“Hansen!”
Sean jumped out of bed and threw the blanket out of his way at the door.
“Hansen!”
“What?” The man on the floor rolled over and belched.
“Wake up, damn you.” Sean shook the sleeping man. He could hear the cot in the back creaking as Melissa shivered.
“What the hell?” Hansen opened his eyes and labored to focus in the grayness. “What do you want?”
“Melissa is sick. Real sick.” Sean was panting almost as fast as the woman.
“All right, all right.” Hansen sat up and rubbed his eyes. When he stood up, he passed gas like an old cow. “Let’s have a look.”
Sean put a hand on the man’s wet shoulder.
“Let me cover her first.”
Hansen blinked and looked up at the tall, frightened man. A genuine smile crossed his face, which softened in the half light. He touched Sean’s arm.
“My boy, I’m a physician. I’ve put my fingers in white ones, black ones, Indians, and Mex ones where their husbands ain’t even poked. Let’s have a look.”
The sudden expression of compassion on the stinking man’s face made Sean release his tight grip.
“That’s better. Bring the lamp.”
Sean carried an oil lamp and followed Hansen into the room.
The round man laid his palm on Melissa’s face. He gently pushed her over onto her back. He placed his hand on her bare abdomen below her navel and pressed gently. The woman exhaled hard with a little yelp. Then he pushed her smooth thighs apart and lowered the lighted lamp. When Hansen put his dirty hand between her legs, Sean grimaced at the semi-conscious woman’s violation. The physician sniffed his fingers for only an instant.
“Ain’t no discharge yet. Probably by tomorrow. Sponge her down from the basin and keep a blanket on her. Her body temperature will be low for a few days. Very dangerous, but she’s young and strong.” He raised the lamp and saw pained outrage in Sean’s scarred face. “I was a surgeon in the war. I’ve seen it all and smelled it all.” He shrugged. “Human women, birthing cows, ovulating mares: they’re all the same to me. I’ve had my hand in them all, up to the elbow sometimes. I don’t see their sex, Sean.” His sunbaked and malignant face looked strangely comforting. “Just keep her warm.”
Hansen shuffled out into the main room and Sean bent over Melissa who had drawn her legs up to her breasts. She cried softly with her eyes closed. Sean took a rag from the basin and began to wash her trembling back.
The physician returned with a bottle of clear liquid.
“This is mineral oil. Force-feed her as much as she’ll keep down. Make sure she’s awake so you don’t choke her. The oil will coat her stomach and bowels so she don’t spit up her mucous membranes.”
Sean looked sickened when he took the heavy bottle. He nodded and Hansen went outside to the privy.
For three days, Hansen had graciously fed Melissa tortillas made from a special tin of corn flour. The men ate from another tin.
The physician had laced Melissa’s corn flour with the very bottoms of corn stalks grown in a large garden beside the paddock last summer. Corn grown in the blistering New Mexico sun has high concentrations of nitrate in the lower stalk. In Melissa’s beans, he had added finely chopped rye grass and lamb’s-quarters leaves from a patch of sweet soil in a low area where sparse rain collects in the spring. Fastgrowing rye and the weed concentrate nitrate.
Toxic levels of nitrates can kill livestock. The most common symptom of nitrate poisoning in the barnyard is miscarriage of calves and foals in the spring. Hansen carefully measured the dose to be strong enough to pass through Melissa’s placenta, but not powerful enough to kill her.
Hansen returned to the gurgling sound of the mute woman vomiting mineral oil.
JESSE EVANS CLIMBED down from his lathered horse on Monday morning, April 29th. Two of his Boys were at his side.
“Doc Hansen,” Jesse said as he wiped trail dust from his eyes.
“Captain. Long time.”
“Ain’t needed the recipe for a long time. Guess I’m slowing down.”
“Maybe. Your friends are still here. The woman ain’t doing real good. She’s pretty well stove up in the gut.”
“You didn’t kill her, did you, Doc?” Jesse smiled.
“Ain’t killed one yet. She passed the fetus yesterday. She’ll be back on her feed in a week or so.”
“Good. Now, where’s Sean?”
“In the privy.” Hansen’s malignant facial lesions sweated in the spring sun although the morning breeze was chilly. “He ain’t much of a doctor, I’m afraid.”
Sean walked toward the four men. He stopped for a moment and then continued when he recognized Jesse. He did not know whether to thank the outlaw or kill him where he stood.
“You look like hell,” Jesse said warmly, putting out his hand. Sean did not take it but toyed with his hat instead.
“Ain’t slept since Wednesday. Melissa’s got the gripes something fierce.” Sean’s wasted face was gray and anguished.
“I seen it before,” Jesse said softly. “She’ll bounce back. Mine always did after the hard days.”
Sean nodded and looked at the ground.
“I need you to ride with us, Sean. I’m sorry.” Jesse sounded like he meant it.
“I can’t leave Melissa. Not like this. She ain’t woke up for two days.”
“Like I said, it won’t wait. I done for you.” Jesse’s face hardened and he shrugged toward the physician. “Now you have to do for me.”
Sean was boxed. The sensation caused him to make fists at his sides.
“Just one day at most, Sean. Doc’ll tend the girl, won’t you, Doc?”
“I suppose.”
“I could stay and do it,” one of the Boys said as he licked his sweating lips. “Yes, sir. I’ll doctor her fine.”
When Sean’s hand moved sharply, Jesse grabbed his wrist hard.
“Easy.” Holding Sean’s arm, Jesse looked at his man. “You keep that mouth of yours shut, boy.”
Sean relaxed and Jesse released his grip.
“The Regulators is riding this afternoon. Jimmy Dolan has a man among ’em who got word to town. We got our own bunch in Lincoln, but we need your piece to be sure. Won’t take long. Just want to scare them vigilantes off, is all. Few hours maybe.” Jesse looked quickly toward the squalid hut. “I done for you.”
Sean sighed and shook his head. His pale eyes were sunk into black pits.
“Doc?”
“Don’t you fret. I’ll take good care of her. Ain’t I already?” Hansen smiled, but not the kindly way he usually did.
“Sure. All right, Jesse. Let me see Melissa first.”
“Fine. Don’t take too long.”
Sean waved with the back of his hand when he went inside.
“She really going to pull through, Doc?”
“I think so, Captain. She’s still heaving blood, though, from both ends. But she don’t really know what’s happened to her. She ain’t got her head back yet. Don’t keep Sean too long.” Hansen looked troubled.
“I won’t. He’ll be back by sundown.”
The sun was not yet high in the clear southern sky.
“Good.”
Sean returned. His handiron was strapped to his side. He wore his duster in the cool air.
“Let’s get on with it,” Sean said firmly.
“You got it,” the captain nodded cheerfully. He and his men mounted while Sean walked to the paddock where his saddle sat on the fence.
THE HEART OF the defunct House’s enterprise for rustling John Chisum’s cattle was a place known as Seven Rivers. Sixty miles due south of South Spring River Ranch, Seven Rivers marked the rich farm land where the Pecos River joins the Rio Peñasco. Not a town but a settlement of small ranches, Seven Rivers centered on Robert Beckwith’s spread. When Jesse Evans’ Boys rustled Chisum cattle to sell them for the House to the Indian Agency, the Beckwith ranch was the stolen steers’ first stop.
It was on Beckwith’s property that Chisum’s brother found a pit full of buried, jingle-bobbed steer ears.
When Jimmy Dolan announced the demise of the House on April 17th, the cattle rustling industry at Seven Rivers ended with it. During the twelve days which followed, the suddenly destitute ranchers formed their own little army and proudly named it the Seven Rivers Warriors.
At first light on Monday the 29th, thirty-five Warriors rode toward Lincoln to proclaim their loyalty and their guns to the new sheriff, John Copeland, to help arrest Sheriff Brady’s indicted killers: the Regulators.
Ten of the Seven Rivers Warriors had ridden in Bill Morton’s posse which murdered John Tunstall.
Sean Rourke and Jesse Evans with his two men rode into the Seven Rivers Warriors’ camp, eight miles south of Lincoln at evening twilight. Sean recognized Deputy Billy Mathews and former sheriff, George Peppin, among the mob of armed men.
As the sun set over the Sacramento Mountains to the west, three more riders ambled up the road to Lincoln. On Jesse’s command, the Warriors took horse and disappeared into a stand of pines along the trail. There was no dust from the muddy road. When the travellers reached the Warrior’s position, they trotted out from both sides of the trail. The three new men were surrounded before they could draw their sidearms.
“Frank McNab!” George Peppin called. “Don’t drop them reins.”
Before McNab’s horse could stop spinning with fear, his two companions bolted ahead into the darkness, leaving McNab behind.
“We got the general,” Jesse laughed loudly.
Frank McNab was the new field leader of the Regulators, nominated after Dick Brewer died at Blazer’s Mill.
“Captain,” McNab said with his voice trembling. He dropped his reins and Peppin grabbed them to steady the terrified prisoner’s mount. McNab raised his hands, palms out. “I ain’t holding, Jesse.”
“No you ain’t, Frank.”
Jesse Evans smiled broadly, pulled his revolver and blew McNab from his horse.
“For the love of God!” Sean shouted behind Evans.
Jesse looked over his shoulder and glared hard at Sean.
“Ain’t you ever been in a war before, Sean Rourke?”
A dozen Warriors laughed and dismounted. They led their horses one hundred yards further toward Lincoln and tied their animals to the trees. Then they set about building small fires for the night. When the whole band moved toward the campsite, they left Frank McNab alone and dead on the road, just as John Tunstall and William Morton had been left before him.
After hot coffee and dried, jerked beef beside the trail, a dozen Warriors remounted and started northward.
“You come, too, Sean,” Jesse ordered.
Sean walked closer to the outlaw who stood holding his animal’s leathers.
“For how many more murders, Jesse?”
Jesse’s face opened into a narrow grin, nothing resembling a smile.
“However more it takes. You’re in it now, Sean. Mount up.”
“And if I don’t?”
Jesse thought about the question for a long moment. His blue eyes looked down toward Sean’s right hand resting on the walnut grip of his holstered handiron.
“I’ll send a few of my Boys to look after the dumb girl for you.”
Sean blinked and moved his hand away from his side. With his head bowed, he walked to his horse and climbed up heavily. He spurred at the walk toward Jesse who mounted his own horse.
“That’s better,” Jesse said with that same hard grin.
Half of the Seven Rivers Warriors mounted and the rest stayed behind. They reached Lincoln well after dark and marched straight for the House. Jesse and the rest slept on the floor. Sean sat in a chair, smoked his pipe, and watched the fire in the hearth until morning.
Tuesday morning, the Warriors poured coffee and twirled their loaded cylinders. When daylight was bright enough, Jesse looked across the street toward Alex McSween’s adobe compound. When one of the Warriors pushed the front shutters open, a volley of gunfire raked the House windows.
A hail of lead crossed the dirt street from both directions. Regulators had taken up positions in McSween’s abandoned home during the night. While the armies blazed away, Sheriff Copeland rode hard out of town toward Fort Stanton.
Bullets chipped away at the adobe House and the McSween home for half the day. Although cussing from both strongholds rang eloquently across the deserted street, no one was hurt in either fortress of two-foot thick, baked mud.
The ineffective firefight continued past noon. Hungry men in both camps loaded and fired mechanically. They seemed to enjoy the noise.
Sean remained in the rear of the merry assembly. He never unholstered his weapon.
Firing slackened when a bugle call rang down the street.
Fourteen black cavalrymen slowly rode in single file down the center of the street. No one fired from either position. Sheriff Copeland rode at the end of the column.
“You all come out now,” Copeland shouted. “One more round from any of you and you’ll pay hell to the War Department.” Copeland screamed like a drowning man.
One by one, the Seven Rivers Warriors and the Regulators emerged into an overcast afternoon. The street was nearly obscured by a stinking cloud of sulphur.
Sean came out last, with Jesse Evans at his side. Jesse’s fair complexion was bright red from excitement. Sean’s weathered face was darkly grim.
“Real easy now,” Copeland shouted. “We ain’t here for no picnic.”
Within two minutes, a dozen men stood on either side of the street with the cavalry mounted between them. Copeland looked down at George Peppin.
“George, you mount up your people and come back to the fort with me.” Then the new sheriff turned toward the Regulators. “And you boys just git. Mount up and ride out of here. I don’t want to see nothing but dust. Go on now!”
“Where’s Frank?” one of the Regulators shouted across the street.
“Ain’t coming,” Jesse Evans called back.
The Regulator drew his pistol half out of his holster.
“How much lead can you carry and still walk, boy?” Copeland shouted hoarsely.
The Regulator let his weapon slide back to his side.
“Now mount up, the lot of you.” Copeland rode to the front of his column of troopers.
The milling armies shuffled toward their corrals. Through the clearing smoke, Sean looked across the street. His blurry eyes met Patrick and Cyrus. The brothers turned their backs on each other and found their nervous horses and mounted.
“Sheriff?” Jesse said from horseback beside Copeland. “This here is Sean Rourke. I promised him he could ride back to Roswell. He’s one of us.”
Sean appreciated the gesture, but his skin prickled at the thought of being one of Jesse’s Boys.
“All right,” Sheriff Copeland said. “You ride east and don’t turn around till you get to that stinkhole. Billy Mathews? You ride with him as my deputy.”
The Seven Rivers killer and lawman nodded and mounted.
“Thanks, Sheriff,” Sean stammered. His eyes burned from the gunsmoke.
“Go on now.” At Copeland’s nod, Jacob Mathews rode to Sean’s side.
Sean pressed the sides of his horse and trotted toward the far end of town. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Patrick and Cyrus riding slowly westward. Neither brother spoke across the terrible killing space that separated them.
WHEN MELISSA BRYANT awoke Tuesday morning, she needed half an hour to collect her wits. When she could finally sense the world around her, she felt weak and cold. But she was fully conscious for the first time in a week. Her hands moved down her naked body and stopped at her stomach.
She felt starved and tender. Pressing on her belly, she experienced penetrating pain, which radiated down to her toes. Melissa turned her head and labored to focus on a figure beside her cot. The form was bent over and busy.
In the morning light, she concentrated hard. Just
before her terror engulfed her entire body like an ice-water wave, she remembered the foul-smelling man named Hansen. She recognized him from behind.
Squinting, she saw his wrinkled hands with their black fingernails gathering scraps of white cloth. Looking closer, she saw that the linen was stained brown with blood. In full possession of her weary mind for a moment, she pressed her belly again and felt the pain. She watched the man and his bloody rags. Pain and blood; blood and pain. She forced her brain to make sense of it. Then she remembered vomiting until she thought her spine would rupture.
She would have called for Sean, but she remembered that she had no voice—only pain and blood and a feeling deep inside which no woman could explain to a man, even if she had a voice.
Hansen picked up a bottle of amber liquid and sucked it hard. He swayed slightly when he put it down to fold his rags. He did not turn around when Melissa silently put her bare feet on the dirt floor.
The round man saw a blinding white flash behind his eyeballs. He felt like his sweating head had plunged into a kettle of boiling water.
Hansen stumbled slightly when he turned slowly around. He blinked at an incredibly beautiful and naked woman standing an arm’s length away. Then he tasted blood, warm and coppery.
The dark-faced man lowered his arms to steady himself. His eyes fluttered slightly and the vision of the woman felt like a dream. When his right arm would not come down, he looked at his armpit. The handle of a carving knife protruded at an odd and amusing angle.
The blade severed his aorta and each round of blood surging from his heart poured into his lungs instead of riding up to his brain.
Hansen raised his chin and looked at the woman who seemed to hover just above the dirt floor like some glistening, naked bird.
With his last breath, he laughed out loud.
Chapter Sixteen
CYRUS BUCHANAN SPOKE TO HORSES AND HORSES SPOKE TO him. If a cavalry horse went lame, even the white officers of the black regiment would lead the animal to Cyrus so he could lay on hands like some prophet of old. “Frying pans,” stripeless troopers would say to describe those huge black hands. Cyrus would touch the shoulder or haunches of the nervously pawing animal and black horse-eyes would blink only once into the trooper’s black man-eyes. Then the horse would sigh a long musty hay-breath, lower his weary neck, and give himself completely to the tall man’s kneading fingers. “Sergeant Buchanan’s hands just know,” General Custer said before taking his trusted mount from Cyrus and trotting off to Little Bighorn.
The Sons of Grady Rourke Page 20
