When everyone had eaten their fill, Cam sat on a log while Ardella turned her attention toward his wounded shoulder. “I expect that’s gettin’ a mite sore, ain’t it? I’m gonna heat up this knife and we’ll see if we can’t get that piece of lead outta there.” She winked at Mary. “Long Sam used to call me Dr. Ardella.”
She probed the wound with the same skinning knife she had just used to cut up the deer, going deeper and deeper until she finally found what she was looking for. Cam made not a sound, but his tightly clenched teeth and deep grimace were enough to betray his attempt to hide the pain. When she finally picked the bullet from the wound and held it up for all to see, especially Emma, whose nose was practically in between doctor and patient, Cam relaxed, unaware his body had been so tense until then. Ardella looked at Mary and said, “You can slap a bandage on there now, if you’ve got anythin’ to use for one.” She got up and went to the edge of the river to clean her knife.
When Ardella returned from the water’s edge, she took a moment to look around at the temporary camp, noticing the packs stacked nearby and the horses grazing on the grass along the bank. “Cam ain’t gonna feel much like travelin’ for a day or two, and this ain’t no fittin’ place for you folks to wait around. I think you’d be better off if you’d come with me up to my cabin on the mountain. I’ve got some things in my garden that’ll help Cam’s wound heal quicker. I’ll make him up a poultice of costmary and sage. It’ll help that wound heal a heap quicker.”
Undecided at first, Mary looked at Cam for his reaction to Ardella’s invitation. At that moment, however, his attention was focused on the wound left throbbing as a result of Ardella’s knife. She looked back at the expectant face of the smiling woman, who was waiting for her response. “That’s a very generous offer,” she finally said. “I guess it’s up to Cam, though.”
“It might not be a bad idea,” Cam said. “I ain’t too sure how much good I’ll be till this shoulder gets a little better.”
“Then I guess we’ll go with you,” Mary said to Ardella. “If we won’t be too much trouble for you,” she added.
“Good,” Ardella responded cheerfully. “You won’t be no trouble for me. Hell, I’m tickled to have some company. Matter of fact, you’ll be the first folks I’ve ever had to my cabin.”
Chapter 9
As she was inclined to do with most anything, a trait Mary attributed to the colorful woman living so many years alone, Ardella took over the move from the camp by the Laramie River. When Cam insisted that he should take charge of the horses and the packing, she yielded only a little, picking up a saddle and asking, “Which one gets this one?”
Realizing there was no arguing with the woman, Cam pointed to the sorrel that had been ridden by the dead outlaw. “That one,” he said.
“It’s been a while, but I’ve saddled a horse before,” Ardella informed him. “I had a pretty little pinto till we met up with those Pawnee.” She paused a moment then, obviously thinking back. “Damn Injuns cost me a lot.” As soon as she uttered the thought, she immediately released it to return to her cheerful disposition. “You can check the girth straps to see if they’re as tight as you like ’em.”
When Ardella picked up another saddle and looked at Cam for directions, he pointed and said, “That one goes on the bay. Grace and Emma ride together.” Grace had expressed a desire to return to the bay after trying out the dun. She said the bay was hard on her bottom, but no worse than the dun. “Your bottom will toughen up,” he had assured her.
Ardella paused to look at Cam, then Mary, then the girls. “How come you got an extra saddle without a fanny settin’ in it?” she asked.
Cam smiled. “We were savin’ that one for you to replace that pinto the Pawnee took.” He glanced at Mary and she smiled and nodded her approval. “Sorry we didn’t have a pinto.”
“You mean it?” Ardella exclaimed, her air of authority temporarily replaced by childlike excitement. She, too, turned to look in Mary’s direction for confirmation.
“It’s the least we can do for taking us in till Cam gets well enough to go on,” Mary said.
“Glory be,” Ardella exclaimed, scarcely able to believe it, “a horse and saddle! What a lucky day for me when I decided to take a shot at that deer.” She gave them all a great big grin and a grateful squeeze to Emma, who was standing next to her. “Well, I reckon I’d best do a good job of takin’ care of you folks.”
When it came time to load the packhorses, Mary tried to lend a hand, feeling she was not pulling her share of the work. But she found that she was almost run over in the bustle Ardella created in her effort to get the party on the trail. Pausing to stand before the packs, hands on hips as she surveyed the many bullet holes in the canvas coverings, Ardella seemed at a loss for words for a change. Of particular interest were the two suitcases on top with several bullet holes through the colorful fabric. Finally she voiced the thought running through her mind. “Looks like somebody didn’t care much for your packs. They plumb shot ’em up good. You must be totin’ somethin’ somebody wants for themselves.”
“I guess you could say that,” Mary said. “Of course, none of those outlaws knew what we were carrying in our packs—mostly household goods. They would have just robbed us of anything, I expect.”
“Lookin’ at them bullet holes, it looks like they thought it was worth killin’ you.” She gave Mary a little smile. “I expect you might wanna sew a patch on that bag there, ’cause it looks like some of your household goods is leakin’ out.”
Mary looked to see what Ardella was referring to, and immediately hurried to fix it. Some of the sacks of gold dust had become exposed when Cam began to load the packhorses. One had been pierced by a bullet and there was now a thin trickle of dust from the hole, making a small pile of dust on the packs under the bag. She quickly turned the sack on its side to stop the loss of fortune. It was no bigger than an ounce, but realizing this represented twenty or twenty-one dollars, she carefully brushed it off into her hand.
“Want me to untie that sack so you can put it back?” Ardella asked. Seeing the obvious confusion in Mary’s face, she sought to reassure her. “Mary, it ain’t none of my business what you folks are totin’ in them packs. I ain’t surprised it’s gold. I kinda had my suspicions when there was folks after you with killin’ on their minds. That’s why I thought you oughta get to someplace where other folks can’t find you till Cam gets hisself in better shape. And you ain’t got to worry ’bout me, if that’s botherin’ you. I’m too damn old to worry about stealin’ somebody’s gold. Besides, you already gave me the only thing I was missin’—a horse—and I’m tickled to death with that.”
Completely flustered now, Mary tried to apologize. “I didn’t mean to even insinuate that you can’t be trusted,” she started. “It’s just that—”
That was as far as she got before Ardella interrupted. “You got no need to explain nothin’ to me. Hell, you didn’t know me from Adam’s house cat before today. I don’t blame you for not showin’ your hole cards. I wouldn’t. But, Mary, you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about with me, and if you ain’t comfortable goin’ to my cabin, I’ll leave you be and go on back by myself.”
Reading sincerity in the woman’s eyes, and in need of someone to trust, Mary stopped her from going further. “No, let’s go to your cabin. I believe you’re an honest woman, and I’m sorry if it seemed I didn’t trust you. Just believe me when I tell you that what we have, we came by honestly. My late husband and his brother mined this gold. Others have found out about it, unfortunately, and Cam is doing his best to take me and my daughters back to Fort Collins safely.”
“He looks like he can do the job if we can keep him patched up. Nothin’ more needs to be said about the gold,” Ardella assured her. “We’ll finish up here and get on up to my place. We’ve got meat enough to last for more’n a few days. By the time we need some more, Cam oughta be in better shape.�
�
At that point Cam walked up, leading the other packhorse. Ardella looked at him and said, “You keep workin’ that shoulder and you’re gonna bleed out. Set yourself down over there out of the way. Me and Mary and the girls will finish this up and get started up the mountain.”
• • •
“Roach!” Ben Cheney yelled. “Don’t shoot! It’s me.” He reined his horse back, waiting to make sure Roach had heard him before riding down into the ravine where his partner spent much of his time of late.
Cotton Roach cast a grimace in Cheney’s direction and yelled back, “Well, come on.” He returned his attention to the five tin cans lined up on the side of the narrow ravine. Setting his feet squarely about shoulder width apart, he hesitated for a few seconds. Then he suddenly reached across his waist with his left hand, pulled the Colt .44 from its holster, and methodically sent all five cans flying, one at a time. When the last can flew up against the side of the ravine, he turned, aimed the pistol at Cheney as he rode up, and pulled the trigger. Cheney ducked to one side, almost coming out of the saddle, before hearing the metallic click of the hammer on an empty chamber.
“Damn you, Roach!” Cheney complained. “One of these days you’re gonna forget to leave an empty chamber in that damn gun.” He had counted the five shots and knew the weapon should be empty, but Roach had been acting strange ever since his right hand had been injured.
Roach smirked while he reloaded the .44. “Hell, I wouldn’t lose nothin’ but you.”
“You don’t wanna lose me,” Cheney said. “Won’t nobody else ride with you.” The two outlaws had been holed up for the past four days at Bill Foley’s place on Chugwater Creek. Bill called it a trading post, but he sold more liquor than anything else, and most of his profit came from outlaws on the run.
“I don’t need nobody to ride with me,” Roach said. With the double-action Colt reloaded, he held it up and looked at it. “Damned if I don’t think I’m better with my left hand than I used to be with my right.”
“Maybe you oughta be thankin’ that feller that shot your right hand, then,” Cheney remarked with a chuckle.
Roach’s face immediately became twisted with anger, the usual reaction any time someone mentioned the man who had crippled his right hand. “One of these days I’ll find that son of a bitch. Then I’ll thank him.” He held his right hand up before his face. The withered fingers were bound tightly with a rawhide strap to hold them in place. It was the only way he could hold the butt of his rifle against his shoulder and pull the trigger with a clawing action of his middle finger. It was clumsy, but he could never hit anything when trying to fire the rifle as a left-handed man would. Lately, he spent most of his time practicing with his pistol to compensate for his weakness with his rifle. He scowled and dropped his hand again. “What are you doin’ out here, Cheney?”
“I got tired of drinkin’ by myself, and I didn’t have nothin’ else to do.” He shrugged. “Matter of fact, I’m tired of hangin’ around here. When are we gonna get on the road again? I’ve drunk so much whiskey till that ol’ sow Foley’s married to was startin’ to look good.” Before he gave Roach room to comment, he asked, “You remember a feller named Leach, used to ride with that feller outta Texas, Fuller was his name?”
“I reckon. What about him?”
“He rode into Foley’s a little while ago with a hole in his chest, ’bout half-dead—said Fuller was dead. Foley was cussin’ him out, scared he’d bring the law after him.” The mention of the law captured Roach’s attention and Cheney continued. “Leach said it weren’t the law that was after him. There weren’t nobody after him, he just needed a doctor.” Cheney paused to chuckle. “Foley told him he weren’t no doctor, and Leach said he didn’t have no other place to go. Foley told him he could lie up there for a while and see if he could make it or not.”
“Huh,” Roach scoffed, “I’m surprised Foley didn’t tell him to go somewhere else to die. He must be gettin’ soft in his old age.”
“I don’t know,” Cheney said. “It wouldn’ta been the first time Foley’s took a bullet outta somebody’s hide. More’n likely he’s figurin’ on Leach’s horse and saddle if he cashes in. And from the looks of Leach, ol’ Foley might have pretty good odds at that.”
• • •
Cheney’s assessment of Leach’s condition proved to be fairly accurate. When he and Roach returned to the saloon, Foley told them that he had fixed Leach a bed in his smokehouse. “I told him I’d feed him,” Foley said. “I’d even dig around in that wound to see if I could get the bullet out of him, but he said he wanted to wait it out for a spell to see if he might get a little stronger. Might be a good thing if he does, ’cause that wound looked mighty bad.”
“Who shot him?” Roach asked. “Cheney said it weren’t the law.”
“I don’t know,” Foley replied. “He said somethin’ about trailin’ somebody sneakin’ a load of gold outta the Black Hills, and him and Fuller comin’ out on the short end of a shoot-out.”
The comment piqued Roach’s interest. “A load of gold, huh? Maybe we oughta pay a visit to poor ol’ Leach. Might cheer him up a little.”
• • •
Not sure what kind of reception they might meet with, Roach and Cheney stopped outside the smokehouse door, and Roach announced loudly, “Leach! It’s me, Cotton Roach, and Ben Cheney. We’ve come to see how you’re doin’.” When there was no reply, Roach pushed the door ajar and peered inside, making sure Leach wasn’t sitting up with a gun on the door. Leach wasn’t sitting up. He was lying on his side, with his back against the back wall of the smokehouse. At first, they thought he was dead, but in the darkness of the smokehouse, the open door providing the only light, they saw his eyes open and blink at the sunlight. “Damn, Leach, you look like hell.”
“I feel worse than I look,” Leach struggled to reply.
“Well, you’re still talkin’,” Cheney commented, “so maybe you’re gonna make it all right.”
“I don’t know,” Leach replied weakly. “I can’t lay any way but on my side. That’s the only way that don’t hurt like hell. That damn bullet is in deep. I can feel it, like it’s tryin’ to burn a hole in me.” He had to pause when he began to cough, bringing a trickle of blood that ran out of the corner of his mouth and dripped down on the sleeve of his shirt.
Noticing the spreading stain of blood on the shirt, Roach glanced at Cheney and raised an eyebrow. Cheney nodded. Roach went on. “Hear tell you was trackin’ some folks outta the Black Hills. Looks like you caught up with ’em—musta had you and Fuller outnumbered.”
Leach didn’t reply right away while he reached up to wipe some more blood from his chin. “Wasn’t but one man, a woman, and two young’uns,” he managed to mutter.
“One man?” Cheney questioned. “One man against you and Fuller? He musta bushwhacked you.”
“He did,” Leach grunted, “him and his rifle—cut us down before we knew he was there.”
Leach’s statement struck a chord in Roach’s brain, especially when he mentioned the woman and two children. That would be too much of a coincidence. Still, he proceeded to press for information. “That woman with the two kids, were they two little girls?”
“Yeah, two little girls.”
“How ’bout the man with the rifle, was he a kinda tall young feller?”
“I reckon,” Leach replied, and groaned when he tried to shift his position against the wall.
“Wore a bright red bandanna around his neck?”
“That sounds like the man. You know him?”
“I might,” Roach replied, thinking hard now, a feeling of cold hate suddenly gripping his spine. It was possible, he thought. It very well could be his tall young rifleman with the red bandanna. With emotions of revenge swirling in his brain, he had to calm himself, because he needed more information out of Leach. And he had to be careful how he asked the
questions, or Leach might clam up. “Say they was packin’ a big load of gold outta there, huh?”
“I didn’t say that,” Leach muttered.
You just did, Roach thought, more convinced than ever that he and the man who had crippled his hand had crossed paths again. “What you need is a couple more men to go with you after that bastard. Whaddaya say me and Cheney wait around here till you get well enough to ride, and then we’ll all three go after the son of a bitch? We got nothin’ on our minds right now. We might as well join up.” In an effort to talk it up, he turned to Cheney and asked, “Whaddaya say, Cheney? We can help him catch this bastard. We can wait till he gets well enough to ride, can’t we?”
“Why, hell yeah,” Cheney answered, aware of what Roach was trying to do. “We’ll see if that jasper is as tough against three of us. Whaddaya say, Leach? Wanna give him a dose of what he gave you?”
Leach didn’t answer, so Roach continued to press. “Where’d you and Fuller tangle with this feller? On the stage road?”
Leach wasn’t sure he could trust them, but he feared he was going to need some help if he did survive the wound. “No,” he finally answered, “on the North Laramie.”
“What in the world were they doin’ up there?” Roach asked. “Was they in the mountains?”
“Nah,” Leach forced painfully, his insides hurting so badly that he didn’t care whether he told them or not, “’bout ten miles west of the fork with the Laramie.” That was as much as he planned to share, so he pretended to lose consciousness.
“Leach!” Roach prodded. “Can you hear me?” When there was no sign of a response of any kind, he turned to Cheney. “I reckon we’d better go get Foley. I think he’s done for.”
“Looks that way,” Cheney agreed. “Foley might be able to do somethin’, but I doubt it.”
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