Chapter 18
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Bowing his face into his hands, Doc raked his tired fingers back through his unruly, graying hair as he reflected on the events of the previous day. It had taken him and Chester the better part of an hour to drag the injured lawman down to the Crandall's house. Weakened by the blood loss and the pain, he had slipped in and out of consciousness and they had to stop numerous times, trying to rouse him before they could go on. Luckily, Luke Crandall had come to their aid after securing the surviving outlaw in the barn, and together they had managed to get Matt into the house.
Without wasting any time, he had immediately set to the task of removing the bullet. Taking it out had been risky, but leaving it in would have meant almost certain death. The surgery had went well, considering the great amount of blood Matt had lost, but now he had to worry about the infection and the fever. To make matters worse, it had turned out that Dan Biggs apparently wasn't dead after all. When Luke had gone to bring the bodies of the two outlaws back to the farm yesterday evening, he had only found Kiley; no trace of Biggs. After getting Chester, the two men had immediately set out to search for the missing outlaw. One hour had run into the next without much success and sometime well past midnight, they had finally decided to put the search off until daybreak.
With a grunt, Doc leaned back in the chair he had drawn to Matt's bedside to rub the bridge of his nose. As a doctor, he was used to all-nighters, but it was obvious that the events of the last couple of days had taken their toll on him, too. His tired gaze shifted to the lawman. Though Matt had slept sedated for most of the night, the doctor had found his own rest limited. Dozing fitfully in the chair, he had risen numerous times to check on his friend, worried about the fever that had set in sometime during the night. Stiffly, he climbed to his feet, fleetingly reflecting that he was really getting too old to sleep in chairs. He shuffled over to the window and pulled aside the curtains. Ignoring the shadowy reflection of himself gazing back at him, he stared out at the inky blackness and said a silent prayer.
A low groan suddenly carried over to him from the bedstead.
Doc raised a weary hand to scrub it across his mustache. The laudanum was beginning to wear off. Matt was a big man, requiring a much larger dose of the opium-derived drug than most people did. Having had only a limited supply on him, he had been dispensing the smallest amount possible, wanting to stretch it out for as long as he could.
He allowed the curtain to fall back into place and turned to make his way back over to the bed, the scraping of his shoes against the floor planks overly loud in the otherwise silent room.
The oil lamp on the bedside table was burning low, its warm, orange glow creating a soft pattern of wavering shadows on the wall behind the headboard.
The bed springs creaked softly as he propped a hip on the edge of the mattress to sit down beside Matt's shoulder. He folded his fingers into his palm and gently laid his knuckles against the Marshal's sweat-beaded cheek. He frowned at what he felt. His friend was burning up with fever.
He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small black case. With care, he removed the flimsy, wire-rimmed spectacles and put them on.
"Well, let's see what we got here, Matt," he muttered softly as he began to gently peel away the thin sheet from Matt's chest and then proceeded to remove the thick wadding of bandages he'd applied to the wound. Almost immediately, a worried frown creased his brow.
The bandages had come away stiff and encrusted and beneath, the skin was a deep angry red, the edges of the wound a ghastly purple. The incision he had made in order to extract the bullet was puckered around the stitches, secreting small dollops of puss. He could feel the heat caged inside the shoulder, the molten intensity witness to the infection that was spreading with distressing alacrity.
As he turned the wick of the oil lamp higher so that the shadows leapt towards the low, wooden ceiling, Doc began the battle for his friend's life. For the next three hours, he continued to ceaselessly sponge the Marshal's body and apply cooling rags to his chest, arms and stomach in hopes of drawing the fever out. But despite his tireless efforts, Matt's temperature climbed steadily, his sleep growing more restless by the moment.
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Outside, the sun was inching higher into the sky, slanting shafts of early morning light through the dusty quarter panes of the Crandall's bedroom window. A soft breeze was gently playing with the lace curtains and a bird sang in the big cottonwood outside, but Doc took no notice of it.
Still perched on the edge of the bed, he was leaning over Matt, absorbed in the continuous task of changing the cooling rags.
The oil lamp, though having become obsolete now, was still burning on the bedside table, its light insignificant and weak compared to the brightness of the morning sun.
From the main room, the soft creaking of the front door as it was opened drifted to his ear. The slightly uneven strike of booted feet against the smooth plank floor followed. Moments later, Chester appeared in the doorway, bringing with him the strong, heady scent of recently cut hay. "Mornin, Doc," he said as he gingerly stretched a body that was sore from spending the pitiful remainder of his night sleeping in the barn. "How's Mister Dillon? He any better?" He slipped into the room and stopped on the opposite side of the bed.
If Doc heard him, he gave no indication. "Chester, go an' mix me some of that powder there in a glass of water," he instructed softly with a nod at a small package on the bedside table. He ducked his head, not wanting Chester to see the naked concern in his eyes as he continued to bathe Matt's inflamed shoulder with cool water.
Chester regarded him concerned, trying to decide whether Doc had simply not heard him or had some other reason for not answering. "Yes, sir," he muttered at last, figuring it better to carry out Doc's bidding first before asking him again. A short moment later, he returned with the requested glass. As he handed the vessel across the bed, his eyes fell on the Marshal's shoulder. He swallowed hard at the sight of the badly infected wound. "Ya know, Doc, that sure don't look too good if you ask me. You think he's gonna be all right?"
Doc set the cloth aside and slowly brushed a hand over his scruffy chin and mustache. His eyes flickered away before darting back up to Chester's worried face. He pressed his lips together, unwilling to concede doubt but uncertainty marred his features when he spoke. "He's gonna be all right if we can get that infection under control an' keep his fever down." He didn't speak the thought that was running through the back of his mind-'if not, he might die'.
Chester felt momentary relief at the physician's assurance, but his doubts quickly returned as the Marshal suddenly began to shift and groan feebly.
"I know you're doin' the best you can, Doc, but...I mean...ain't there anythin' else you can-"
Like a rattler striking out at his prey, the doctor's head whipped up as he dropped the rag into the water dish with a little more force than necessary.
"Doggone it, Chester!" he snapped, skewering the younger man with an angry glare. For a moment, he looked as if he would bite off an angry retort. But then, as quickly as the anger had entered his eyes, it shriveled beneath the hand of reason. His shoulders sagged and his eyes slid to Matt again, studying the feverish, sweat-beaded features of his friend. He wished there was something more he could do, something better. "I'm doin' ev'rything I can for him," he muttered quietly, the sharp edge that had accompanied his previous comments now missing altogether.
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Matt felt himself falling. He heard the thundering report as Biggs' colt discharged, answering shocks of pain exploding through his body, robbing him of speech and thought. He screamed out until it seemed his own ears would burst, his cry mingling with Biggs' laughter as he fell, and fell, and fell...
With a pained gasp, he suddenly jerked as his mind floated up through the haze of his fever and drug-induced dreams. There was a terrible hot weight on his chest, as if someone had rolled a huge boulder onto it, and now he couldn't breathe. He shifted a little, trying to push it off, or thought he did, but to make matters worse, his left arm seemed to be trapped against his chest and his body felt unaccountably heavy.
This wasn't right...
He moved again, trying to lift his head, but try as he might, he couldn't seem to remember which way was up and which was down, and his eyes seemed to be sewn tight shut so that he couldn't open them and see. Disoriented, Matt felt his heartbeat quicken and for one terrifying moment, he had no sense of time or place. He tried to make his tongue move, but the words stuck like stubborn paste.
"Easy there, Matt, it's all right," a voice that sounded vaguely familiar suddenly said.
All right? How could he be all right with all that weight pressing down on him? He had to get it off...
Twisting fitfully, he succeeded only in throwing off the bed covers as he fought to push aside the boulder. His feeble attempt was immediately brought up short by a hand on his chest, pressing him gently back down against the mattress.
"I said take it easy, Matt," soothed Doc. "It's all right...now just take it easy there. It's all over, you're safe."
It was over? He was safe? The words slowly penetrated his confused mind, pushing aside some of the disorienting mire of returning consciousness. He groaned-senses still blurred by a laudanum haze, not quite sufficient to mute the agonizing pain in his shoulder and back. But the words had tickled something in his brain as he settled back against the pillows, panting, trying not to move anymore. Breathing in short, shallow gasps to keep the pain at bay, he tried to make sense of what he'd just heard.
Safe from what? Unbidden images suddenly began to flash in his mind, so quickly that he struggled to make sense of them all. Biggs shooting him...he and Doc hiding out in the grove...the outlaws pursuing them...Dan Biggs, Dan Biggs, Dan Biggs. It became almost a litany as the name whirled around in his mind, around and around.
His voice crackled with sudden urgency as the foggy memories sharpened his fevered mind. "Biggs," he whispered as he struggled again against the physician's restraining hand. "Biggs...I...gotta...get-"
Doc handed the glass back to Chester. Bracing an arm across the lawman's sweat-slicked chest, he gently forced him back down against the mattress. "Come on, Matt, do as I say an' lie still, you're not well enough to get up. I just cut a bullet outta you and you got a pretty bad fever."
Chester stepped closer. He nervously rubbed the back of his neck. "Mister Dillon, ev'rything's all right...you just rest easy an' don't you worry a thing, we got ev'rything taken care of." His eyes strayed to the bloody bandage that had slipped from the lawman's shoulder. The mere sight of it made him cringe. "Please, Mister Dillon, you gotta listen to Doc here," he pleaded again. "He's just tryin' to help you-"
It took a moment for the words to finally sink in. The tension in his limbs slackened and Matt sank back against the bed with a grunt that quickly became a moan as he felt the sharp ache that thrummed through his shoulder and back. The pain, as unwelcome as it was, at least cleared his mind some. His eyelids flickered, and he managed to open them part way, trying to focus on the comfortingly familiar figure hovering over him. "Doc," he rasped weakly.
The doctor's arm eased its pressure. He smiled a faint smile, the slight curve of his lips beneath the salt and pepper mustache affectionate indulgence from a man that had come to view the Marshal as something akin to a son. "Matt." He offered with a reassuring nod.
Matt let his increasingly heavy eyelids sink. He felt dizzy and pain pounded in a steady thump behind his sweaty forehead, seeking to compete with the agonizing throb in his shoulder.
Doc sat down on the bed beside him. Slipping one hand behind the Marshal's head to support him, he took the glass of medicated water from Chester and tipped it to his friend's lips.
"Here...I want you to raise up and drink this, it'll make you feel better," he said before Matt could get it into his mind to ask him any questions that he'd rather not answer at the moment-especially any question's regarding Dan Biggs.
To weak to object, Matt dragged himself from the descending haze and drank obediently, letting the slightly bitter-tasting liquid trickle down his throat.
When he had finished, the doctor set the glass aside and carefully eased him back against the pillow before turning his attention to the shoulder wound. "Well, let's take a look here now," he muttered as he began to carefully remove the bundled cloth that had shifted with the Marshal's movement while Chester watched concerned from across the bed.
A fresh trickle of blood was seeping from beneath the stained compress, indicating that the wound had broken open again. Doc gave a grunt of disapproval. "Chester, go an' hand me one of those rags over there," he said with a nod at a small stack of cut-up towels sitting on the chest of drawers.
Quickly, the young man turned one of the rags over, and Doc began to gently dab up the blood before re-dressing the sight.
He remained sitting on the edge of the bed when he was done, his hand lingering on Matt's chest as his eyes fixed on his friend's face. A bruise, dark and spreading, covered his right cheekbone, encircling a small, blood-encrusted gash. Two smaller bruises were evident along his jaw line and a scab was forming on his forehead where the skin had been scraped. It was the first time the doctor had noticed these small injuries. He gave Matt's chest a reassuring pat. His eyes were shut tight, his breathing now shallower and more even, evidence that the laudanum was beginning to take effect
"Go on, get some sleep now," he said softly before rising.
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"You sure you don't want me stay with you, Doc?" asked Chester for the fifth time as he entered the bedroom again a short while later. "I just don't like leavin' you here all by yourself an' all-not with that Biggs-fella runnin' about loose out there anyways."
Doc looked up from his chair beside Matt's bed. He waved Chester off. "Oh, you just-just get outta here," he said gruffly. "Don't you worry about me, I'll be fine."
"Well, if you're sure then," replied Chester still somewhat unconvinced. Despite the doctor's assurance, he was not completely willing to believe that it was wise to leave the two men by themselves-not with Dan Biggs somewhere out there on the loose.
He still couldn't understand it.
He had seen the outlaw go down, felled by the powerful blow of Luke's rifle. How was it possible that the man had simply walked away? When they had searched the site last night, the light of the lantern had revealed a fair amount of blood where the outlaw had lain, but they hadn't been able to glean any further clues as to where he could have gotten to.
"Say, you got that list I gave you?" Doc now wondered, rousing him from his musings.
Chester nodded, patting his shirt pocket. "I got it right here, Doc."
"Good. Make sure you an' Kitty get those things from my office an' bring them back with you just as soon as you can."
"Yes, Doc, don't you worry a thing, I'll see to it that you get ev'rythin' you need. You just-" He paused, his eyes flicking to the Marshal who was lying so deadly still. "You just take good care of Mister Dillon here." He swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat and quickly limped from the room.
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"Come on, ole churn-head."
Luke Crandall spoke softly to the big roan gelding as he led him from the barn. He had started to take a liking to Dan Biggs' raw-boned mount and found it somewhat fitting that he was using the outlaw's own animal in the search for him.
By now, the sun had fully risen, its intensity so early in the morning carrying with it the promise of another hot, Kansas summer day.
The ex-Sheriff adjusted the cinch strap on the saddle. His movements were efficient and clipped, just like everything else he did. At the sound of footfall, he raised his head to glance over the horse's broad back. He watched as Chester came limping towards him across the yard.
"Well, sure looks like you're all set there," the young jailer said as he came to a halt beside the horse.
Luke nodded. "Yeah, I figured I better get started and see if I can't pick up his tracks...havin' daylight oughtta help some."
Chester scratched his head. "Well, I sure don't understand it," he mused, still feeling at a loss. "It just don't make no sense at all." He lifted his eyes to meet Luke's across the animal's back. "I mean, I saw him go down, Luke an' the whole time we was there, he didn't move an inch."
Slipping his big rifle into the saddle boot, the older man dispensed a weary sigh. "We both saw him go down," he replied pointedly. "But that didn't mean that Biggs was dead. I should've known better and checked."
Chester realized that Luke had a point. It was true; neither one had taken the time to see if Biggs indeed had been dead.
Luke slung the water canteen over the saddle horn and gathered up the reins. He toed the stir-up, but then hesitated. "Chester, when you get to Dodge, tell Millie that it might be best for her and the young'uns to stay at the Dodge House for a little while longer."
Chester raised a hand and nodded. "I'll be sure let her know, don't you worry."
Luke swung up into the saddle. He adjusted the reins in his hand and pulled the horse's head around.
"Good luck to you," said Chester, "I sure hope you find him."
"So do I, Chester, so do I." He touched his hat brim. "Well, so long."
Nudging his heels to the roan's flanks, he cantered from the yard, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
For a moment Chester stood and looked after him, gazing along the trail until the dust had settled. He wasn't sure which task was the more unpleasant one; Luke's, trying to track Biggs or his, having to take Stanton back to Dodge.
Unable to decide, he drew a long, deep breath and moved for the barn to saddle their horses.
He still felt extremely uneasy about the idea of leaving Doc and Mister Dillon alone, knowing that Biggs was still alive and out there somewhere, but he knew that there was nothing he could do about it.
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Somewhere out on the prairie, huddled up and well concealed from searching eyes, someone else was thinking of the Marshal, too; but his thoughts were not exactly of the friendly kind.
They were thoughts of revenge, fueled by fierce anger and hatred.
The hate was consuming him, was so strong, he no longer felt the pain along his right side where the bullet had grazed him and taken out a chunk of flesh. He felt no hunger, no thirst, only burning, irrational anger.
Dillon would pay for this...He'd make sure of it this time...
Over and over did he repeat the words to himself, keeping the flame of hate burning brighter until it filled every last crevice of his mind.
No, nobody had ever messed with Dan Biggs the way this Marshal had and lived to tell about it, and he wasn't about to let it happen now.
to be continued...