The Wounded Yankee

by Gilbert, Morris

  “That was what I was afraid of—but it missed by a hair. Tore him up pretty bad, but if he doesn’t get an infection, I guess he’ll pull out of it.”

  Zack took a deep breath, and Steele could see some of the tension leave the man’s face. “How about Lillian?”

  The old physician frowned. “You know, Zack, in a way I’m more worried about her than the boy.” He paused, then went on. “It’s one thing to see these fool miners putting bullets in each other—but another to have to patch up a young girl who’s been torn by one of the beasts in this stinking town!”

  Zack studied the doctor’s face. “How is she?” he asked again.

  “Oh, physically, she’s not too bad. Had to take a couple of stitches on an eyebrow and another on her lower lip.” Steele glared at the ceiling. “She must have put up some fight for him to bust her up that way.”

  “If she’s not hurt worse, why are you more worried about her than Buck?”

  “Because she’s going to carry the memory of this assault around as long as she lives, Zack!” Steele shook his head. “I’ve seen it before. Somehow when a young woman—or any woman, I guess—is attacked like that, she feels she’s guilty. Don’t know why, but it happens. And most of ’em will hate men forever.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “Both asleep,” Steele shrugged. “Buck’s in there.” He pointed to the door that led to the other room where he did most of his work. “Bronwen’s with Lillian in room 204 of the Palace Hotel, but I gave her enough laudanum to keep her out all night.”

  “I’ll see them in the morning.”

  Zack turned to go and Steele said, “Some of us are getting together tomorrow to talk about this. Like to have you come. Be in Sander’s office at noon.”

  Zack had reached the door, but he turned and gave Steele a strange smile. “At noon?” he mused softly. “Sorry, Doc. I’ve got something else to do at noon.” He waited long enough to see outrage creep into Steele’s faded eyes, then left the office.

  Zack steered Ornery toward the stable, where he unsaddled him, grained him, and put him in the corral. Picking up his saddlebags, he headed for the Palace Hotel.

  The clerk was half asleep, and pulled himself out of his chair long enough to ask, “Need a room?”

  “Just for tonight.”

  “Take 210.”

  Zack nodded and walked down the hall, pausing at room 204 for a long moment, then went to 210. He took off his coat and gun, placing them on the bed, then filled the basin with water from the pitcher and washed his face. Instead of flopping on the bed, he moved the chair to the window.

  Two hours later he was still there when the street below was lit up, and the raucous sounds of the saloons filled the air. He had a good view of the Silver Moon, and for an hour he watched men enter and leave. The streets were active as the miners, weary and bored with man-killing labor, came to let off steam.

  At ten o’clock, he jerked off his boots, drank some water, and opened the saddlebags. He pulled out a book, plumped up the pillow and lay down to read. He glanced at the title and a wry smile touched his lips as he read aloud, “Great Expectations.” He glanced toward the street. “Guess that’s what I’ve got.”

  After reading for two hours, he put the book down and lay flat on the bed. He thought of those nights in the army, before a battle, when he and the others had been keyed up tight. He felt no such pressure now and wondered why. He fell asleep, and slept through the night, awakening only when the first rays of the sun touched his face.

  He got up, washed his face, and went to look out the window. He had a clear view of the assayer’s office down the street, and saw a crowd gathering. Every once in a while a man would pull away and scurry down the street, sometimes stopping others and pointing toward Reiner’s office.

  He smiled, picked up his book and sat down beside the window. At ten he read the last page and closed the book. “Well, now, that’s a good book,” he said aloud. He shoved the novel into the saddlebags, buckled on his gun, shrugged into his coat, then stepped into the hall. There was nobody in sight as he made his way to room 204 and knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” Bron asked.

  “Me. Zack.”

  When she opened the door and he stepped inside, the first thing Zack noticed were the dark circles under her eyes.

  Lillian was asleep in the single bed. Her face was puffy and the stitches in her mouth and eyebrow looked frightful. He stood near the bed for a few minutes.

  “She’s going to be all right,” Bron assured.

  Zack went to the window to survey the situation. The people were still coming, milling excitedly in the street. She came and put her hand on his shoulder. “You and I . . . both of us feel responsible.”

  He faced her, the pain in his eyes openly displayed. “Not you, Bron,” he said heavily. “I was so busy posturing up in the hills—playing hermit—that I let it happen.”

  She whispered, “It’s hard to forgive others, Zacharias, but much harder to forgive yourself.”

  He shook his head, and she looked down on the street. “What’s happening? That crowd’s getting bigger every minute! Is it a hanging?”

  “Well, something like that,” he said. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll come back when she’s awake.”

  “Zack—when you come, don’t be surprised if she’s afraid of you. She was frightened of Dr. Steele—because he’s a man, you know?” Then she drew her shoulders back and said, “But I will pray for her. God can heal wounds inside as well as those on the outside.”

  He could sense her deep faith in God and the love for Lillian expressed with such devotion. Her eyes were weary from the long vigil, her mouth soft with pity for the helpless girl. “I’ll be back,” he said.

  Zack slipped down the back stairs and made his way through the alley to Pfouts’ store. The back door was locked, but he rapped hard until he heard a bolt slide. The door opened slowly and Pfouts peered up at him.

  “Zack—come in!” he cried, pulling him inside and slamming the door. Pfouts’ eyes were a mixture of fear and agitation, very unlike the calm, collected businessman the world saw. “Are you insane?” he whispered.

  “Probably,” Zack replied. The sight of Pfouts amused him. “I was depending on you for a little help, Parris, but you’ve got to calm down before you can do me any good.”

  “What do you mean, Zack?” Parris asked waving his hands. “That notice you put in Reiner’s window, every miner in the Gulch has seen it!”

  “That’s why I put it there. Now listen, here’s what I need . . .”

  ****

  George Ives came downstairs from his room over the Silver Moon and sat down to a breakfast brought in by Lou, the swamper. Lou gave Ives an odd look as he set the tray on the table, but said nothing. He moved away, and as he expected, three men rushed into the saloon before Ives had finished.

  “You haven’t heard about it?” Hayes Lyons half shouted. Buck Stinson and Long John Frank crowded around Ives, stark surprise in his face.

  “Heard about what?” he asked, “Stop talking so loud—nobody’s deaf!”

  Long John spoke up. “There’s a notice in Reiner’s window on the board. I made a copy of it for you.” He handed a slip of paper to Ives and the three watched him as he read it aloud:

  There are two yellow curs living in this town. One is Red Yeager; the other a dirty coward named George Ives.

  At noon tomorrow, I’ll be in the street in front of the Silver Moon. If these two dogs don’t come out to meet me, I’ll go drag them out.

  I’ll use my fists on Yeager till he is pulp. Then I’ll give the other cur a chance to pull his gun, and I’ll put a bullet between his eyes.

  All invited. Bring your friends.

  Zacharias Winslow

  The blood rose in Ives’ face as he read. He crumpled the notice in his hand and threw it on the floor, asking, “What kind of a joke is this?”

  Stinson snorted, and waved a hand toward the street. “Georg
e, you hear that crowd? Every miner in the Gulch is comin’ in. They don’t think it’s a joke!”

  Ives rushed over to the door. Sure enough, the street was filled, and when one of the miners spotted him, he hollered, “Hey, Ives, you and Yeager ready for the party?”

  Ives cursed and wheeled around, his eyes bright with anger. “Where’s Red, Lou?” he called out to the swamper.

  “Still asleep.”

  “Go get him!”

  As the swamper scurried upstairs, Ives stared at the three men. “It’s probably someone’s idea of a joke,” he muttered. “Winslow probably didn’t even put the notice up.”

  “Yeah, he did,” Long John nodded. “I talked to Harold Reiner. He said that Winslow came in last night and asked him to post it.”

  Ives went back to the window, his mind working at lightning speed. He stayed there until Yeager came stomping into the bar, yelling, “Whut you get me up for? I got one great big hangover, George.”

  Ives gave him a quick run-down, and Yeager picked up the note, spread it out and read. With a curse, he threw it down and said, “You don’t take this serious, George?”

  Ives was smarter than Yeager, and replied, “I don’t think it’s what it looks like, Red.” He paced the floor and said finally, “I think it’s a trap. What they’ll do is draw us out on the street using Winslow for bait. They’ll have some men ready, and somehow they’ll find an excuse to open up on us.”

  “Why, we better not go then!” Yeager said.

  “Wake up, you idiot!” Ives yelled. “If we don’t go out there, we’re admitting we’re what he calls us in that note. We don’t have any choice—but we can handle it.” He thought again and began to speak rapidly. “Get as many of our boys as you can. There’s going to be a thousand men out there, but there’s just a few we need to worry about. You know them—Miller, Pfouts, Simpson, and Beidler. If there’s any shooting, drop them and the rest won’t matter.”

  “I’ll get the boys,” Stinson said and scooted out the door.

  “Wait a minute,” Yeager said. “He’s going to tackle me first, George. When I get through with him, he’ll be dead meat. I’ll get him down and kick his brains out.”

  Ives considered Yeager’s bulk and nodded. “Do it then. It’d be better. When lead starts flying any of us can get it.”

  “I been waiting to get my hands on that punk!” Red grinned. “Now he’s serving himself to me like a Christmas turkey. Let’s have a drink.”

  “Better wait till later,” Ives warned, but Yeager cockily went to the bar and poured himself a large whiskey.

  “That clown don’t weigh over a hundred forty, if that much,” he scowled. “I’ll have a little fun with him before I put his lights out, George. Be a lesson for the next pup who sets himself up against us!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE FIGHT

  At five minutes before noon, Zack stepped out of the front door of Pfouts’ store. Immediately a shout went up: “There he is!” The street was packed, but a way opened up for him as he walked slowly toward the Silver Moon with Pfouts beside him.

  The crowd pushed and shoved, trying to catch a glimpse of him, and when he looked up, he saw that every window was occupied. He smiled at Parris. “I bet you wish it was this easy to get people to come to church, don’t you?”

  Pfouts was pale, his forehead clammy. He groaned, “You’re a fool, Zack! They’ll have to kill you now! They can’t afford to let you live!” But Zack had told him earlier that it had to be done in public. “Ives has got to be humiliated, and I want every man in this camp to see it!” he’d said.

  Then it had made sense, but now in the midst of this mob, Parris wished he’d tried harder to dissuade Zack. But it was too late.

  Zack stepped into the clearing in front of the Silver Moon, and as he did he saw Yeager and Ives postured in front of the door. Zack called, “Well, it’s noon. Come on out here, Yeager!”

  Yeager lunged forward with a curse and came to a stop ten feet away from Winslow. His eyes were red-rimmed and he looked huge in the strong sunlight. He surveyed the solid ranks of men, then looked up at the windows and flat roofs, also packed, and laughed derisively.

  “You must be drinking bad whiskey, Hermit. I been aching to get at you, and now you come crawlin’ down outta the hills spouting garbage.” He began to work himself into a rage, cursing and striking his hands together.

  “You think you can whip me, Red?” Zack challenged, loud enough for all to hear.

  “I’m gonna stomp you!”

  “I got a little cash,” Zack said. “You want to make some easy money, I’ll give you a bet. Last man on his feet takes the purse.”

  Yeager gaped in disbelief, then grinned. “How much—a hundred?”

  “Two hundred,” Zack said with a grin. “Let the boys see the coin, Pfouts.” Pfouts held up a heavy pouch, and Zack said, “Even money, Red.”

  Yeager looked confused. “I’ll take it. My money’s in the vault at the Station.”

  “Write out a release, and Colonel Simpson there will hold the stakes,” Zack said. He stood there while pencil and paper were shoved into Simpson’s hand. “Last man on his feet takes the pot, right?”

  “Right,” Simpson said. “Now get ready—”

  “One more thing, Red,” Zack broke in. “My hands are tender. I don’t want to cut them up when I’m knocking your teeth down your throat, so I’ve asked Pfouts to put some bandages on. Come and have a look.”

  Yeager came forward, and Pfouts showed him the strips of cotton cloth. Yeager felt one of them, then laughed. “Go ahead, put them bandages on so I can get started.”

  As Zack had showed him earlier, Pfouts quickly wrapped the cotton strips around the outstretched hands, first one, then the other. Zack said, “Take a feel, Red. Just bandages—no horseshoes inside.” He held his hands out, and Yeager gave them a casual touch.

  “One more thing.” Zack unbuckled his gun belt and handed it to William Clark, saying, “Will you hold these for me just for a few minutes, Bill?”

  “All right, let’s go,” Zack said.

  “Back off!” Yeager shouted. “Gimme some room while I work on this stupid clown!”

  A heavy silence blanketed the crowd as Yeager lifted his hands and moved toward Winslow, a confident smile on his thick lips. He looked like a huge bear as he planted his feet solidly with each step. When he drew near, the difference in the sizes of the two men spelled doom for Winslow. Yeager was six feet two or three and weighed over two hundred thirty. Though his middle seemed encased in fat, great balls of muscle bulged under his shirt as he drew nearer. Winslow was about five ten and weighed a hundred seventy-five—all well hidden, for it was perfectly distributed over his frame. His chest was deep rather than wide, and his muscles strong and supple.

  He waited for Yeager’s move. Zack kept his right fist cocked and close to his chin, his left extended. He stood on the balls of his feet watching Yeager’s feets, not his hands.

  He saw the feet come together, brace; then he looked up in time to see Yeager’s long looping right hand. The man was even clumsier than Zack had hoped, and he deftly moved to the left, allowing the blow to slip by harmlessly. The force of it threw Yeager off balance, and Zack delivered a punch. It traveled no more than six inches, but it started from his left foot, surged up his leg and torso, and then down his arm, exploding in Yeager’s face like a pile driver.

  Yeager’s head snapped back, and blood gushed from his broken nose. He staggered back two steps, and stood transfixed, his eyes unfocused. He lifted a hand to his face, and stared at the bloody evidence.

  A shocked silence fell over the crowd. But Yeager’s supporters came to the fore and began to shout, “Get him, Red! Use your muscles on the cur!”

  Zack waited, baiting his enemy. Then Yeager roared in, his arms windmilling, certain to catch Winslow in their trap. But Zack was too good. With an ease that surprised everyone, Winslow ducked under the huge arms and smashed a wicked blow over Yea
ger’s belt buckle. Zack felt his fist sink in and a gust of air explode from Yeager’s lips. He whirled and clutched his hands over his stomach, his mouth open as he gasped for breath. Zack lunged forward, pummeling unmercifully. His lightning moves caught Yeager in the mouth with a straight right, then as he was driven back, hit him over the left eye with a piston-like left, then a swift right uppercut to the nose as he was falling.

  A wild, volcanic yell erupted from the crowd as Yeager flew over backward. He lay rolling from side to side, his hands over his face. From the sidelines, a pale, unbelieving Ives watched, aghast at the demise of his crony.

  “I’m coming, George!” Zack yelled. “Soon as I get this tub of guts opened up, I’ll be right with you!”

  Pfouts turned to stare at Simpson. “I never saw anything like it, Wilbur!”

  Simpson nodded. “The man’s a professional, Parris. He’ll kill Yeager.” He looked at the big man as he rolled over and struggled to his knees. “If he’d been smart he’d have stayed down,” Simpson added. “But he’s not—and I’m glad. He’s ruined too many good men with those fists and boots!”

  Yeager stood up slowly, his face a bloody mask. In addition to his broken nose, the violent blows had split his eyebrow and his lower lip. Yet the animal force in his huge bulk refused to give up, and he glared out of his good eye, rasping hoarsely, “Stand still and fight like a man!”

  Zack wasted no time and began peppering Yeager with short crisp punches he could not see, much less block. A few blows rocked Yeager’s head back. He raised his arms in defense, but Zack delivered four more to the stomach—so fast that even the spectators couldn’t separate the sounds. Yeager dropped his arms and the next punch caught him flush in the mouth, knocking him to the ground.

  “Stop the fight!” one of his henchmen shouted.

  “You shut your face!” Miller snapped, jabbing an elbow into the man’s ribs. “Nobody stopped Yeager when he stomped John Crenna!”

  Yeager crawled to his knees, his mouth hanging open, revealing a large gap where his upper front teeth had been. He choked and gagged.