bank, fighting against the weight of his soaked overalls. The two men continued to chat amiably as they packed the tools and started back to the mining camp.
Four hours later Peck had checked in at McHenry's office shack, and Roy started the trek home alone. His usual visit to a certain widow north of town would have to wait. He was anxious to get back and tell his story to Cal.
Chapter 14
When Cal led Emily upstairs to visit her sister the girl's face clouded with uneasiness, but it was transformed to relief as Sarah spoke to her in soothing, confident tones
"Emily, I'm fine, just some stitches is all I needed."
Sarah turned onto to her side to show Emily the bandage on her back. "Could you help me put my nightgown on?"
"Oh Sarah, so much blood! And Mr. Easton looked scared."
"It looked far worse than it was." Sarah's weak smile reassured. Emily plopped herself like a rag doll on the edge of the bed. Sarah pulled herself up and hugged her sister. "Emily, I need you to fetch my nightgown."
Happy to have a purpose, Emily scurried from the room.
Cal carried his mother up the steps, lugging her chair so she could sit with Sarah. He'd noticed the bond growing between them; it kindled in the depths of Mama's eyes lately, each time she looked at Sarah. As soon as Mama was settled he collared Emily to help him bring their supper on trays.
Sarah was heartened by the sight of Cal using both arms. When the plates were cleared, Emily brought in a checkerboard. She sprawled across the wide bed next to her sister where she lazily set up the pieces. Cal left to finish chores and get a report from Bailey out at the corral.
Emily beat Sarah five times before she yawned and kissed her sister goodnight. As Sarah gazed out the window at a beautiful moon rising pink and orange in the big sky she silently resolved to recover quickly so she could get back to her job. She wouldn't be a burden to the Easton family.
Her thoughts turned to Cal. She'd stepped into another world with him, one that was filled with adventure and danger, but it also held warmth and family. Sarah sighed, closed her eyes. She thought of the kiss.
Drifting off to sleep she heard the door creak open, and the scraping of a piece of furniture being dragged across the floor. She pried one eye open, saw Cal slumped in a chair, sleeping with his long cowboy legs extended straight out towards the foot of the bed. His rifle was propped against the dresser, within easy reach.
Much later, sometime before dawn, she was vaguely aware of Cal as he crawled into the bed, curled up next to her, and gently folded his arm about her waist. He reached up and lightly pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. Sarah, half-asleep, could have told him she didn't have a fever, but she liked the feel of his rough skin against her face.
Cal's breath licked gently at her neck; under cover of darkness his hands boldly passed through her hair in soothing strokes, fingertips gently rubbing against her scalp. Now Sarah was wide awake, with images of the morning down at the creek racing through her mind. She shifted onto her side and lay still. But her breathing had changed.
"You awake darlin'?" Cal murmured close to her ear.
"Mmmmhmmm." Inside her a strange longing began to build.
"Let me hold you a while?" His voice was a gruff whisper.
"Mmmmm".
He pulled her closer, and then her back was snug against his warm, hard, bare chest.
Sarah felt a hot tingling. She was helpless to move against him. Only my thin nightgown between us.
"You feel good." He groaned, and his voice lowered. "Sarah," he murmured, "when I carried you home today I was scared. I-I don't want anything to happen to you." His breathing came ragged, and she heard a hitch in his voice.
Sarah moved her backside into his hips, pressing farther into his warmth. Suddenly she felt his hard sex against her bottom. She tried not to remember. She shook with fear and excitement.
And her restlessness grew, accompanied by an odd throbbing and growing wetness in the private place between her legs. She inhaled in short gasps when she felt his hand moving lightly across her breasts. His mouth trailed light kisses down her neck.
"Are you cold?" he whispered thickly. She turned her head to speak, and he gently nipped her earlobe.
