“Better get the doctor, too,” someone else said. “This one just moved.”
* * *
The conscious mind lingered in darkness for a time undeterminable by the man lying on the hotel bed. In actuality, it was for a period of two days as Jordan drifted close to the surface of his coma, only to escape again into the security of unconsciousness, which seemed to beckon for him to linger. It would have been easy to let go, but the snarling faces of Leach and Roach had been permanently burned into his memory, and the power of it was enough to force him to defy the dark angels who beckoned him. Gradually the fog lifted, and snatches of conscious thought crossed his muddled brain in random flashes of memory. Finally he became aware of voices about him. Still he did not open his eyes, reluctant to let the day in.
“He’s still alive,” It was a man’s voice. “He’s got one helluva constitution, but I don’t think he’s gonna make it. He’s lost too much blood.”
In defiance of the comment, Jordan opened his eyes to find himself gazing into the eyes of an angel. At least that was what he thought. The angel recoiled slightly, her eyes wide with excitement. “He’s awake! See, Father, I told you he was going to make it.”
Captain Stephen Beard was the post surgeon at Fort Gibson, but he was often called upon to administer to the citizens of the nearby town. In most cases, it was to treat a sick baby or to set a bone. Rarely was it to treat gunshot wounds. He had already advised his daughter, Kathleen, that in treating soldiers in the field, wounds of this nature usually proved fatal. But she insisted that this patient was going to recover. She often acted as her father’s nurse when he saw civilian patients, and she had taken a special interest in this young man.
“Do you know where you are?” the doctor asked Jordan.
“No,” Jordan struggled to speak, still gazing into Kathleen’s eyes. “Heaven?”
“Hardly,” Beard huffed, “but you were well on the way. What’s your name, young fellow?”
He paused for only a moment before answering, “Jordan Gray.” The effort it took to speak made him wince with pain, and he suddenly remembered that he was wounded.
“Please don’t try to move,” Kathleen implored.
Beard shook his head slowly. “Well, Jordan Gray, you’ve got yourself shot up pretty badly. There isn’t much more I can do for you. I’ve wrapped you as well as I could to stop the bleeding. You’ve got a lead slug inside your chest somewhere, and I expect if I tried to go in to find it, I’d kill you for sure. There was another slug that went right through, came out under your shoulder.” He glanced at his daughter before continuing. “My daughter here will look in on you to see how you’re getting along. She was pretty sure you were gonna make it. Tell you the truth, I wasn’t. But since you finally woke up, and there aren’t any signs of internal bleeding, I reckon the rest is up to you.”
Jordan didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Perley? Is he all right?”
Captain Beard frowned. “Perley? Was that the old gentleman’s name? Was he your father?”
“Friend,” Jordan struggled to reply.
“I’m sorry, but your friend’s dead.”
Jordan closed his eyes, and the image of the old man’s face returned to his mind, his eyes wide with shock as he fell into Jordan’s arms. It would be hard to accept Perley’s death. He had only known the old trapper for a short time, but he felt as if he had always known him. Now, because he had befriended him, Perley was dead, and Jordan would add that to the grief that already burdened him. His eyes open again, he asked, “What about the two that shot us?”
Beard shook his head again and shrugged. “Lieutenant McCoy was sent out with a patrol of fifteen men to try to find them, but they were unable to pick up their trail. I expect they’ll send another patrol out for an extended search in the morning.” He reached down and placed his hand on Jordan’s forehead, most of which was covered by a bandage wrapping the raw welt on the side of his head. “Your fever’s down. I expect you’re about starved, too. I’ll tell the folks downstairs to fix you up some broth, although, if you feel up to it, you could probably eat something solid.” Standing erect again, he said, “That’s about enough talking for now. Rest if you can. The folks here at the hotel said they’d take care of you till you got better or died. I guess now it’s not going to be the latter. You’re a lucky man, Jordan Gray. If those shots had been an inch or two to the left, we’d already be burying you.”
* * *
The days that followed were like months to Jordan, the painful monotony broken only by the daily visits from Kathleen. She proved to be a cheerful nurse and was faithful in her promise to visit him daily. Though slight and fragile in appearance, she was stern enough if he disobeyed her father’s orders. Her visits were like a ray of sunshine in an otherwise dreary day.
The townsfolk buried Perley in the community graveyard outside of town. It was all taken care of by Marvin Sawyer. The owner of the Cherokee Hotel had at first been distressed to learn that Jordan would require his room for some time in order for his wounds to heal—that is, until he made it his business to search through Jordan’s and Perley’s saddlebags to discover Jordan could well afford his care. After that, it seemed he could not do enough for the convalescing young man.
Burdened by fits of depression caused by the knowledge that Roach and Leach were getting away, Jordan agonized over the slowness of his recovery. A week went by before he was able to sit up for any length of time, but each day he tried to do a little more until Kathleen would scold him for doing too much. “It takes time,” she admonished good naturedly. “Are you in such haste to leave my care?” He would manage a smile for her, unwilling to tell her that the image of two smirking faces that he had memorized was the force that drove him to recover.
* * *
“Who is Sarah?” Kathleen asked one afternoon. “You spoke her name several times when you were unconscious. Is she your wife?”
Jordan hesitated, reluctant to talk about the things he held sacred to his memory. But Kathleen had asked in such an innocent way, with genuine concern, and not simply out of curiosity. “Was,” he finally answered. “Sarah was my wife. She’s dead now, along with our son, Jonah.”
Kathleen was quick to put the puzzle together. “Those men—you came here looking for them, didn’t you?” He didn’t answer. “That’s why they shot you and your friend—because you had found them.” She suddenly became very excited as she realized what the town had puzzled over. Jordan had offered no explanation for having been targeted by the two outlaws. She could not know that he had his reasons—the main one that it was his private affair. The second reason was the possibility that he was a wanted man in Fort Smith, and he was carrying a sizable amount of the bank’s money.
“They killed your wife and son,” she said softly. It was a statement, but also a question, one he did not answer. It was unnecessary, anyway, for she could read the truth in his eyes. Sensing that the pain in Jordan’s heart was far greater than the healing gunshot wounds, she said, “I’ll not say anything to anyone, if you prefer.”
“I’m much obliged,” he said softly.
Captain Beard stopped in several times to change his bandages during the first two days of Jordan’s convalescence. He removed the one around Jordan’s head since it was healing nicely. “Might leave a scar over your ear,” he advised. “Looks like Mr. Sawyer’s people are taking pretty good care of you.” Jordan allowed that they were and expressed his appreciation for Kathleen’s efforts especially. Beard only grunted in reply, but he was thinking that his daughter had been extremely diligent in her devotion to duty—more so than ordinary. He supposed it was not all that unusual. She had always had a soft spot for injured animals of all kinds.
* * *
“You smell, Jordan Gray.” Hands on hips, Kathleen Beard stood by his bedside like a mother scolding her child. Ignoring the offended expression he displayed, she continued. “Do you think you can walk to the bathroom if I help you?” Before he could
answer, she added, “Or am I going to have to strip you down and wash you right here in this bed?”
Alarmed by the determined look on her face, Jordan quickly replied, “I don’t know if I can or not, but I’ll damn sure give it a try.”
“All right, then—let me help you sit up.” When she had helped him sit up on the side of the bed, she left him with instructions to get out of his underwear while she went to the bath at the head of the hall and prepared a tub for him.
Feeling a little light-headed, he sat there for a moment until he managed to bring a spell of dizziness under control. There was a definite sense of being bullied by the slight young daughter of the post surgeon, but Jordan had to agree that it was time he took a bath. Painfully, he removed his underwear and stood up, using the bedpost for support. He took a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around him. Then, afraid that if he sat back down, he might not be able to get up again, he stood waiting for Kathleen to return.
After a few minutes, she was back. “They’re bringing up some hot water from the kitchen to fill the tub. You can soak for a while. Then one of the boys can rinse you off. Don’t worry about your bandages. Father said it wouldn’t hurt to get them wet, and I’ll put on clean ones after your bath.” She wrinkled her nose as she glanced at the bed. “We’ll change those sheets, too.” She took his arm and placed it across her shoulders, then started walking him slowly toward the door. “I think we’ll find your razor, too. It’s about time we found out who’s hiding behind those bushes on your face.”
After assuring her that he could manage to get into the wooden tub by himself, he waited until she had closed the door behind her before cautiously stepping into the water. In order to sit down, he had to draw his knees up close to his chin, and once he was seated, he feared he would not be able to get up again without help. As soon as he let his body relax, however, he quit worrying about it, and let the warm water soak into his stiffened muscles. He took the yellow bar of soap from the edge of the tub and scrubbed himself as best he could, using a cloth that lay beneath the soap. The effort almost served to exhaust him, and when he had finished, he laid his head back against the wooden staves of the tub to rest.
He closed his eyes for a few moments. A smiling image of Kathleen’s face flitted through his mind for a brief instant before being replaced by that of a stunned and disbelieving visage of Perley. Without conscious effort, the muscles of his body tensed, and he automatically drew the images of the two faces from his memory. He did not know their names, but he would never forget their faces. Thoughts of the two murderers wrenched his very soul, and he wanted to cry out in anguish for his body to mend. Only the appearance of Marvin Sawyer’s twelve-year-old son laboring to carry two buckets of clean water kept him from roaring out his anger.
With help from the boy, Jordan managed to stand up. Then the boy stood on a stool and poured the rinse water over Jordan’s shoulders. From the hall, he heard Kathleen say, “Just wrap the towel around him, Petey, till we get him back to bed. I’ll have to remove those wet bandages.” Unable to resist peeping through the crack of the slightly ajar door, she glimpsed the naked man standing in the tub of water. His back was toward her, and she could see dark stains of blood that had soaked the soggy bandages. I’ll have to clean those up, she told herself, in an effort to distract her mind from the lean, muscled body.
With Kathleen and Petey steadying him, Jordan managed to hold the towel wrapped around him as they made it down the hall to his room. After they had him seated on the side of the bed, Petey left to empty the tub, and Kathleen began to remove the old bandages. “They don’t look bad at all,” she said, upon uncovering the wounds. “They’re not bleeding anymore. I think you’ll start getting your strength back pretty soon.” He made no reply, but the grim expression on his face told her that he was probably thinking of revenge and how soon he would be able to ride again. “You have to let your body heal,” she cautioned him. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. It will take a little time to get your full strength back.”
After she had applied fresh bandages, she brought a basin of water to the bedside table and proceeded to shave him. He had not taken a razor to his face since finding his wife and son murdered, so it was necessary for Kathleen to use her sewing scissors on his beard before applying the razor. She left his mustache until last. When the rest of his face was clean-shaven, she took a long look at the results, then decided to shave the mustache as well. “There, that’s better.” When she was finished, she set the basin aside and studied the face. “You know, Jordan Gray, you’ve been hiding a nice face behind that scraggly bush. You’re not quite so desperate-looking.” She continued to study his face. He could not really be considered a handsome man, but he was not unattractive either. There was a certain genuine quality conveyed in those piercing blue eyes that seemed magnetic to her, and she knew at that moment that she must be careful. She could not afford to become intrigued with those eyes. “All right,” she announced cheerfully, and got up to leave. “I borrowed a nightshirt from Mrs. Sawyer. You can put that on. Your things will be washed and dried by tomorrow.” Favoring him with a warm smile, she turned and left the room.
“Kathleen, thank you,” he called after her, finally finding his tongue.
She peeked back in the door. “So you can talk,” she said, laughing. “You’re welcome.”
For a few days after that, it seemed to him that he would never regain his strength. But once his wounds began to mend, the progress was rapid. With Kathleen’s daily attention and Mrs. Sawyer’s cooking, Jordan was soon ready to pronounce himself ready to ride. Using a hand mirror that Kathleen had provided, he examined the still-red healing wounds in his chest, two holes no more than a hand’s width apart. He knew that every time he took off his shirt, he would be reminded of the two who had escaped, and there would be no peace in his soul until that ledger was brought to balance.
* * *
While Jordan lay recovering, the two men responsible for his wounds sat by a campfire on the banks of the Verdigris River. Impatient with a trail that seemingly led nowhere, across a monotonous landscape that never changed, Leach decided to head back south to strike the Arkansas again. Roach, easily persuaded as long as there was some promise of whiskey and women, was willing to go along with whatever his partner suggested. “We could follow the Arkansas up to Wichita,” Leach suggested. “I ain’t never been there, but I hear it’s a right lively cattle town. Might be just the sorta place we need.” The decision made, they started out toward the southwest the following morning.
As Leach had heard, Wichita had been a bustling cattle town. But like other cattle towns before, the local farmers had organized in opposition to the Texas herds that fed off the land, leaving it barren of good forage. Now, after a few years during which thousands of cattle had been shipped from the town, Wichita was primarily a farming community—the cattle business having been shifted to Dodge City. It was a quiet town that Leach and Roach rode into on a late summer evening.
“It don’t look too damn lively to me,” Roach commented as he and Leach rode past long empty holding pens close by the railroad tracks. Still, it was a town, and one fairly established, judging by the stores and saloons along the main street.
“It’s lively enough,” Leach said. “I’d just as soon have a little peace and quiet for a spell.”
After leaving their horses at the stables, the two outlaws ambled up the dusty street to the hotel, where they took a room, after paying in advance. Boyd Fowler, the desk clerk, at first had his doubts about the two strangers. But upon seeing the roll of bills Leach produced to pay for the night’s lodging, he decided to reserve his judgment. “You gentlemen plan on staying in Wichita for a while?” Boyd inquired as politely as possible.
Leach smiled. “We’re just passin’ through, but we might decide to stay over if it suits us. Where’s the best place to get a drink and maybe find a game of poker—the saloon here in the hotel or one of them down the street?”
�
�There ain’t no better place than right here if you’re looking for a poker game,” Boyd was quick to answer. Sure now that the two strangers were gamblers, he suggested that they might want to settle themselves in their room, then be down in the saloon at about half past six. “Jack McQueen’ll be settin’ at the back table, and there’s always three or four lookin’ for a game. I’m sure you’d be welcome.”
“Who’s Jack McQueen?” Roach wanted to know.
“He’s the owner,” Boyd replied.
* * *
At precisely half past six, Leach and Roach walked into the saloon. Roach, not being as fond of card games as his partner, went immediately to the bar, impatient to slake a thirst that only a few days of hard riding could generate. Leach made his way directly toward the back table, where a huge man sat, holding court with three of the saloon regulars. It had been a long time since Leach had an opportunity to play cards with a large bankroll to stake him, and his hands itched with anticipation.
McQueen looked up as Leach approached. “Well, now, boys, here comes a poker player.” He nodded toward an empty chair, smiling warmly. “We saved a chair for you. Boyd said you might be lookin’ for a game.” He slid a bottle of whiskey toward him and called out to the bartender. “Harvey, bring this gentleman a glass. And bring us a new deck of cards.” He then introduced the other players, and Leach gave each one a brief nod before settling himself in the vacant chair. McQueen took the new deck, holding it up so everyone could see that the seal had not been broken. The deck appeared tiny in his huge, meaty hands, as he fanned the cards and removed the jokers. “New deck, new game,” he announced. “We usually play straight poker—that all right with you, Mr. Leach?”
Leach nodded. “Fine by me, just deal the cards.” He was not taken in by McQueen’s neighborly attitude. When it came to playing cards, Leach was suspicious of everyone, especially when he was the only stranger at the table.
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