by Tabor Evans
"Come on, get out of there before you drown, you damned fool!" Longarm ordered.
"No! You have to shoot me again, you big bastard! I ain't going to hang for that train wreck!"
"That's up to a judge!" Longarm yelled. "But if you want to save the taxpayers some money, then I will shoot you!"
Longarm drew his Colt, took aim, and fired. His bullet ripped away Fergus's empty holster and the man yelped in fear, then came scrambling out of the gully like it was crawling with rattlesnakes.
"Get on your horse!" Longarm ordered.
"I can't! Remember?"
Longarm was wet, chilled, and miserable. He used a second bullet, which sent Fergus's Stetson flying back into the gully. "I won't be suckered a second time," he warned.
Fergus found a way to mount his horse. Longarm led him and the other spare horse back through the driving rain to the barn.
"All right, Ned! Come on out of there and let's ride!"
No answer.
Longarm drew his six-gun again and dismounted. He expected that Ned might be waiting to ambush him with a pitchfork or a hay hook. But Longarm was mistaken because, after a few frantic moments of searching, it was clear that Ned Rowe had escaped into the stormy night.
Longarm was fit to be tied. He now realized that, in his rush to overtake Fergus, Longarm had forgotten that there was a third horse belonging to the man he'd killed. And it was this horse that Ned had used to bolt for freedom.
"Dammit!" Longarm swore, slogging through the mud searching for Ned's tracks.
But the rain was coming down too hard and there was no telling in which direction Ned had chosen to run.
"He got clean away, didn't he?" Fergus said with a twisted and triumphant leer.
"Yeah, he did," Longarm replied. "I haven't got time to hunt him down tonight, but I'll find him later. Just like I'll track down Eli Wheat."
"You might not be so lucky a second time with Eli," Fergus said as Longarm remounted. "You go lookin' for them boys, they'll kill you, and I hope to hell I'm there to watch you die."
"You won't be," Longarm promised, for he had already decided to turn his prisoners over to the sheriff in Rock Springs, who was a man that could be trusted. "Let's ride!"
If anything, the rain came down harder as they rode through that awful night in the direction of the station at Lookout. A few hours before dawn, rain turned to sleet. A faint gray dawn hugged the eastern horizon and showed Longarm the railroad tracks.
"Let's go!" he urged, reining west.
"Lookout is back toward Laramie," Fergus argued. "We missed it by riding too far west."
"Then what's the next depot?"
"There ain't nothing left at what used to be the Miser depot. So the next depot is Rock Creek. But that's another seven or eight miles!"
"Then we'd better put the spurs to these ponies," Longarm said, booting his tired sorrel into a gallop across the sloppy ground that paralleled the tracks.
The westbound train overtook them before they could make it all the way to Rock Creek. Longarm heard its eerie whistle blow, and reined his horse up to see the locomotive lumber toward them in the distance. The ground was rising toward Rock Creek and the train was moving slow, its stack spewing smoke into the sleet.
"What are you gonna do now?" the wounded man crowed. "We lost the damned race."
Longarm knew that there really was only one thing that he could do and that was to stop the train. "Let's ride up on those tracks."
"What?"
"I said come on!" Longarm ordered, dragging along the horses and scrambling up on the roadbed.
"That train won't stop!" Fergus shouted with rising panic in his voice. "It'll think we're train robbers and it'll run us the hell down!"
"No one lives forever," Longarm replied, dismounting and hauling Fergus out of the saddle. He ripped the man to his knees, drew his six-gun, and said, "Lay down across the rails."
"What?"
"Lay down!"
Fergus lay down on the wet tracks. He was at the end of his rope, hurt, confused, and weakened by loss of blood, his mental and physical reserves gone.
"You gonna let him run me over!" Fergus screamed as the train moved inexorably closer. It was close enough already that the tracks were shaking and the horses were snorting nervously.
"I want more names!" Longarm called over the sound of the approaching train. "I want all the names or this train is going to cut you into three messy pieces!"
"Oh, Lord!" Fergus howled, his eyes wild. "First you shoot me, now this!"
"Names!"
With one eye on the looming locomotive and another on Longarm, Fergus spat out the names like bullets from the muzzle of a Gatling gun. "Big Tom Canyon. Hawk Jenkins. Two-Fingered Earl. Shorty Hamilton. Bob Orr. Indian Red Lopez! That's all I know. Please, don't do this!"
Longarm planted his boot firmly on the back of Fergus's neck and turned the horses loose to run a short ways off, where they stood heads down and rumps to the driving sleet.
Longarm raised his hand in the frontier signal of peace and said to his prisoner, "Well, Fergus, we'll just let the engineer decide your fate."
Fergus howled and screeched like crazy until the train began to slow. If it hadn't, Longarm would have let the man up, and then he'd have jumped on board and forced the engineer to stop.
The engineer looked frightened, and there was a rifle in both his and the fireman's fist when the big locomotive ground to a shuddering halt.
"What the hell is going on down there?" the engineer called out.
"I'm a federal officer of the law. I got a prisoner and a big need to get to Reno."
"This ain't no damned way to board a train!"
Longarm ignored the outburst. "Here's my badge!" he said, digging it out of his pocket to display to the two nervous railroad men. "Can we load our horses?"
"Hell, no!"
Longarm shook his head. He looked to the young fireman and said, "If my prisoner moves, you have my permission to shoot him again."
The fireman was barely out of his teens, a tall, powerful young man covered with the wet muck and grime of coal dust. Only his teeth and eyes showed white when he said, "You mean he's already been shot?"
"That's exactly what I mean. And I'll shoot you if you let him run away in this storm!"
The fireman raised his rifle, took aim on Fergus's chest, and said: "You're coyote bait if you move, mister."
Longarm hurried over to the horses and quickly removed their saddles, blankets, and bridles. He carried his own saddle, Winchester, bedroll, and canvas bag with provisions to the train, where a conductor helped him and his wounded prisoner climb on board.
"United States Marshal Deputy Long," Longarm announced to the handful of startled passengers, most of whom had been sound asleep when the train had jarred them awake during its sudden and unscheduled stop. "And this here is my prisoner, and don't go feeling sorry for the bastard because he's part of the same bunch that wrecked the train at Laramie Summit."
The passengers appeared to be shocked by this announcement. Or maybe it was Fergus's deathly pallor that shocked them as well, because the wounded outlaw was trembling with cold and fear.
"Is he going to die?" an old lady asked.
"I doubt it," Longarm said.
"If he does, it would serve him right for his role in killing so many innocent people up there on the summit."
"I couldn't agree with you more."
It was only after the train was rolling along slowly again that a tall, lean cowboy with missing front teeth whistled, "What about them horses that you turned loose?"
"What about them?"
"Well, you comin' back for 'em?"
"Not likely."
A moment's silence, then he said, "Three good saddle horses and two saddles is worth at least two, maybe three months' cowboyin' wages."
"You might not even catch them," Longarm said, reading the cowboy's intent. "And this train has already gone at least a mile-"
"I don't mind the walk,
sir. I'd walk back to Laramie for the value of them horses and saddles."
For some reason, Longarm felt compelled to make one final argument. "My friend, it's freezing out there and not only might you get stranded, but you also might catch your death of pneumonia."
But the cowboy was already up and moving down the aisle. "I'd like to take my own chances, if you don't mind. That sorrel horse was a damned fine-looking animal."
"He was as good as his looks," Longarm replied. "And if you can find him in this storm, then he's yours with the American taxpayers' blessings."
"Well, thank you, America!"
And with that, the cowboy dashed out of the coach and disappeared into the driving sleet.
CHAPTER 12
Longarm put Fergus up against the window and took the aisle seat. He was bitterly cold and wet. At the rear of the coach, a middle-aged and very undistinguished-looking couple held a quick whispered conversation. Moments later, the couple came forward to stand beside Longarm.
"We want to trade seats with you," the man announced. "You're cold and wet and our seats are close beside the stove."
Longarm looked up at the man. He thought that he should decline the generous offer, but his teeth were chattaring and he knew that would be foolish.
"We're much obliged," he said. "But I must warn you that our seats are going to be damp and..."
"Never mind that," the woman said with a warm smile. "We've some blankets we can spread over them."
"You're very kind."
"We are the Friedlanders." The couple were like a pair of sweet-faced marionettes. They bowed slightly in unison as the woman said, "My name is Ida and this is my husband, Luke. We are originally from Kentucky."
Longarm removed his hat. He knew that he must look a fright. He smiled. "Kentucky is the flower of the South. And you are fine people to be so charitable."
"We respect the law and have no wish to see anyone suffer needlessly," Ida said. She smiled, and her blue eyes flicked to Fergus and then returned to Longarm. "Which brings us to another matter."
"And that would be?"
"My father was a surgeon in the Confederate Army. I traveled with him and... well, it was a terrible thing for a child to see, but I learned a great deal about bullet, shrapnel, and saber wounds. In the years we have been together, my husband and I have patched up many a brave man."
"There is nothing particularly brave about either myself or this prisoner," Longarm said, "but seeing as how I doubt we'll find a surgeon until we reach Rock Springs, if then, you're welcome to have a look at his bullet wound."
But Fergus recoiled. "You're mighty kind, ma'am, but I don't want no woman diggin' around in my shoulder. I'd just as soon wait for a real doctor."
"That would be a mistake," Ida said. "I can tell by your color that you are about to go into shock. Probably the cold has something to do with it, but so does blood loss. Furthermore, a bullet should never remain buried in flesh. It quickly causes corruption and blood poisoning."
"My wife knows what she is talking about," Luke said quietly. "Ida has more experience than most any surgeon that you'd be lucky enough to find this side of Reno. And she always carries her father's surgical instruments--just in case we have the opportunity to help save a life."
"I damn sure do want to live long enough to see Deputy Long get shot," Fergus snarled.
"Then you'd better let Ida dig out that bullet," Longarm said. "It doesn't matter one way or the other to me. You already gave me the names of the members of the gang when you thought I was going to let the train run you over. I was bluffing, of course, but it worked just like I'd expected."
"You bastard!"
Longarm balled his fist, but Ida Friedlander objected. "This man may be a murderer, but he is still a human being made in the image of God."
"If so," Longarm said, "the Father's image is tarnished beyond recognition."
"Please let us take him into a car where we can examine him and remove the bullet if that is possible."
"All right," Longarm agreed, "but I'm coming along and I won't take my eyes off him for even a minute. Fergus may look like a whipped dog, but he's as cunning as a fox and as ruthless as a wolverine."
"He is a human being," Luke said. "We may hate the sin but not the sinner."
Longarm wasn't sure that he agreed. Furthermore, this new development was annoying. A few minutes before he thought that he'd be spending time beside the stove to thaw out his bones. Now, he was going to have to search out some cold baggage or mail car and stand guard while these two Good Samaritans tried to save the wounded outlaw's worthless life.
"Let's get this over with," Longarm said after a long, uneasy silence. "But Ida, if my prisoner does not survive the operation, I want you to know that you will not greatly disappoint me or any of the passengers fortunate enough to survive the Laramie Summit train wreck."
Ida gave him a look that said she felt pity for a man so unforgiving as Longarm. With her husband in the lead, she walked down the aisle, and then was followed by Fergus, while Longarm marched along behind.
They had to go all the way back to the mail car before they could find a place to examine Fergus.
"Take off your coat and your shirt, please," Ida requested with a smile of encouragement.
"I'll freeze to death!"
Luke moved over to the small stove and addressed the frightened mail clerk. "Do you suppose we can stoke up the fire and get some warmth in here?"
The clerk, a thin, ascetic-looking fellow, bobbed his pointed chin like a bird. His voice was high-pitched and carping when he complained, "They don't give me enough coal to burn. Not near enough! I really freeze in this weather, and I'm trying to ration it out to last until this train makes Rock Springs."
Longarm went over to the coal bin and, sure enough, there was not more than a few shovelfuls. It might get the car warm enough so that you could not see your own breath, but not much warmer. "This is all the coal you have?"
"That's right!" the clerk complained wearily. "It's awful, isn't it?"
"I'll get you more coal at the next stop," Longarm promised as he took the shovel and emptied the bin into the stove. "But right now, we've got to have some heat. I'm about to freeze to death myself."
They waited a few minutes for the stove to warm up the mail car, and then Fergus gritted his teeth and worked himself out of his coat and shirt.
"Please sit down," Ida requested. "I'm a head shorter than you, young man. I can't begin to examine your wound standing on my tiptoes."
Fergus took a seat. He was shivering violently despite the new-found warmth of the crackling stove. His shoulder wound was a mess. There was just no other way for Longarm to describe the damage caused by his bullet.
"What do you think?" Fergus asked nervously. "It's pretty bad, huh?"
"It looks worse than it is," Ida said, shifting around the chair to probe around the area of Fergus's shoulder blade. "I think the bullet is very near the blade bone. I believe that it can easily be removed."
"Are you sure?" Fergus asked, looking very nervous.
"No one can be exactly sure," Ida said. "But that's my opinion." She motioned to Luke. The man nodded his head and hurriedly left the mail car.
"Where's he going?" Fergus asked in a thin, reedy voice.
"To get my father's medical bags. We have a bottle of chloroform."
Fergus gulped several times. He even looked to Longarm with a plea in his eyes and said, "You think that I ought to let her do this, Deputy?"
"It's a long way to Reno, the first place where we're likely to find a real surgeon. If it was me, I'd give Mrs. Friedlander the benefit of the doubt."
"I don't know about that there chloryform stuff she's talking about. I'd rather have some whiskey."
"Too bad," Longarm said. "That's not possible."
"The chloroform is better," Ida said. "You won't feel as bad afterward. It's a little more difficult to administer the precise dosage necessary, but I've done it many times before a
nd I'm absolutely convinced that I will not put you to sleep permanently."
"Well, good!"
Ida smiled. "I should tell you that there is already suppuration leaking from the wound. It doesn't smell good, but I've some medicines that will fight the gangrene. I would not do this operation if I did not feel confident that your life can yet be saved."
Fergus wrapped his arms around his bony torso and hugged himself to keep from shaking. He looked as white as snow, very thin and very worried. "I just don't know what to do!" he whined.
"Do what the lady says," Longarm advised, sure that he could also smell the gangrenous rot.
Maybe Fergus could smell it too, because he chewed his lower lip for a few seconds and then finally nodded his head. "All right, let's get this over with. But I want whiskey, not that chloryform stuff!"
Longarm was about to tell Fergus that it didn't matter what he wanted, that whiskey was out of the question unless perhaps as a farewell drink.
But Ida said, "I have some whiskey in the medical bag. It's a good painkiller as well as disinfectant. You can have the whole bottle."
Fergus brightened considerably at this news. "Now you're talking!"
A few minutes later, Fergus was guzzling whiskey and Ida was spreading out her father's medical kit. She neatly arranged the shiny surgical instruments on the mail car worktable. When everything was in readiness, she said, "I think we had better get started, Mr. Fergus."
The outlaw showed no interest in relinquishing the bottle of whiskey, which he had already half emptied. He eased back on the table, and his eyes burned with hatred when he stared at Longarm. Then, turning back to Ida Friedlander, he said, "All right, let's get the damn bullet out."
"Roll over on your stomach."
Fergus rolled over and pushed himself up on his elbows so that he could pour whiskey down his gullet. When he finished the bottle, he dropped it on the floor. It rolled up against the wall and Fergus hissed, "Let's go!"
Longarm watched closely as Ida took a scalpel from her husband. She made a quick, deep incision that lifted Fergus howling off the table. Then he gripped the edge of the table and ground his teeth.
Ida Friedlander proved herself to be a skilled surgeon. She was into the wound in seconds, and her husband kept feeding her forceps to clamp off the worst bleeding. She quickly dug Longarm's misshapen bullet out, and packed the wound with disinfectant powder before suturing the incision.
