A/N: This chapter is a Halloween treat to all my loyal fans. Have a very spooky (and happy) Halloween!
Billy and I rode to the town of Old Fort Sumner, which was where Billy had told everyone to go wait for him if we got lost or separated. We tied our horses up in front of a saloon called Beever's Place. Billy said it was run by a friend of his, and we'd be safe there. Rather than go through the front door, Billy pulled me around back where the ashcans were kept. I had no idea why he was doing this, except the fact that he'd always had a flair for the dramatic. We pushed open the creaky back door and found ourselves inside a storeroom. A curtain ahead led into a private parlor.
I peeked through it. Hendry was sitting at a table, eating a meal prepared by Beever's numerous Mexican wives. Chavez was sitting against a wall, breathing heavily and glistening with sweat. It wasn't terribly warm, so I wondered what was the matter with him. Of course, Dave was nowhere to be found; I had a feeling we'd seen the last of him. He'd probably run down south to Old Mexico.
Billy stepped in front of me and opened the curtain. "Buenos tardes, amigos," he said.
"You're not dead," Hendry said dumbly.
"Do I look dead?" chuckled Billy. "You boys shoulda seen the short work I made of Bob Ollinger. I spread him out like Tularosa." He laughed for a second, then helped himself to a little food from Hendry's plate. "Listen good, everybody, 'cause this our master plan," Billy said through his mouthful, "There's a herd of slow elk resting at Greschelowski's sheep camp. We're gonna cut 'em, then ride for Canada. Chavez, make sure the horses get watered. Hendry, you--"
"I'll be staying here," Chavez interrupted.
"If you stay here, Garrett'll take you." Billy warned.
"Garrett already took me."
I literally felt my heart stop at these words. It just couldn't be...that would be too much on top of everything else that had happened so far.
Billy's face took on a concerned expression. He lowered himself into a chair, resting his crossed arms on the back of it. "When?" he wanted to know.
"When he took Doc."
I pressed in for a closer look as Billy gently brushed aside Chavez's coat. Chavez had wrapped his scarf around his stomach, which was oozing a steady trickle of blood. Chavez gazed at Billy with sad eyes, resigned to his fate. Billy stomped toward the table, and in one angry motion, turned it over; Hendry's supper plate fell to the floor and broke. Billy ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He turned back to Chavez.
"It ain't supposed to be you sittin' there like that," said Billy, tears forming in his eyes. "It's supposed to be me."
"There's gotta be somethin' you can do for him," Hendry said to me.
I crouched down to get a closer look at the wound. There was no exit wound, so the bullet was still somewhere inside him. It was obviously infected and Chavez had lost a fairly large amount of blood. With gut shots, it was always hard to say if the victim would live, but Chavez was my best friend in the world; I had to try to save him.
Billy shook his head sadly and went outside, choking back sobs. I swiveled toward Hendry, barking at him to help me. We used our coats to make a semi-comfortable bed for Chavez to lay on. I felt his forehead; it was practically on fire. I whipped my bandanna off and soaked it in my canteen, then used the wet cloth to bathe his forehead. I had to bring down his fever before I could even consider removing the bullet.
"I need some whiskey!" I yelled at Hendry once Chavez's skin felt cooler.
Hendry produced a bottle from inside his saddlebags, which were hanging on his chair. I undressed Chavez's wound and poured the whiskey over it. He winced and shut his eyes, but he didn't cry out. I examined the wound for a third time. The bullet wasn't in very deep, so I wouldn't have to use my knife to dig for it; I could just apply some pressure around the wound edges and pull it out. I opened up his shirt, astonished by the amount of dried blood on his body, and amazed he hadn't already bled to death.
"Hold him down," I ordered Hendry.
Hendry found a piece of broken table leg and slid it between Chavez's teeth, a technique my father often used to control the pain of village women who were giving birth. I put my fingers around the wound and pinched. It was difficult to keep a grip on it because the bullethole rose and fell with Chavez's rapid breathing.
"Listen to me," I said to him in as soothing a voice as I could. "I have to get this bullet out, but I need you to something for me so I can. Take a deep breath and hold it in." I knew he wouldn't be able to do that with the table leg in his mouth, so I asked Hendry to remove it.
I waited until Chavez took his deep breath before I started pinching again. The process began to take longer than I thought it would, so I began to say soft words of encouragement. "Okay. We're almost there. Just keep holding it. Here we go..."
The bullet slipped into my fingers just as Chavez found he couldn't hold his breath any longer. He fell into a coughing fit as I quickly covered the injury, which was bleeding afresh, with Hendry's scarf.
"Could you go ask Beever for a bowl of broth?" I asked.
While Hendry was in the bar, I dug through Father's medicine pouch to find what I needed: the mysterious powder Father often used to make injured warriors well again. The stuff had a real bitter taste to it, so I would have to trick Chavez to get it in him. Hendry returned with a steaming bowl into which I sprinkled the powder. I felt oddly maternal as I fed the broth to my patient.
"What about Garrett?" Chavez asked weakly after he finished the final spoonful. "He's going to find us."
"Let me worry about that part for now," I said. "We have to hide here until you're strong enough to move. If we don't, you could die."
Chavez nodded slowly in understanding before he drifted into a peaceful sleep.