“It was only a flesh wound.” Frank chuckled. “And she certainly had plenty of behind to spare.”
“Frank, that’s not funny. My rear’s not as small as it used to be either. You wouldn’t like it if I got shot there, would you?”
“Well, no, darlin’, I would not.” He gave her a swat on the rump. “Your beautiful little rump is one piece of real estate I plan to guard with my life.”
Chapter 25
The Chapmans pulled out for Cripple Creek before noon the next day. Frank could tell Otis was antsy to get moving, and had only stayed around for the wedding because Salina had made him.
Luke Perkins arrived late that evening, two hours ahead of his herd, and walked straight into the arms of Carolyn Brandon. Now that he was back, she stuck to him like glue, even going with him to sell the cattle. She even refused to ride a separate horse, but rode behind him, clutching the cowboy around the waist as if he might fly away if she let go of him.
If Luke minded the attention, it didn’t show on his face. His great, bushy mustache was turned up in a constant grin from the moment he rode into town.
“What are you going to do now?” Luke asked Frank over a cup of coffee that evening.
“We’re not certain yet.” Frank looked at his new wife.
“We’re heading right back for Texas,” Carolyn declared. “Betty says she’s coming too. Says there’s nothing for her here so she might as well. Luke says he knows a widower in Lampasas who she might get along with real good.”
Luke gave a sheepish look at being caught in his matchmaking. “You remember Dobb Barker, don’t you, Frankie? His wife died a year ago and I think he and Betty could both use someone to talk to. Don’t you?”
Frank squeezed Dixie’s shoulders and smiled. “I’ll tell you what I think, Lucas Perkins. I think you’re stealin’ all my women. One minute I’m surrounded by them, the next minute they’ve all headed off to Texas with you.”
Dixie and Carolyn both laughed.
“Why don’t you just come with us then?” Luke leaned forward, his bald head shining in the firelight. “There’s safety in numbers. You’d be better off with us.”
“What about it, Dixie? We got nothing but ourselves pullin’ us north. If you still want to see Denver, well, I’m game. If you’d care to try our hand in Texas, well, I’m up for that too.”
George and Paula came up from their evening stroll and announced that they had decided to leave the next morning for New York.
The little group talked and planned late into the evening, plotting out their futures.
Frank and Dixie decided they would let the girls go with the rest of the group while they got what they could for the wagons and belongings. They would honeymoon in Pueblo and follow by train about a week later.
* * *
The decision made, Frank felt lighter. They got a room in Pueblo for a week, and the two began to set about selling the wagons. Everything went smoothly until the third day.
Vic Sutton rode into town just after noon. He found Frank at the livery working out a deal to sell all the mules.
“I don’t like you much, Morgan,” the rancher said, driving the stable owner away with a withering stare. “But I don’t like what’s about to happen even more.”
Frank perked up at Sutton’s tone. “What are you talking about?”
“Swan and a band of his gang are on their way. He says if he can’t get anyone good enough to kill you and your woman, he’ll just have to come and do it himself.”
“His funeral,” Frank whispered.
“No,” Sutton said, shaking his said. “It don’t matter how fast you are if he shoots you in the back. He don’t intend to face you in the street. There ain’t a fair bone in that sorry bastard’s body.”
“When?”
Sutton shrugged. “I talked to him two days ago and started straightaway to warn you. I reckon I got a day on him. Listen, I don’t give a hoot in hell if he guns you down in a fair fight. But I won’t have him kill you like a dog in the street. If I was you, I’d get on the next train out of town.”
Frank stuck out his hand. “I’m much obliged to you, considerin’ how you feel.”
Sutton shook hands with his crippled hand. “Just take your woman and get while the gettin’s good.” With that, the rancher mounted his horse and loped away.
* * *
The next train came through at eight the next morning. Frank had never been the type to run from a fight, but he had Dixie to think about now. He sold what he could, deposited the money in the bank, and drew most of it back out in the form of a cashier’s check.
Dixie packed her best dresses in a leather valise, while Frank arranged with a man at the depot to have Stormy berthed in a boxcar with Dog.
At eight-thirty, the train hissed away from the Pueblo station with Mr. and Mrs. Frank Morgan safely on board. Dixie breathed a sigh of relief as they picked up speed moving north to the line that would eventually take them east.
“I have to admit, I was beginning to get scared there for a while,” she said, leaning her head against Frank’s shoulder. The train picked up speed.
“I’m glad to be out of there.” Frank looked out the window and watched the hazy Blue Mountains toward Rye fade into the distance behind them. “We’re going the wrong direction, but we’ll work our way back south when we get the chance.”
He patted her on the thigh and sighed. “My darlin’, I don’t know what you had planned a few months ago. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what my own plans were, but no matter what happens from this day on, it’s been a great adventure. We have sure enough seen the elephant.”
“What does ’seen the elephant’ mean?” Dixie put her hand on his. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an elephant in my life.”
Frank chuckled softly. “I reckon it means seein’ it all through to your goal even though you lose a good part of your kit. Makin’ it through the storm, so to speak. I heard this story about a farmer back years ago who wanted to go to town and see one of those circus elephants. Seems he wanted to see that damned elephant more than anything in the world. Well, he loaded up his cart with all his produce to sell in town so he’d have enough money to go to the circus. On the way there he heard the elephant had escaped. He was awful upset about the news until he ran smack-dab into the doggone thing in the road. It scared his horse so much the cart overturned and spilled all his vegetables on to the ground. The huge beast ended up trampling all the goods and killin’ the horse before the circus tenders could get it under control.”
“That poor farmer,” Dixie said. “What did he do then?”
“Well, darlin’, that’s the point of the story. See, his friends offered their condolences and asked him how he felt about losing of all his stuff. You know what he said?”
Dixie shook her head.
“He said, losing everything didn’t matter, for he had seen the elephant and that was what he’d set out to do in the first place.”
Frank leaned away a bit so he could look Dixie in the face. “I reckon I’m not much of a speech giver and my words generally get me in trouble, but now that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and marrying you . . . ”
Dixie giggled. “Don’t tell me, now you’ve had a chance to marry me and have a proper honeymoon, so you feel like you’ve seen an elephant.”
“No, darlin’, I was going to say that now that I’ve got you, it really doesn’t matter what happens. With you, I’ve had the main course. Everything else is just gravy.”
“You’ve got a funny way of saying things, but you make sure make me feel good about myself. I’ve never been compared to an elephant or food before that I can remember and been so happy about it.”
Weary from constant worry, the two fell asleep to the motion of the gently swaying train.
* * *
Two hours later, Frank was startled awake by the squeal of screeching brakes on metal wheels. He and Dixie were both thrown forward in their seats.
�
�The steamer on this old bucket leaks like a sieve,” an elderly miner said from behind his newspaper across the aisle. “Sometimes they have to stop here to take on more water.”
Frank nodded. The sun shone fiercely through the window and his nap had made him thirsty.
“You want something to drink?” he asked Dixie.
She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “That would be nice. I could use a stretch. I’ll go with you.”
The conductor assured them they would be stopped for twenty minutes, so Frank and Dixie both got off to walk around. There was no more than a windmill and tower set up by the tracks in the red sandstone, and a small spigot at the base of the windmill drizzled water and created a small oasis in the red dirt.
A green bush had sprung up from the abundant water, its branches covered in delicate yellow blossoms. Dixie cupped her hand to drink from the spigot, and stopped to admire the flowers while she dried her hands.
“How’s that ring fitting you?” Frank touched the gold band on Dixie’s finger. It shone brilliantly in the sunlight. “Looked like it might be a little small.”
“Oh, the ring fits fine. A cow kicked me in the knuckle when Faith was a baby, and it’s been a little on the big side ever since.”
“I could have the ring stretched a little.”
“It’s fine,” she said, admiring the ring. “Believe me, Frank, I never want to take it off.”
A shiver suddenly ran up Frank’s spine—the familiar feeling he got when something was wrong. Two boxcars back, Dog confirmed his fears and broke into a barking, growling frenzy within his confinement. Frank drew his Colt and stepped in closer to Dixie, putting her between him and the windmill.
“What’s wrong, Frank?”
A bullet slammed into Frank’s back before he had time to answer. He staggered, then slumped into Dixie’s arms. She screamed and wrapped her arms around him in an attempt to hold him up.
He struggled to get to his feet. The Peacemaker felt heavy in his hand. “Get down, Dixie,” he tried to say, but it only came out as a whisper and he wasn’t sure she heard him. Another shot tore into his shoulder, exiting through his right arm.
More shots rang out, and the conductor shouted for everyone to get back on the train. Frank heard the hiss of steam as the engine began to pull away, leaving them behind. Horses squealed and rough men barked out orders.
Frank was aware of Dixie’s screams. Blackness began to envelope him. Another bullet hit him in the leg. He felt it strike like a powerful fist, felt it rip at his muscle and break bone, but he no longer felt any pain.
He dropped the pistol and gazed up at his wife. Her beautiful green eyes were filled with terror—and there was nothing he could do.
Chapter 26
“Can you hear me, mister?” A husky voice penetrated the fog of Frank’s sleep. He tried to answer, pushed everything he had into forming the words, but they simply would not come.
“Saw his eye twitch. That’s a good sign,” the husky voice said. Frank felt as if he were floating, drifting. He’d often floated with his eyes shut on the river near his home as a boy. . . .
“Needs a doctor.” This voice belonged to a woman. Frank wondered if it might be his mother. She’d often warned him about the cottonmouth moccasins that lurked along the brushy shores of the Brazos River. She hated it when he drifted like this. It would be just like her to think he was snakebit.
“There ain’t no doctor for forty mile.” It was the husky voice again. “If this one is supposed to live, it’s up to us and that Lord Almighty you talk to so much.”
“I’ll pray over it while we drag him home,” the woman said. “He looks like a fighter, this one does.”
“Bad as he’s hit, he’d better be,” the husky voice said.
Frank tried to speak again, but it was no use. Warm currents tugged at his arms, and he felt like a stick slipping out of a swirling eddy to drift again, enveloped in the comfortable brown waters of the lazy Brazos River.
* * *
Sam and Abby Bergin sat in their respective rockers and watched Frank sleep. During the day, Sam worked the mine, and except for when she took her husband soup or a piece of mutton, Abby kept a vigil on her patient.
She was by nature an extremely pious woman, extolling the virtues of the Good Book to everyone she met and, under normal circumstances, reading to Sam by candlelight while he pecked away with his hammer and chisel in their little mine.
She kept cool towels on the injured man’s forehead. He’d taken a nasty fever two days into his ordeal, and she worried about that more than the loss of blood—which had itself been substantial. She’d used sage and wild chamomile to make a poultice to draw out any poison left in the man’s system, and checked the wounds daily for any red or abnormal puffiness. He didn’t appear to have any lead still in him, so that was a blessing. Once she felt the herbs had done their job of drawing out anything unholy, she dabbed each wound with a bit of honey to stave off future infection.
The mine had been showing some color lately, but the couple had little to offer except a straw mattress over a slung-rope bed, clean bandages, mutton soup, and constant nourishment to the soul from Abby’s reading of the Bible.
She’d started off that morning reading from Habakkuk, a short book that in her estimation was too often overlooked or skimmed too quickly by the preachers back in civilization.
“O Lord, how long shall I cry, and thou wilt not hear! Even cry out of violence, and thou wilt not save!”
Her patient stirred, struggling to speak. His eyes clenched in effort, his strong face distorted in pain.
Abby leaned forward in her rocker and put a little check mark by her verse with a pencil stub so she would remember where she’d stopped, then slipped the thin leather bookmark between the pages of her Bible before she closed it.
The cloth on the man’s forehead was near steaming from his fever, and she dipped it in the basin beside his bed. After wringing the excess back in the bowl, she placed it back on his brow and touched him gently on top of his head.
“There now, son,” she chided him gently. “Don’t try and talk just yet. You save yourself and fight this quietly. Me and Sam, we’ve done all we can. It’s up to you and God now. You’re gonna have to fight if you want to live.”
Abby sat back down in her homemade rocking chair and found her mark in the Bible. “Let’s see here, where were we? Here we are. ’Behold ye among the heathen, and regard, and wonder marvelously: for I will work a work in your days, which ye will not believe, though it be told you. . . .’” She looked across her spectacles at the sleeping man. “Now, listen up. This is when it starts to get bad. Poor old Habakkuk,” she said.
* * *
Frank was no stranger to pain. He’d been shot before, even broken a few bones—but the hurt he felt as he slowly became aware of his surroundings made what little breath he had come in short gasps. His head throbbed as if he’d been kicked between the eyes, and his shoulder pounded enough to make his teeth ache.
He willed his eyes open. The dim adobe room slowly fell into focus, and he became aware of two people standing with him. One of them, a woman, brought him a cup of water and helped him drink it. She spoke in soothing tones, and he recognized her voice, but he didn’t know how.
The cool water chased away some of the pain, and he found enough energy to smile at the woman holding the cup.
“I’m obliged,” he whispered. His voice was weak as thread.
“I won’t ask how you feel, boy,” the old man said. “You look like hammered shit.”
“Sam!” the woman scolded. “You mind your language. Can’t you see the hand of the Lord at work here?”
Frank smiled. It was good to be back among the living, even if the living were prone to an argument now and then. He felt a knot, low in his belly, and realized he probably hadn’t eaten in some time.
“I’m . . . could have a little something to eat?”
“Hallelujah! Glory be to the Lord Almighty.” The wo
man raised her hands above her head. “I prayed last night, and God told me if you’d just wake up and eat, you’d be all right. Thank you, thank you.” She hustled into the other room, and came back a moment later with a wooden bowl of soup.
“I made you some beef broth,” she said. “It’s been cookin’ for the last two days so it’s pretty rich. Stick-to-your-ribs good for you.” She spooned a little into Frank’s mouth. He hated being fed, but his own arms felt like lead anchors and he needed to eat.
“You’re damn lucky we found that stray steer. I have to eat mutton stew mornin’ noon and night.” Sam smiled even though his wife gave him a chastising stare for his language.
“God provides for his own,” she said, giving Frank another spoonful of broth. “Just like Abraham’s ram in the thicket so’s he wouldn’t have to kill his own son, Isaac.”
“Don’t mind her,” Sam said. “She can’t talk less’n she relates it to the Good Book.”
“I’m Abby and this is my husband Sam, the gentile infidel,” the woman said. “We’re the Bergins.”
“How long have I been out?” Frank found he was full after only a few bites of soup, and he had to fight to keep that down.
“Over a week,” Sam Bergin said. “You sure soaked up a lot of lead. I was sure you was done for. Them outlaws really wanted to see you dead. They would have finished you off for sure if me and some of my infidel friends hadn’t ridden up.” He gloated at his wife.
Abby nodded. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
The food helped to clear Frank’s mind, and he jerked as he remembered his own wife.
“Dixie?” he gasped, wincing from the pain of his movement.
Sam and Abby looked at each other. Neither spoke.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Frank saved them the trouble.
“God called her home, son.” Abby said, a tear in her eye. “I’m sorry. We buried her out by Wolf Mesa. It’s a pretty spot.”
“You might like to know we shot two of the buggers that killed her.” Sam stared down at the dirt floor. “Wounded another, but he was well enough to hang last Saturday.”
No Man's Land Page 14
