A/N: Hey guys! I'm back (short break, haha). After thinking about this for a few days, I got some major inspiration. This is my longest chapter so far (only 1.5K words-sad, I know xP), so enjoy.
Chapter Four
Eight Months Later
The butt of the rifle had exactly one hole, and a protruding bayonet to accompany it. Its barrel was made of the finest beech wood and showed clear marks from years of wear and tear. The soldier on the other end of it reloaded it with a threatening click and prepared to fire it in all of its thirty-seven-inch glory.
The red-haired woman at whom it was currently pointing closed her eyes and reached for the hand beside her. Her palm was greeted with a familiar, friendly squeeze, and she drew a deep breath.
They had come so far. Months had been spent running, for every waking hour was devoted to reaching New York, the only place where they could be safe. Where the book could be printed and the world would finally know the truth.
They had been through thick and thin—dodging various armies of ever-present soldiers; seeking refuge with the tribes scattered throughout the Plains; swimming through moss-covered waters by the light of the moon in order to shake the hounds off their trail.
They had gone through so much, only to end there on the state border—merely miles away from the destination that they had worked so hard for.
"Are you going to shoot?"
It was the man that spoke. His long black hair hung over his shoulders, and it was obvious that it hadn't been tended to in months. His dark eyes were closed also, and he kept his caramel-colored fingers entwined with the woman's.
"Mrs. Dorothy Jennings and Mr. Cloud Dancin'," the soldier told them, as he worked a leaf of tobacco between his teeth. "Wanted in forty-one states, dead or alive, for treason, theft, and murder."
The two runaways opened their eyes temporarily to exchange various looks, before turning their attention back to the soldier.
"Any last words?" he questioned with a snicker.
The woman began to tremble, and the man let go of her hand to reach over and embrace her.
"I am sorry," he murmured. "For everything."
"Don't be," she replied, wrapping her shaking arms around him. "Ne mohotatse."
His tears mingled with her hair. "I love you too."
The soldier clicked off the safety on his rifle, and fired two perfect shots.
Horace Bing leaned against the desk in his office and sighed. The telegrams that had come in that afternoon were typical—none from Myra, of course. It had been almost three years now, and he still longed for Samantha's and her homecoming, even though he knew it would be impossible.
What I would give to see their bright, shinin' faces again…
He was startled out of his thoughts by the sight of a familiar young man striding by—one that usually wasn't on this side of town. He eyed the man's coat and hat, noticing that he wore a dark color of each, even though it was the hottest time of the summer.
Andrew Cook hadn't been around town much in the past several months, preferring to stay in solitude inside his clinic at Preston's hotel. Visits to the town, like this one, were quite rare, and Horace decided to take advantage of it.
"'Afternoon, Doctor," he called.
Andrew turned and nodded respectfully. "Good afternoon, Horace."
Horace shuffled through the papers in front of him. "Package just came in for you." As the young man walked over and leaned against the telegraph counter, Horace could detect a flicker of hope in his usually-dull green eyes. They widened as he was handed a thick bundle of papers held together by a mountain of string.
Andrew didn't hesitate to rip open the binding and anxiously read the first page of the huge pile in front of him.
The Sacred Will and Testimony of Edward H. Cook.
Horace watched as the young doctor's irises once again lost their optimistic gleam. "Somethin' wrong?"
Andrew opened his mouth to answer, but was just as soon cut off as the sound of a woman's cries entered his ears. He and Horace turned to see Grace sprinting towards them and yelling something that neither of the men could understand.
"It's Robert E.!" she panted as she neared them. "He's hurt; you've gotta come quick!"
Andrew followed her as they both ran over to the blacksmith's. He was quickly greeted with the sight of Robert E. laying unconscious with a smelting iron slightly nestled into his stomach.
"My God," was all the doctor could say at first, but gained his bearings. "Grab the nearest wagon; I'll take him to my clinic!" He gazed over at Grace as she set off for the busiest part of town—first passing Michaela's old clinic, then Loren's shop, and finally Hank's saloon.
The sight of the first building was enough to make his heart sink. If the woman were still here, they could've taken Robert E. right across the street. But now, her clinic wasn't even a clinic anymore—the sign above it had been torn down; the insides had been ransacked; and the windows, having been smashed, were boarded up. Inside, everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the torn curtains showed clear signs of neglect. The only evidence of previous inhabitance was the doctor's old desk, still sitting in the center of the downstairs room, with all of her patients' records—and her journal—still kept inside, in the neatest and most perfect order.
"Andrew!" a new voice called as a wagon and horses entered his view. In the driver's seat sat Matthew Cooper, the town sheriff. Behind him, in the bed of the wagon, blankets had been laid down for Robert E. to rest upon.
Matthew stopped the horses, jumped out of the wagon, and ran over to Andrew. Together, they picked up Robert E. and heaved him onto the blankets. Then they were off again, the horses careening towards the Spring Château at top speed.
Their arrival soon caused mass chaos.
"Out of the way!" Matthew bellowed to random passers-by, as he and Andrew once again picked up the heavy-built black man and began barreling towards the hotel's entrance. "Move!"
The two made their way inside and into Andrew's clinic. Robert E. was laid onto an examination table and quickly stripped of his shirt, the latter having turned fully crimson from fresh blood.
"How did he manage to do this?" Andrew muttered to himself.
"What're you gonna do?" Matthew asked him.
"I'm not sure, and there isn't much time," the doctor answered. "The best thing to do right now is remove the iron." He nodded towards the chloroform towels lying on a nearby shelf. "Hold one of those against his nose, just to be safe."
The sheriff nodded and set off to fulfill his task, while Andrew turned around to grab a surgical needle and thread, and extra gauze. He tried to ignore the trembling in his fingers as he struggled to push the thread through the eye of the needle.
Matthew lightly pressed the chloroform against Robert E.'s nose, before turning and waiting for Andrew to finish. The latter was soon done, and looked nervously at the young sheriff. Pulling out the iron wouldn't be a fun job, and there was no other way to do it than to yank.
"I… I'll need your help," Andrew said, and took a deep breath as they both laid their hands on the handle of the iron. "Ready?"
Matthew nodded, and the two used all their strength to pull out the smelting iron. Blood soon bubbled up and seeped onto Robert E.'s abdomen from the new gash. Matthew then pressed his head against the injured man's heart to make sure he was still alive.
There was no heartbeat.
"He's…," Matthew started to say, but couldn't finish.
"No!" Andrew said, beginning to panic. He pressed gauze against the wound and applied pressure in a desperate attempt to stop the flow of blood. The man next to him rested a hand on his arm, but he shook it off and started to madly sew up Robert E.'s stomach. The stitches ended up being uneven and criss-crossed every which way, so he tore them out and prepared to start over.
"Andrew."
"He's not dead! I can still save him…" The doctor quickly worked the needle between both sides of the gash and pulled the broken skin together.
"Andrew!" Matthew grabbed his shoulders and shook him roughly. "He's dead!" He ripped the needle and thread out of the doctor's hands and threw them across the room, before making his departure.
Andrew stood there, staring at the man on the table in front of him. First the death of his father, and now this. It was too much for him to handle.
This shouldn't have happened.
"God damn it!" he hissed, slamming his fist against the wooden tray next to him, shortly before breaking down in tears.
Oh, and sorry for killing off everyone. It's so fun though. :P