by Sierra Rose
“A little help here!” he yelled, sawing on the reins to drag his beleaguered team to a halt in front of Norton’s Livery. “Hey! Who’s around?”
The owner, looking cross, strolled out of the building with one arm stuck in the sleeve of his jacket and one arm trying to work irself free. “Well, I’m around, Sam, as you can see. I could tell you to hold your hosses, but—”
“Not funny, Abel. Hasten your lazy hindquarters over here, we got ourselves men shot.”
“Shot? Whatddya mean?”
“You deaf? C’mon, shake a leg.” Sam was hastily clambering down with a creak of leather, a clatter of boots, and a thump and bang to every wooden fixture he encountered; by the time he reached the ground, Abel was already yanking open the door to peer inside.
Three male bodies lay sprawled haphazardly on both seats and the floor, and blood the color of iron rust seemed to have been splashed everywhere by someone wielding a macabre paintbrush.
“Good golly almighty,” gulped Abel, turning pale. “Are they all dead?”
“Not—quite...yet...” grunted one of the bodies, struggling to a semi-upright position. “Go get—fetch Letty—Barclay. And the sheriff. Hurry—Abel...gotta have—assistance...”
And Abel, recognizing the voice of authority, fled.
“C’mere, Doc,” said Sam, pushing his way forward. “Let’s get you outa this mess.”
Paul Winslow arrived at the way station / livery within a record five minutes, no easy feat for a man running in high-heeled boots meant more for the fit of stirrups. He skidded to a stop in front of the individual half-sitting, half-lying on the uncomfortable but convenient iron bench provided for customers.
“Gabe.” Squatting on his heels, he eyed the mess of gore staining the doctor’s suit coat and shirt front. “How bad?”
Gabriel managed to peel back one eyelid for a squint of recognition. “Reckon I’ll—live,” he panted. “Took one—in the upper chest, somewheres... Can’t tell, mighta hit—a lung... Letty—comin’—?”
“Sent Abel for her, over to your house first. I’m no doc, Gabriel, but it looks like a clean shot. You ain’t spittin’ up bloody froth. Think you can talk?”
“Gimme somea your best—bourbon...and I’ll letcha—know.”
A sideways jerk of Paul’s head indicated the stagecoach, where Sam had already begun to unfasten harness, since a public official was now taking over the nastier business of this day. Each of the exhausted horses—especially that of the gunman’s, trailing behind—needed a good rubdown and some water before release into the rear corral, and Sam was grimly intent upon doing his duty by the overtaxed animals, no matter what the outcome for wounded humans.
“In a minute, Gabe. Anybody else inside?”
“I can tell you that much,” Sam, tossing the reins up on the driver’s box, volunteered. “My shotgun—Elander Ward—is flat down with a bullet crease acrost his head. Doc did his best to stop the bleedin’, till he got winged his own self.”
“Ahuh. And didja see just who did all this shootin’?”
“Well, yeah.” The driver seemed surprised by the question. “And I returned fire, as soon as I got a chance. It’s yon dead man, on the floor. Lawrence Pope.”
“Pope?” The sheriff, on the other hand, rarely showed surprise at anything he saw or heard, let alone this. “You positive about that?”
“Still got my sight, ain’t I? Toldja, I let fly
a coupla rounds myself, whilst he was busy shootin’ everybody else. Your stagecoach bandit, I’m thinkin’.” Sam pulled more harness free and began moving his team inside, one by one, to be cared for once Abel returned.
“Paul.” Gabriel’s croak shifted attention once more. “Get my—my bag out here, willya? And, if Elander is awake, you better—“ he let out a soft groan, “—man, this hurts like a son of a gun. I ain’t never been—shot—b’fore... Better haul Elander out, too. Need to—have that—wound looked at.”
It wouldn’t be Gabe doing the looking, however, since he had once again succumbed to dizziness and loss of blood. His eyes were closed, his head lolled; his appearance, all in all, was frighteningly ghastly, as if he were dying but just didn’t know it yet.
“Oh, dear Lord in Heaven!” Letty, having gathered up what supplies she could from the examination room in the house at Apothecary Lane, came pelting frantically onto the scene.
Even having been warned about the doctor’s condition, she was appalled by what she saw. Good thing she hadn’t laced her corset very tightly this morning, came the irrelevant and totally inappropriate thought. Otherwise, between exertion and shock, she might have been laid out on the ground next to Gabe.
Abel was right behind her, carrying what she hadn’t been able to carry, in a canvas pouch that had seen better days. After one glance at the gruesome, semi-comatose man on his bench, he decided to do what he did best: disappearing inside the stable to curry and comb his equine charges.
“I brought what I guessed might be needed,” the medical assistant burbled, kneeling down before her patient. “But I’m not sure—Gabe? Gabe, can you hear me?”
His breathing was hitched and clotted, but he managed to mumble, “Elander. Head. See to him—first...”
“I’ll see to the most grievous case first,” she informed him tartly. “And that, from what I can tell, would be you.”
Letitia began carefully pulling away the shreds of cloth, powder-burnt and odious, and already beginning to stick fast to the wound underneath, accompanied by Gabe’s muffled groans. Through a disgusting, disheartening slurry of multicolored fluids, she tried how she could to examine the wound. Or wounds. Who could tell?
She had just made a decision as to what must be done next when Paul appeared, with even his mighty strength loaded down by the almost dead weight of Elander Ward dragging alongside. Ward’s one arm lay draped loosely over the sheriff’s shoulders, as added support.
“Nothing will work here, out in the open,” she announced crisply. “I can’t take care of either of them without better conditions. We have to take both these men over to Gabe’s office.”
“Right. That means gettin’ the stable’s surrey and a horse. Ain’t no way either of ’em are gonna be fit to walk that far.” Paul broke off to call loudly, “Abel! I need your services, man!”
Somehow, over a space of time whose passage seemed interminable, plans were made, procedures set in place, and details arranged—with the eager and willing assistance of a number of volunteers crowded around to see what was going on. It was the dinner hour, after all; and, with more temperate weather, residents were out in force.
Eventually, those most concerned were trundled along to the house on Apothecary Lane, and inside.
While Paul settled the lesser-hurt victim onto a straight-backed chair in the outer waiting room, and both Colton, called from duty at the sheriff’s office, and Abel struggled to manhandle Gabe onto the examining room table, Letty readied herself for work. She pulled on an apron, pinned her hair back under a kerchief, and fetched a basin of hot water.
Elander, a paunchy, silver-haired cowboy who had taken on the job of riding as guard during recent stagecoach runs, showed signs of great relief that the bullet groove across the top of his head would cause no permanent damage to his luxuriant mane.
“The ladies like the way it looks,” he explained to Letty, who was absorbed in carefully washing away grit and clotted blood. “And I like the ladies. Uh. That’s a mite tender there, ma’am.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said tartly. “You came within an inch of losing most of your scalp, and the brains underneath. Paul, bring that lamp closer, if you would, please.”
Impatient to finish, so that she could move on to the patient more grievously injured, yet her fingers were gentle and her manner comforting as she toiled. Soon, with the wound cleansed, disinfected, and bandaged, Letty put aside her tools to remark upon how dashing he looked.
“Like a pirate, huh?”
As he r
eached for his Stetson, which unfortunately looked like neither a pirate nor dashing due to the prominent hole in its crown, she shook her head.
“Uh-uh, Mr. Ward. Just a warning, but I recommend you forego the hat for a few days. Have you pain anywhere else?”
“Nope. Just in my—uh—backside, where I took a tumble off the stage.”
“Understandable. Blurry vision?”
Squinting, he gave her a charming smile. “Not a sou.”
“Then I’ve done my job. If you’re up to it, I’ll turn you over to the sheriff, here, because I know he needs to talk to you.” As the man inched forward off the chair, ready to rise, Letty paused him. “Mr. Ward.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You come back here tomorrow, all right? Say—two o’clock. I want to make sure everything is healing as it should.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am. Thanks for patchin’ me up. You done good.” He raised his hand, offering a two-fingered salute at about the area where his hat brim would have been resting, and walked slowly away to seek out the law.
Finally, she could turn her attentions to the man languishing in a semi-stupor, on his own examining-room bed. Taking away those precious few minutes from his more drastic condition, to tend the lesser one of the guard, would make little difference in his recovery, she had determined. She must follow procedure as Gabe had taught her: scrutinize, assess, assemble, treat.
He came somewhat to himself as she began cutting away his garments. He understood. And tried to cooperate.
“Odds Bodikins,” the doctor muttered, shifting slightly to accommodate the busy snip of her scissors. “And me with a—brand new suit...”
“You’ll buy another,” she promised without a qualm. “Lie still, if you can. What I’m about to do to you is going to hurt.”
Gabriel sputtered a tiny little laugh that became a ragged cough. “Oh, yeah, I—I’m sure it will. Couldn’t be lucky enough to—to have that dang bullet go straight—on through; it had to get stuck some—somewhere—inside. You’ll have to—curse it all—dig for it, Letty. Meantime, you better get me —some laudanum. I ain’t no good—at chawin’ on a chunk of wood—for pain...”
That was simple enough. A light dose now; more, later, depending upon need.
And so it began.
The care for Elander Ward’s head wound had been neither too demanding nor too distracting. She had tried her best to remedy his ills, and, more, felt satisfied that she had done so.
Repairing the damage inflicted upon Gabe’s great frame, without inflicting further damage, was another matter entirely.
Once he had lapsed back into heavy slumber, unresponsive to her words or touch, Letty had been quite calmly capable of casting aside the gory, gummy coat and ruined shirt. She had been able to maintain that calm while washing Gabe’s upper right chest with fresh warm water, enhanced by disinfectant. Her fingers were even steady enough while seeking out and gently probing the ragged hole still leaking blood.
But when it came to picking up the surgical instruments sterilized for use, to actually plunge a forceps into this man’s living flesh to search for the bullet, she quailed.
Letty swallowed hard, blinked rapidly, and took a deep breath.
Were Gabriel awake, he would, of course, be urging her on with teasing and scoffing.
But he was not awake. She must continue with this terrible procedure on her own, bereft of encouragement or guidance. What if the forceps slipped? What if she needed to employ a scalpel, and cut her way in? What if she lost the bullet entirely? What if, what if...?—she was feeling near panic at the very thought of what must be done, and only her shaking hands to do it.
Both window shades were fully open, to allow in as much illumination as possible; one sill had been raised a few inches to admit fresh air upon a stuffy atmosphere. Still, behind her, bent and crouched as she was over the examining table, something suddenly crossed in front of the kerosene lamp, casting a shadow.
Flinging a nervous tear off her cheek, she snapped, “Get out of my light!”
“I’m sorry, Letty.”
She turned her head. “Hannah!” Her splintery voice choked on emotion. “Oh, Hannah, I’m so glad you’re here! I desperately need moral support—and some help!”
Clearly her sister had come straight from the newspaper office. Both hat and jacket had been left somewhere behind; and, in a flurry of movement from several streets distant, her hair had freed itself from the customary regal chignon to trail loose around her shoulders, and her face was flushed.
“The word is out all around the town,” she said in a low, tight tone. “I came immediately, as soon as I heard. What do you need me to do?”
“Oh—bring the lamp closer. And hold this back, out of the way, and that, and sop up the blood with one of those cloths... and Hen, for Heaven’s sake, tell me I’m doing the right thing!” Poor Letitia, anxious and scared almost out of her wits, couldn’t hold back more tears.
Hannah’s strong, sturdy hand, still smudged here and there with bits of ink, covered her sister’s. “You’ve had more medical training than anyone else, Letty, and Gabriel would tell you the same. He would trust your instincts, because you know exactly what to do. Just let me get a good wash, and I’ll be right back to assist you.”
For some time they worked together in relative silence, with only an occasional murmur between them, and the doctor’s heavy breathing or infrequent groan. Letitia found, to her great relief, that Hannah’s rock-solid presence gave just the boost to her morale that had been lacking, and added a sureness and dexterity to her own fingers to complete the job. As she progressed, her self-confidence grew; and Gabe would reap the benefits.
The front door opened once or twice, as curious and concerned well-wishers peeked in to see what headway was being made. Both women were too intent upon the task before them to pay attention. Better just to ignore everyone and everything while something so vital was going on.
When they were finished at last, the sun lay low on the horizon and the late winter atmosphere had turned chill once again. A few muffled voices could be heard in the outside waiting room, where friends had gathered to keep watch over one of their own.
Letty was the first to rise, slowly and creakily, arching the muscles of her stiffened back and dragging in air through a huge yawn that nearly dislocated her jaws. Exhausted. She was so exhausted she almost hadn’t realized just how much time this surgery had taken, nor how cramped and fatigued and drained of energy she would be afterward. She stood, looking down with pride at her handiwork.
“I think he’ll do all right,” she said softly.
Hannah, who had also climbed to her feet, slipped one arm around her sister’s waist, and Letitia swayed against her. “I’m sure he will, hon. I cannot believe what I just watched you do—the care, and the precision... You were—amazing!” Her blue eyes shone with new respect.
A second small dose of the narcotic, uncorked and tipped into a glass, had been administered partway through, to ensure continued insensibility. The mashed and mangled bullet, located with great relief after a good deal of cautious probing, lay clinking in a metal basin. A welter of cotton cloths used during surgery lay scattered and crumpled upon the floor.
Given their appearance, both girls might have been the victims of some bloodletting human sacrifice, with their garments smeared and wrinkled and stained deep scarlet and made pungent by the scent of carbolic acid, their hair mussed and their faces flushed. Despite all this, and their utter, overwhelming weariness, they grinned at each other.
“I feel as if I’ve been grinding wheat into flour the whole livelong day,” Letty confided. “And yet I—I’m over the moon with happiness and just about busting my buttons with satisfaction!”
Gabriel lay unconscious and unknowing, with his wound cleaned and disinfected, the gaping hole deftly stitched together, padded by gauze, and wrapped by the yards of sheeting commonly applied as bandages. His right arm was wrapped as well, to keep movem
ent at a minimum, and sheltered by a sling.
A mere careful tug removed both low boots before Letty gently pulled a blanket up to cover the body she had worked over for so long.
It was while Hannah was easing a pillow under his tousled head that he actually opened his bleary eyes and saw her. He blinked once or twice; recognition came slowly. He scrunched his dry mouth into some vaguely viable shape and managed to whisper a few husky words.
“H’lo—Sunshine. How are—my—cats—?”
Chapter Sixteen
“LAWRENCE POPE. POOR devil.”
“Yeah, who woulda thunk it, huh? Well...” Gabriel reconsidered. “He’d already lost so much. Reckon he figured he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He just didn’t care any more.”
Paul, steadily surveying his friend, lifted one brow. “Sam told me our bandit yelled somethin’ at you, through the coach window.”
“He did. He did. Told me his next bullet was for me, and he hoped I’d die of it.”
“Uhhh.” A lawman’s grunt. “Harsh words.”
Gabriel might have shrugged one shoulder, in his habitual gesture, had it not been bandaged and secured within an inch of its life. “He blamed me for the deaths of his wife and child, Paul. He claimed it was my fault. Dunno...maybe he’s right.”
“No, he ain’t right, so stop thinkin’ that way. You know you did the best you could for Marcella and the baby. Told me yourself that they waited too long to send for you.”
“That’s so. Yeah, that’s so. Still, it’s a tragedy...”
Two days had passed since the stagecoach’s wild gallop into town. It was the most excitement any Turnabout resident had experienced in months of routine existence, and gossip still ran rife, with this the main topic of conversation. Sam, still mourning the loss of his best hat, had played a superhuman part in the saga of bringing down the notorious bandit, as had Elander Ward, wounded in the line of duty. Each was certain he had delivered the killing shot that had saved the day. Both were being treated to drinks and praise.
