Chapter Seventeen
x
x
Luke Crandall stopped short, his attention drawn by a flash of metal below in the thicket. He quickly raised a hand to signal a warning to Chester who was following closely behind him.
The ex-Sheriff dropped down on his haunches behind a fallen log and Chester pressed himself against the nearest tree trunk. He cautiously peered around the side of it, barely daring to take a breath. Below and to the right, no more than thirty, thirty-five yards away, he caught sight of a big, broad man standing amongst the tangled undergrowth. He had his rifle raised and ready before him and seemed hell-bent on taking someone out of the picture. Most likely Mister Dillon or Doc, Chester decided grimly.
The two others, flanking the shooter, were armed as well, but didn't make any attempts at using their weapons-at least not yet.
Chester glanced over at Luke who was sitting back on his haunches a few feet away. Physically, the older man scarcely moved. Just a slight tensing of the muscles, an infinite small straightening of the back, a tiny lift of his head betrayed his intense attention to the scene below. "See that big fella down there in the middle?" Chester whispered with a nod in Biggs' direction, "that's Dan Biggs."
Luke gave a slight nod. "Figured as much."
The two men stared down the hill for a few long seconds, but Biggs didn't make a move. He stood frozen in position as if waiting for something to happen.
Then suddenly, a shadowy figure darted out from behind a clump of trees, climbed a few feet through the undergrowth and then disappeared behind some bushes.
Immediately, Biggs fired again. The bullet tore into one of the trees where the man had disappeared a few short seconds ago, splintering off chunks of bark and wood.
"My gracious," Chester suddenly realized as he turned several shades whiter, "that must be Mister Dillon down there-" Steadying himself against the trunk, he quickly brought up his rifle and sighted along the barrel. Below, he could see the figure pop up again from behind the sheltering cluster of cottonwoods and scramble up the sloping ground. This time, the man's black hat and white shirt were plainly visible.
Chester's rifle dipped, losing his bead on Biggs. "Oh, my goodness, that ain't Mister Dillon at all...it's Doc!" he exclaimed in horrified recognition.
Then everything seemed to happen all at once.
Before the doctor had a chance to cover even half the distance to the safety of the next collection of trees, another shot exploded from Biggs' rifle.
Its echo rolled loudly in the woods, and a fraction of a second later, Doc Adams dropped out of sight as the greenery closed over him.
A triumphant whoop from the shooter roused Chester from his stunned stupor. Even from the distance, he could see the savage grin that pulled Biggs' lips tightly against his teeth.
"NO!" His face tightening with cold anger, Chester ripped his Winchester up, braced the butt end against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
The hastily pulled off shot missed Biggs by several feet, doing little more than alert the outlaws to his and Luke's presence.
x
x
Kiley was the first one to react. Wild-eyed, he spun around, jerking his own rifle up. But before he could take aim, a load from Luke Crandall's big .58 stopped him short.
The gun exploded like a small cannon, its powerful blast knocking the outlaw back several paces as it hit him squarely in the chest. Kiley was dead before he hit the ground.
Biggs and Stanton quickly regained their composure; bringing their own guns up, the two men began to fire blindly, volley after volley into the distant thicket of trees above as they retreated. Seconds later, they had dropped safely behind a pile of half rotted timber and deadfall as they kept the bullets coming.
A ricochet bounced from a tree, almost taking Luke's ear off. He scowled, but was determined not to waste ammunition on a target he couldn't see. The ex-Sheriff was a methodical man given to planned and organized action; shooting recklessly into a pile of rotten wood did little to better their position. He would rather outwit than outgun, but saw that Chester apparently had no such qualms.
Without even bothering to get a good bead on his opponents, the young man alternated between jacking a round into the chamber of his Winchester and squeezing the trigger as fast as he could until the last bullet was spent.
A reply came immediately in the form of a fresh hail of bullets as the two remaining outlaws returned fire. They were desperate men and their aim was a lot more accurate than Chester's, forcing him and the ex-lawman to keep their heads well down.
For a moment, something akin to panic flared in Chester's eyes and Luke could tell that all color had drained from his face.
"Oh, what're we gonna do?" fretted Chester as he began to reload his rifle with shaking fingers. "I gotta get down there, Luke...my goodness, that fella shot Doc!"
Luke thought Chester looked about ready to blow all caution to the wind and storm down the incline shooting and yelling. He knew pig-headed determination when he saw it and intended to put a stop to it before the young man got himself shot. "You saw Doc Adams drop but that doesn't necessarily mean he's been shot," he inserted mildly.
But the ex-Sheriff's words, though well meant, did little to calm Chester. He glared at the older man, grimly determined. "Well, you think what you want, I'm goin' down there!"
Awkwardly, he scrambled to his feet, only to drop back down just as quickly as another bullet struck a small tree a few feet from him, sending chunks of pulp and bark flying everywhere.
Luke scowled and drew a deep breath. He had hoped on flushing the two outlaws out by widening the angle of their return fire, but for that, he needed Chester's cooperation. "All right," he relented, seeing a way to possibly combine the both. "You try circlin' around this way...see if you can't get a good bead on that fella on the right there...I'll keep you covered from up here."
Chester gave a clipped nod, finding the idea more to his liking. Keeping low, he began to scurry along as Luke opened fire. Unhurried and calm, the ex-lawman sent shot after well-aimed shot into the pile of rotted timber below, forcing the men to remain in cover while Chester slipped undetected around to the side of them. He was within about ten yards of their hiding place when he spotted Stanton. The outlaw was on his haunches, slipping cartridges in the chambers of his colt while Biggs was crouching a few feet to the left of him, firing irregular shots into Luke's direction. His rifle apparently empty, he was now making use of his colt.
It was Chester's chance. He swung his Winchester up. "Drop your guns, we got you covered!"
In a flash, Biggs swung around and fired.
The roar of his colt almost coincided with the explosion-like bellow of Luke's rifle.
It was over within a few seconds.
x
Biggs' bullet whizzed harmlessly past Chester's shoulder. He watched with fascinated horror as the powerful impact of Luke's slug lifted the outlaw clear off the ground, slamming him backward several feet. His ham-sized hand opened and the colt fell from suddenly limp fingers, landing on the leaf-strewn ground with a soft thud as Dan Biggs crumbled.
Seeing his boss drop seemed to make up Stanton's mind. "Don't shoot!" he yelled anxiously as he jerked his hands chest high. Buff-colored eyes widened with fear in his hollow-cheeked face at the prospect of being struck down, too by this horrible weapon.
Chester emerged from behind his cover, his rifle trained squarely on the lanky outlaw's chest.
Though pale and a little shaken, his voice was firm as he spoke. "All right, drop that gun, mister," he growled. Dry leaves and twigs crunched beneath is boots as he took a few rocking steps towards Stanton.
The outlaw obliged eagerly and let the colt slip from his raised hand. It fell to the ground where it disappeared in the tangled undergrowth.
From above, Chester heard the snapping and cracking of brush as Luke rushed down the slope. About halfway down, the ex-Sheriff suddenly stopped; it was the very spot where they had seen the doctor disappear earlier.
Chester's heart was hammering a staccato against the inside of his ribcage as he watched anxiously for any sign of Doc.
Suddenly, a familiar head popped up amidst the bushes, followed seconds later by the rest of the doctor's body.
"He's all right!" shouted Luke moments later, waving his rifle over his head.
Chester let out a heartfelt sigh of relief. His Winchester remained leveled on Stanton, but his eyes kept tracking back to the two men as they finished the rest of the way down the incline together. "My goodness, Doc, am I sure glad to see you," sputtered Chester immediately when the doctor walked up to him moments later. "You all right there?" He swept the physician with his concerned gaze. A little the worse for wear, he decided quickly upon seeing the bloody scrapes on his face and the disheveled state of the rest of him, but otherwise unharmed. "Ya know, you sure gave us a fright. For a moment there I thought you was-"
But Doc didn't give him a chance to finish, his own well-being the last thing on his mind right now. "Well, never you mind about me," he waved him off impatiently. "It's Matt...by golly, Chester...he's hurt bad!"
Chester stared at him stricken. "Oh my gracious! Where's he at?" He began to look around wildly, suddenly realizing he hadn't even seen the Marshal at all. "Mister Dil-lon?" he began to shout anxiously. "Mister Dil-lon?"
"For Heaven's sakes, he's not here," snapped Doc, irritably. "Come on, we've got no time to waste!" He snagged Chester by the sleeve and tugged.
Luke, who had already been filled in by the physician on the way down, nodded. "You go on ahead. Don't worry, I'll take care of this fella here."
Chester spared a quick glance at what was left of Doc's pursuers. Kiley lay on his back, spread-eagled on the ground. His empty eyes were staring sightless up at the canopy of green above. There was a hole the size of a man's fist in the front of his shirt that was still seeping dark red blood. Its sickening, coppery scent hung heavy in the air. Biggs was sprawled face-down on a bed of dried leaves and tangled deadfall, his injury not visible from the way he was lying.
Chester's lifted his eyes. "Thanks, Luke, I gotta...gotta go an' help Doc," he stammered. The words were sticking to his tongue in his haste to dispel them. "I mean-we gotta get Mister Dillon...he's hurt real bad an'-"
His face creased into lines of considerable concern and impatience, Doc snatched the young man by the shirt sleeve again and yanked, this time hard enough to almost topple Chester from his feet. "For heaven's sakes, come on!" he urged.
"I'll give you a hand as soon as I lock this one up," Luke called after the two, watching as they quickly disappeared amidst the trees.
x
x
The front door flew open with a sharp bang and Doc hurried across the room to push open the door to the Crandall's bedroom.
Small and rectangular, the room housed a simple cast-iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, bedside table and vanity. An old beat-up chair was pulled close to the bed, and two small windows permitted access to a cooling breeze. Doc nodded towards the bed. "Chester...put him down here."
Together, Luke and Chester half-carried, half-supported the Marshal into the room. As carefully as they could, they deposited their semi-conscious burden on the bed while Doc began to spread out the contents of his medical bag on top of the chest of drawers. He realized quickly that he didn't have half the things he needed. It didn't matter, he decided, he would just have to make due with what he had. This was a matter of life or death and the bullet had to come out now-he couldn't afford to wait any longer. Though his emotions were running high, he spoke calmly, with business-like efficiency as he began to dispense orders. "Chester, I'll need plenty of hot water. Luke, I'll need towels, sheets cut up for bandages, anything alcoholic you might have."
Luke looked thoughtful. "I got some whiskey, Doc."
Doc nodded curtly. "That'll do, just bring it here."
The two men dashed from the room to gather the requested items while the doctor turned his attention to the tall man that lay sprawled on the bed. The sight filled him with dread.
Matt was in obvious agony. Dirt, sweat and blood were all smeared together on his face. He was breathing hard and fast, using only the top part of his chest.
Doc leaned over him and pushed back the heavy, sweat-soaked fringe of hair to press the back of his fingers to his friend's forehead. Though he was warm and sweaty, there was no indication of fever-not yet anyway. Determined, he cuffed back his sleeves and began to remove the make-shift bandage. What he found beneath, caused his expression to grow even more troubled.
The dried blood had made the shirt stiff, causing the coarse fabric to cling firmly to chest hair and skin. Threads from the torn shirt were pressed into the wound, along with bits of dirt and grass. His brows drew together in a concerned frown; he realized at once that the infection could be more dangerous than any blood loss the lawman had suffered.
Working carefully, he undid the buttons of Matt's shirt down to the waist and gently parted the garment. Reluctant to pull on it any more, he reached for one of the cut-up towels Luke had brought and soaked it in the basin of warm water Chester had set down onto the small bedside table.
"Matt, I'm gonna put this here on your shoulder," he said. "That shirt's clotted pretty good to the wound...we gotta try and get it off."
The words slowly ingrained his subconscious, dragging him back to the painful realm of coherency. Matt opened his eyes, but found it difficult to think, hard to concentrate on anything but the searing pain that was pulsing through his shoulder and back. His head was spinning; a sound like rushing water creating a tumult in his ears, and it took him a moment to make sense of what Doc was saying. He swallowed and gave a slight nod.
Chester and Luke were hovering at the foot of the bed, watching anxiously as the doctor placed the wet cloth onto the lawman's shoulder.
Right away, Matt gasped, his body visibly tensing. The heat re-awakened raw sensation in the wound. He flinched from the touch, tried to jerk away, but Doc continued to apply gentle pressure, holding it in place.
"Easy, Matt easy," he said, his voice low and soothing as he removed the cloth to replace it with a fresh one. While it was soaking, he reached down to unbuckle the Marshal's belt. He eased the leather strap free and then proceeded to carefully tug the tail of his shirt from his pants.
As he checked on the compress again, he found that the fabric had loosened enough by now for him to work it from the wound. He slid one hand beneath the open shirt, using the back of his fingers to gently pry the coarse material from the skin while the other hand assisted from above.
Matt sucked in a sharp breath, his lips peeled back from his teeth against the throbbing pain the doctor's action provoked.
Working carefully, Doc didn't stop until he had the shirt completely separated from the skin. "I'm sorry, Matt," he said, "but I need you to sit up here for me."
He motioned Chester and Luke to join him and give him a hand.
Chester moved hesitantly. He glanced apprehensively from the Marshal to the doctor and then to Luke who each had already slipped one arm behind Matt's back.
"See if you can get his shirt off, Chester, " said Doc and then turned to the lawman again. "Ready, Matt?"
The Marshal gave a small nod.
Doc motioned Luke and slowly, the two men guided him forward to a sitting position.
Right away, Matt's breath caught and he bit his lip in mute desperation while Chester, as gently as possible, began to ease the lawman's right arm free from the shirt. Pushing the garment off his shoulder, he let it slide across the Marshal's back and then carefully pulled it down his left arm and all the way off.
Doc and Luke eased Matt back down onto the pillow and immediately, the doctor set to cleaning the wound.
Chester peered over his shoulder, watching the doctor work. "Anythin' else you want me to do, Doc?"
The physician lifted his head, indicating the bowl on the bedside table. "Go an' see if that water's boilin' yet, Chester...I'll need more here pretty soon."
Luke glanced at the doctor from across the bed. "Can I do anythin' to help?"
Doc soaked one of the compresses, wrung it out and then gently dabbed it against the wound again to mop up the flow of fresh blood. "Well, just-you just stay around...I'm gonna need you to give me a hand here in a little bit."
Though the wound was now clean, the immediate area around it was red and swollen. Doc knew that even with the aid of the laudanum it would be extremely painful for Matt when he tried to remove the bullet. He would need the help of both, Luke and Chester to restrain the tall man.
"Doc?"
"Yeah, what is it, Matt?" The doctor placed a gentle hand on his friend's chest as he glanced down into his pain-glazed eyes.
Matt tried focusing his gaze, straining weakly to get the words out. "Do...what...you...have to...do." The sliver of fear in the lawman's eyes was clearly visible despite his obvious effort to mask it.
Doc nodded, hoping that his own nervousness didn't convey as he spoke. "That's what I intend to do, old boy. Now you just go on an' lie back there an' let me take care of the rest. Ev'rything's gonna be all right." It was a promise that came easily to the doctor's lips; the need to comfort was strong. He prayed that he would be able to keep his word.
Matt nodded. There was nothing pleasant about having a bullet carved from your flesh. He had experienced the agonizing surgery enough times to know firsthand. His eyes drifted shut again, but his mind clung to Doc's voice-to the assurance and familiarity that had seen him through a good many injuries over the last four years.
"Here, Doc, I got you the hot water, like you said," said Chester as he carefully carried the bowl with the steaming hot water around the bedstead where he placed it on the bedside table.
The doctor straightened and drew a hand over his face. He murmured a vague, "Thanks, Chester." Then he began to roll his sleeves above his elbows. Using some of Luke's whiskey, he vigorously scrubbed his hands and forearms with it.
When he was finished, he turned to his friend again. "Now Matt...I ain't gonna lie to you. This is gonna hurt...probably quite a bit. I need for you to lie as still as possible so I can get that bullet out."
Matt swallowed and drew an uneven breath. "I...know...it's-it's...all right, Doc."
Doc's hand folded briefly over the Marshal's much bigger one and for a second, his fingers tightened around it. Whether the touch was meant to reassure himself or Matt, he no longer knew.
He drew a deep, steadying breath and straightened. "Luke," he addressed the ex-lawman, "see if you can get his boots off, an' then I want you to hold his legs."
The former Sheriff moved to the foot of the bed and began to carefully tug free the Marshal's boots. Placing them beside the bedstead, he then sat down on the edge of the mattress and gripped the lawman's legs just below the knees.
Satisfied, Doc nodded and then turned to Chester. "Chester. You take his arms. Make sure you hold on good. Don't let him thrash around."
Considerably paler now, the young man moved hesitantly to the other side of the bed. "I'm sorry Mister Dillon," he stammered as he glanced down into the Marshal's pain-contorted face. "I'm just as sorry as I can be, but Doc says, we gotta keep you from movin'."
"Move his hands there," Doc instructed him when he sensed Chester's obvious reluctance. "Just-just move his hands. Try keepin' them at his sides."
Chester swallowed. He nodded nervously. Stooping down, he grasped the Marshal's big hands around the wrists and moved them to either side of his body, silently wondering if he would be able to hold them there once the doctor started to cut.
Doc picked up the scalpel. With one final glance into his friend's tense face, he braced his forearm across Matt's chest for leverage. Immediately, he felt him stiffen. Heat flamed against his fingertips from the inflamed skin, a grim witness to the infection that had already set in. His hand positioned the little knife against the entry wound and with one swift motion, he cut into it.
Pain flared in his shoulder, so intense and sudden, Matt couldn't help but cry aloud.
He threw his head back against the pillow, his body arched upwards from the bed as if trying to free itself of the torment.
For one long, seemingly never-ending moment, there was nothing but the blind agony of molten fire consuming him. Sweat broke from every pore as his fingers dug into the sheets, stretching the scraped skin taut over his knuckles until it turned white.
Despite his weakened state, there was surprising strength in the movement, and Chester found himself struggling to hold him down.
Right away, Doc stopped. Glancing over Matt's chest, he met Chester's panicky gaze. "For Heaven's sakes, Chester...hold him still!"
Chester pressed his lips together and nodded. Snagging the Marshal's wrists tighter, held on firmly. "Please, Mister Dillon," he pleaded anxiously. "You gotta hold still so's Doc can get that bullet out."
Matt hitched his breath, choking back a tortured gasp as Doc started cutting again, working the knife deeper through inflamed flesh and tissue.
The incredible pain seared his nerves and stole his breath. He jerked again, straining desperately against the hands restraining him. Blood oozed from the wound and over the physician's fingers, trailing down the planes of Matt's chest in thin ribbons, trickling down his side where it soaked into the sheets.
Chester chanced a cautious glance at the ugly wound and blanched immediately at the sight of it. He quickly averted his eyes again.
"Hold still there, Matt," admonished him Doc gently, but the glazed look in the lawman's eyes told him that he was only half coherent.
The knife slipped deeper and the doctor could feel tissue closing over it, inhibiting its path. Withdrawing the scalpel from the opening, he moved to press a towel firmly over the wound to absorb some of the fresh blood flowing up from the healthy sinews he had revealed.
Doc drew a deep breath and wiped a wrist across his brow to remove the accumulated beads of sweat.
So far, so good. He removed the gory towel and reached for a pair of long, thin bullet tongs. Sliding them into the wound, he carefully began to probe deeper.
Right away, Matt jerked again, groaning deep in his throat. He shifted, trying to ease the torment, but the movement only sent more waves of agony waffling down his back and chest.
Doc's hand stilled. "Chester! Luke! Doggone it, keep him still for me!"
His face pale and glistening with cold sweat, Chester tried his best to keep the Marshal's arms pinned down at his sides. He could feel the quivering of muscle in the lawman's arms; the corded tension strung like wire through his large and powerful frame. The smell of blood was in Chester's nose, the scent making him sick to his stomach, and he desperately tried not to watch the doctor's hand as it buried the forceps even deeper in the lawman's flesh.
Doc kept digging. He could sense the bullet more than feel it. He knew he was almost there.
Matt cried out again, tossing his head from side to side in protest of the doctor's painful probing. His body was slick with sweat. It trickled down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat. It beaded on the planes of his chest where it clung to the sparse scattering of chest hair, leaving glistening trails across his stomach.
But the doctor didn't stop; he couldn't afford to. He felt sick inside, Matt's tortured cries cutting him to the bone and it took everything he had to ignore them. He bit his lip and carefully probed deeper, felt the forceps slip past bone.
There was nothing he could do to ease Matt's pain, but he'd be damned if he'd let him die.
"Hold on, my friend, it's almost over," he whispered encouragement and pushed the forceps just a little further.
In the pain-laced fog of his mind, the meaning of Doc's words got lost on Matt. He was beyond all sensibility. He couldn't see, couldn't think, couldn't hear. There was only pain so ruthless, it sent tremors racing through his arms, his back, his chest. He wanted it to stop, but couldn't form the words to ask. His teeth clenched, he gathered what little strength he could muster to make one more desperate attempt at wrenching free.
Chester, having sensed it coming, automatically tightened his grasp. "Oh, please, Mister Dillon," he begged desperately, a distinct touch of panic in his voice now, "please try to hold still-"
The futile struggle lasted a mere seconds and suddenly, somewhere amidst the fearful agony, his body forgot to breathe. The strangled moan died on his lips as Matt ran out of breath. The black edges of his vision suddenly closed in around him as awareness mercifully slipped away.
Alarmed, Chester lifted his gaze when he felt the lawman's muscles loosen beneath his hands. "Doc?!"
But the doctor, already having anticipated it, remained focused on his task. For a while, there was no sound but the clicking of the forceps going in and out of the dish of water and the heavy breathing of one unconscious man, one absorbed physician and two tense spectators.
Suddenly, tissue gave way beneath the tip of the forceps and Doc felt the bullet scrape against the edge of the intruding metal.
He gently pushed until the tongs closed around the slug. Ever so slowly, he carefully slid the blood-slicked forceps from the wound, withdrawing the small, jagged hunk of metal.
"You got it!" Chester's words mirrored Doc's relief.
With shaking fingers, the doctor dropped both, slug and forceps into the small metal tray on the bedside table. "There, Matt, it's out," he muttered relieved as he began to flush blood away from the sight and set a clean towel against it to absorb the fluids.
But Matt didn't hear the doctor's reassuring words. His body lay limp, his breathing, though still somewhat ragged, had evened mostly to a steady rhythm. There was a crease of pain on his sweat-laced forehead, his brows drawn together even in unconsciousness as he battled discomfort.
Chester moved his eyes anxiously back and forth between the Marshal and the physician. "Is he all right, Doc? I mean-"
The doctor flicked a brief glance at Matt's face, peeled back an eyelid and then reached for his wrist to check his pulse. "He's passed out, Chester. Smartest thing he could've done," he said, sincerely thankful that the lawman had finally lost consciousness. Cleaning and sewing up the incision was going to be just as uncomfortable, especially since the flesh was already extremely tender from the infection.
"Doc?"
At Luke's query, the doctor raised his eyes.
"If you don't need me here anymore, I reckon I better take care of those bodies before the animals beat me to them."
Doc nodded. He tugged at his hear. "Well, you go on right ahead an' do that, there's not much more for you to do around here right now anyway."
Chester turned to the ex-lawman before he had a chance to disappear. "You want me come along, Luke?"
The other shook his head. "No, you just stick around here an' give Doc a hand...I'll manage."
His retreating footsteps were followed by the soft creak of the front door as he stepped out onto the porch.
Doc indicated the water bowl on the bedside table. The once clear liquid was now tinged a deep crimson hue. "Go an' fetch me some fresh water, Chester," he said. "Make sure there's plenty on the stove, we'll need a steady supply of it."
Chester nodded, collected the bowl with its reddened contents and quietly slipped from the room.
Without wasting any time, the doctor set to cleaning the wound, using a diluted mixture of whiskey and water. Blood was still flowing from the deep cut although not as heavy anymore. Gathering the needle and sutures from the bedside table, he set to the task of stitching up the wound.
Doc was just finishing up when Chester returned a short while later.
The young man inched closer, hovering anxiously at the doctor's shoulder. "How is he now, Doc?"
Doc straightened and pinched the bridge of his nose; it was a brief submission to weariness that he would not usually confess to. "Golly, I can't tell you, Chester," he began, taking time to consider how best to put complex medical matters into terms that the jailer would understand. "It's a little too early to say. There's been some infection and he's probably gonna start runnin' a fever. I done all I can for him-it's outta my hands now." His eyes tracked back to Matt.
The warm sunlight fell across his motionless body, his sweat-sheened skin as white as the pillow he lay against. Unconsciousness had stolen away most traces of pain. He lay still, with barely a rise of his chest to show that he lived at all.
Drained and exhausted, the doctor settled heavily into the chair beside the bed and said a silent prayer.
He had done all he could. He only hoped it was enough.
x
x
Something wasn't right. He could sense it. The easing of the tension he should have felt, still wasn't there. His intuition was something Luke Crandall had learned to trust and rely upon heavily in his twenty years as a lawman. More than once had it saved his life, seldom had it stirred him wrong.
The shod hooves of Biggs' big roan clicked against the small rocks and stones embedded in the dirt road as the ex-Sheriff led him up the trail to claim the bodies of Biggs and Kiley. He would have rather used a wagon, but as it was, his buckboard was still in Dodge.
About midway up the trail, he paused to orient himself.
Above, the sun had almost completed its arc across the sky and was quickly sinking into the cradle of the hills in the west. The onset of evening made the warm air feel unpleasantly sticky and laden with humidity. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, using it to mop the sweat from the back of his neck.
"Well, come on, jug-head," he muttered to the roan as he led him of the trail and into the shadowy denseness of the thicket. "We got a job to do...an' it ain't a very pleasant one."
Luke had no trouble finding the place where the deadly altercation had taken place earlier.
As he was drawing closer, the horse's head suddenly came up and he snorted. He began to balk and fight the bit, refusing point blank to go any further. Luke tugged on the lead rein. The roan rolled his eyes and flicked back his ears. His nostrils flared. He threw up his head and whinnied his fear.
With a sigh, the ex-Sheriff shortened the rein and stepped up to the animal as he recognized the source of its terror. The revolting stench of blood and death was hanging heavy in the moisture-laden air, making his own stomach lurch.
Speaking soothingly, Luke was able to calm the frightened animal enough to lead him a little closer and tie him to a bush. How he was going to manage to load the bodies onto his back, he didn't know.
His intent gaze wandered over to the spot where they had left the bodies of the fallen outlaws earlier.
There it was again; the strange prickling sensation at the base of his neck. No, something definitely wasn't right, he was sure of that now. He licked his lips in unconscious admission of nervousness. His step became more cautious as he drew nearer, leaves and twigs softly crunching beneath his heel.
In the waning light of the dusk he saw the spread-eagled body of Kiley materialize a few feet in front of him. A dark, shadowed lump on the ground, nothing more.
His eyes sought out the other man and Luke's heart gave a slight jolt. It didn't take much light to confirm the obvious. The spot where Dan Biggs' body had lain was now-empty.