“Yes, Pa. I will.” David practically threw himself back onto the cot as if that act alone was enough to set everything right again.
Paul couldn’t get outside fast enough. Even after leaving the office, he continued walking for several more paces and stopped just shy of stepping in front of an oncoming wagon being pulled down the street. He turned around as Dr. Swenson closed in on him.
“You need to sit down,” Swenson said. “You’re not looking so good.”
“Yeah? Well, my children look even worse. I can’t abide by that for one more moment.”
“What your children need is for their father to care for them properly.”
Scowling at the tone in the other man’s voice, Paul said, “The best way for me to do that is to see that they’re tended to by someone that can get them well again.”
“I know you’re upset, Paul. It would be most helpful to show a brave . . . and kinder . . . face to those children. Especially David.”
This wasn’t the first time he’d ever thought about that. Unfortunately he came up just as short on solutions now as he always did. When that happened, his only recourse was to devote himself to something he could more easily wrap his head around. “What do you need to make them better, Doc? Just tell me that much.”
Dr. Swenson sighed as if he’d chosen this moment to let himself feel the fatigue that had been building over the last several hours. “What I really need is that arrow.”
“Can’t you just treat the poison?”
“I could if I knew what sort of poison it was. There’s snake venoms, plant oils, herbal toxins, fungus, as well as any number of chemical mixtures. Considering the source and symptoms I’ve seen, I can narrow the field somewhat. Still, if I administer the wrong treatment, there’s a chance that I could only make things worse. If I had the arrow, I could figure out what those children were poisoned with.”
Paul had to fight to keep himself from being overcome with rage. “Why would a bunch of savages want to poison innocent children?”
“Sounds like they were just shooting into windows. Most likely, they were trying to cause damage and mayhem as a way to lash out for whatever injustices they think were set against them.”
“Injustices are one thing. This is just . . . evil.”
“To them and to the cavalry soldiers riding the plains, this is war. War, in itself, is evil. I’ve heard tell of the army setting the torch to entire Cherokee villages. In return, the tribe sends its braves to ride through a town and fire burning arrows into any building they see. Some tribes were infected with diseases passed on in any number of ways, so this could be a way to answer back to that. Nothing in war stands up to reason,” Swenson concluded. “It’s all terrible. Just . . . terrible.”
No explanation would have appeased Paul’s anger. Since dwelling on the subject only stoked his flames that much higher, he forced himself away from the whys. Whys never helped anyone, even when they made perfect sense. He knew why his Joanna had been taken from him, but it didn’t make the space on the bed next to him any warmer at night.
“So I’ll go get that arrow,” Paul announced.
“How? The boy said it was tossed away.”
“I’ll ride back to that trading post. Someone may have kept it after all. Or maybe if it was thrown onto a heap somewhere, I can look through that heap to find what I’m after.”
“Or it could just be lost,” Swenson pointed out.
“Either way, I’ll be doing more good there than here.”
“That’s not necessarily true. Those children can use all the care they can get.”
“All of that caring and tenderness was never my strong suit, Doc. If there’s even the slightest chance I can find that arrow and bring it back, I will. How much time do I have?”
The doctor rubbed his ear before saying, “They’re not in any mortal danger right now, but that could change. I’d hate to have you gone if—”
“A week,” Paul cut in. “I’ve got that much time at least?”
“I’d say so, for certain. But that doesn’t mean their condition won’t change. I don’t know what I’m dealing with, exactly, so they might get worse in a few days. Or hours.”
“Then I’ll just have to ride as quickly as I can.”
Chapter 12
Unlike the other times when he had business to conduct, Paul didn’t put much thought into what he might need for the ride to the trading post. He had nothing to sell, nothing to buy, and no haggling to plan. He didn’t even need to worry about a team to hitch to his wagon. All he did was saddle up the youngest of his horses, toss a few supplies into his bags, and check the sky to see how much light remained. The sun was already dipping below the western horizon, which meant he should put his journey off until tomorrow. But Paul didn’t have that kind of patience and he decided to get as far as he could in whatever portion of the day was left.
He had one foot in the stirrups when he paused and checked something else. The old Schofield was in the house. Even though he rarely put the pistol to much use, his hip felt bare without it. Not wanting to squander his time, he hurried into the house, grabbed the gun belt, and strapped it around his waist. There were a few extra bullets in a drawer, which he collected on his way out. He also stuffed some money into his pocket without counting what he had and hurried outside to climb into his saddle. He then snapped his reins and headed out of Keystone Pass.
Paul rode over terrain that he knew so well after having covered it so many times before. As the sun dropped lower, he barely took notice. When night truly fell, he pulled back on his reins and rode a bit farther at a slower pace. He pressed on even when it seemed dangerous to do so. Some bit of light was cast from the moon and stars, but not nearly enough for any man to see the bumps, ditches, half-buried stones, or any number of other dangers that could end a ride on a bad note.
Only when it was absolutely necessary did Paul stop riding and make camp. He knew where a watering hole was without having to see it. Even though his horse and his own body were grateful for the rest, his heart ached at having to stop when his children’s suffering went on.
He slept fretfully.
The following morning, he awoke early.
He stretched his back, saddled his horse, and rode on.
The sky would have been a beautiful sight to anyone willing to see it. Paul wasn’t one of those men, so the warm reds and brilliant yellows above him passed unnoticed into more common whites and blue. His destination wasn’t much farther, so he tapped his heels against his horse’s sides to get there as quickly as possible.
At that time of day, the trading post was busy. In fact, it was busier than normal as Paul rode up to Trace’s store, climbed down from his saddle, and tied his horse to the closest hitching post. The folks who were walking in or out of the largest store or simply lingering outside it looked to him with a friendly greeting in their eyes. As soon as they saw the grave purpose etched into Paul’s features, however, they kept quiet and cleared a path for him.
The store was much improved over the last time he’d been there. Trace had even found inventory to restock a good number of his shelves that had been emptied by the rampaging Comanche. Surely there had been plenty of worse Indian attacks, but nobody could have convinced Paul of that.
“Well, now!” Dorothy said cheerily from the dining room, where she was tending to a few tables. “If it isn’t our favorite customer. In case any of you folks don’t know, this man stood tall when those savages tore through here and helped drive them away.”
Most of the customers showed Paul impressed smiles and the rest were too busy eating to pay him any mind. Paul ignored all of them as he walked straight up to Dorothy and said, “I need a word.”
“Of course. What is it?”
“Not here.”
Realizing his visit wasn’t purely social or even of the normal variety, she clea
ned her hands on the front of her apron and nodded. “Come with me back to the kitchen.”
He followed her while his head was flooded with unwanted memories sparked by the most common sights and sounds around him. Even familiar smells jabbed at him like rusty nails poking an open sore.
“You look spooked, Paul,” Dorothy said. “Are your young ones all right?”
“The doctor says they were poisoned by the arrow that was fired into the store.”
Her eyes widened. “Good Lord. But . . . I thought only your girl was hurt.”
“She was, but David cut his hand on the arrowhead when he pulled it out of her.”
“That’s right!” she gasped. “Oh, that’s terrible.”
“The reason I came back here was to retrieve that arrow,” Paul said. “Any chance it’s still around here somewhere?”
“I know I haven’t seen it. Let me get Trace. He’d know where to look.” She turned away from him and walked all of ten paces to the very back of the kitchen, where she found the owner of the store stocking supplies. Explaining the situation to him while all but dragging Trace to where Paul was waiting, Dorothy was out of breath by the time she’d finished.
“They was shooting poisoned arrows at us?” Trace asked.
Paul’s voice was terse as he replied, “Apparently so.”
Trace’s eyes darted to and fro as if he was reliving every second of the raid. “That means . . . we could’ve all been killed!”
“But you’re not even hurt. My David and Abigail are the ones still in danger while the lot of you celebrate like we won a war the day them Indians rode through this place. Now just tell me where to find that damn arrow so I can be on my way!”
“You mean . . . the arrow that hurt your little girl?”
“What other arrow would I want?” Paul said angrily.
“I suppose it don’t matter much since I got rid of them all.”
Cocking his head to one side, Paul stepped up close to the store owner. “Got rid of them . . . where?”
“Out back. I . . .”
Paul turned his back on the other man and left the kitchen in a rush. He felt at least half a dozen emotions course through his body, and every last one of them was powerful enough to set his head to spinning. Somehow he made it outside and around to the back of the store before he lost control altogether. Now that he had something to focus on, he collected himself and put his mind squarely to the task at hand.
Behind the store were a few sheds, a short row of outhouses, a corral, and a livery stable. Ignoring the outhouses, Paul started his search at the closest shed. It wasn’t long that he regretted charging outside before getting just a bit more direction from the folks who knew where he should look. The first shed was partly filled with shipping crates. The next had tools used for keeping the grounds and buildings. The third was locked.
“Paul, hold on just a moment,” Trace said as he approached.
Still tugging on the door to the third shed, Paul said, “This one’s locked. Is this where you put that arrow?”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“You’re right. Sorry. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, driving myself insane ever since my children fell ill. Pile on top of that a lack of sleep and hardly anything to eat and I’m not exactly thinking straight.”
“It’s understandable,” Trace said. Although he seemed somewhat relieved to hear Paul speaking in something closer to a normal tone, he was still uneasy about something. “That arrow . . . there were several of them, actually.”
“Great! That’ll make the doctor’s job even easier.”
“You’ve got to understand. I . . . that is, I didn’t . . .”
The purposeful scowl returned to Paul’s face, and his voice seemed even more ominous when his hand drifted toward the gun hanging at his side. “I’ve had my fill of you, mister. Show me where you put them arrows right now or so help me, I’ll make you wish them savages had put you in the ground when they rode through here.”
“You see . . . I really can’t . . .”
Paul’s hand closed around the grip of his pistol. “I don’t wanna hear nothing about can’t right now, Trace.”
“I need to tell you—”
“Just take me to where you dumped that arrow. Right now.”
The tone he’d used was the same as the one that could be heard in Paul’s voice when he’d reached his limit with one of the children, and it appeared to have as good an effect on Trace as it did on Abigail and David.
Since he couldn’t spit out a complete sentence anyway, Trace flapped his arms in exasperation and stomped past Paul on his way to the livery stable. Rather than go inside the dusty little structure, Trace walked around to the lot behind it. There wasn’t much to be found there apart from a stack of ripped burlap sacks, some busted crates, and a pit of blackened trash.
“Here you go,” Trace said. “I tried to warn you, but . . . see for yourself.”
Paul stepped over to the crates.
“Not there,” Trace said.
“I’m not in the mood for guessing games. Just tell me.”
“I’m pointing right at it if you’d just stop barking at me and listen to what I’m trying to say!”
Although Paul did see Trace pointing, he hadn’t paid it much mind because the store owner’s finger was jabbing at the dark spot on the ground instead of anywhere the arrow could have been kept. Unless, of course . . . “You buried it?” he asked.
“No. I burned it. Burned all of them that were left behind.”
Paul’s entire body slumped forward until he had to use one arm to prop himself up against the stack of crates.
Chapter 13
“Why would you do that?” Paul moaned.
Confused eyes darting back and forth, Trace asked, “Do what? Burn the arrows?”
Suddenly Paul sprang back to life. Where he’d slumped before, he now stood taller than ever so he could grab the front of Trace’s shirt. “Yes,” he snarled. “Why would you burn them?”
“Why would I keep them? Any of us could have been killed by those very arrows. Why would I want to keep a reminder of that around? To sell them as bloody trinkets like some kind of ghoul?”
Ghouls of that sort had occasionally come to Paul’s store selling all kinds of horrific wares. Arrowheads were the least of them. Among the samples were bullet casings from battlefields, knives supposedly taken from dead soldiers, pistols pried from the lifeless hands of outlaws, as well as countless other mementos from another soul’s worst day. Paul had taken great pleasure in showing those salesmen to the street, and so, reluctantly, he let go of Trace.
Tugging at his clothes to remove some of the rumples, Trace said, “I’m sorry, Paul. I tried to tell you.”
“I know you did.”
“After the way I behaved when the attack happened, I thought I was doing the proper thing by wiping away anything those savages left behind. After all, that’s why they came through here. To make us afraid. Leave their mark.”
“Yeah.”
Trace snapped his fingers. “Maybe there’s hope!”
Although he waited to see what Trace had in mind, hope was the furthest thing from Paul’s troubled mind.
Grunting as he lowered himself to his knees, Trace stuck his fingers deep into the pile of soil and ash. “I set the fire myself. It was hot, but not hot enough to melt rock. I imagine them arrowheads are still in here somewhere.”
Paul dropped to one knee so he could dig as well. At first, all he felt was dry dirt, soft ash, and sharp wooden splinters. After pushing down a little deeper, his fingers scraped against something with a bit more substance. Judging by the expression on Trace’s face, he’d made a similar discovery.
“I was right!” Trace declared. He then pulled his hand from the ground to get a look at his prize.
Paul did the same. Sure enough, he held a deadly sculpture of stone that had been chipped into an all-too-familiar shape. His son had found a few of these as well when digging through other mounds of dirt over the years, and his smile wasn’t much different from Trace’s.
“I think this might be just what you need,” Trace said in between blowing on the arrowhead to clean it off.
The arrowhead in Paul’s hand was filthy. He blew on it once before using his hand to brush off the chunks of dirt clinging to it and ash that remained stubbornly smeared onto its surface. Soon he felt something bite into his finger. When Paul looked at his hand, he saw a thin cut running across his first three fingers.
“Watch yourself,” Trace said. “They’re sharp.”
“Yeah,” Paul grunted as he thought about a similar cut on his boy’s hand. “I know.”
“This one here’s in pretty good shape. It’s charred and all, but with a bit of cleaning it could be as good as new.”
“This one looks about the same.”
“Then why don’t you seem very pleased about it?” Trace asked. “Isn’t this what you were after?”
“Only partly. Any one of these could be the thing that harmed my little ones, but . . .”
“Take them all!” Trace insisted. “Please.”
Paul shook his head even as he brought his find up to within an inch of his eyes for a closer look. “The thing is, I needed the poison on the arrowhead more than the thing itself. If the rest buried here are anything like these two, they’ve been burned clean and wiping them off will only finish the job.”
“Then don’t wipe them off. Paul, just take them. We’ll dig up the rest and you take them back to the doctor so he can do . . . whatever he does. Neither one of us is a doctor, so we can’t begin to guess what that may be. Just do your part and let me help you however I can!”
“Don’t fret about this, Trace. There was no way you could have known to save one of these damn things in pristine condition. I would’ve gotten rid of them as well if it was my store that had been attacked.”
The Dangerous Land Page 8
