Chapter Thirty-five

Jess had crossed the street and entered the hotel. This would be his last night here. Tomorrow morning he would be riding out of this dadgum town. Riding glad. But riding broke. The cash he had won in a poker game in Denver was running low. In fact, he had just spent almost the last of it on the whiskey. Just enough left for his hotel bill, Traveller's livery stay, and a few trail supplies. The prospect for some wages that had brought him to this area sure as blazes hadn't panned out.

He had ridden in a little over a week ago because he'd heard about a ranch, owned by a man named Johnson, needing a wrangler. He had hung out at the saloon for an evening, spent that night in town, and planned to go to the ranch the next day to see about getting himself hired on for a while. But then he had found out the full name of the owner. Johnson Daniel Kerr. That settled it. There was no way J.D. Kerr would put him on the payroll. And no way he'd work for that lowlife anyway. His opinion of the ruthless man had been set in stone during that New Mexico range war. Besides, like as not, if Kerr saw him, he'd shoot him. Or hire it done.

Unfortunately, as Jess rode out of town in the opposite direction from the ranch, he had been recognized by a couple of hombres from his past who had a bone to pick with him over a bank job gone bad down in Dallas. The planned theft had been stopped by Jess' interference. Their ambush last week landed him at the doctor's place for a couple of days and then in the hotel for the past three while he continued to heal. But at least he had taken down the two sidewinders that shot him. Lucky for Jess, an elderly couple that lived nearby happened to drive their buckboard over a hill just in time to see the shootout. They corroborated his version of how the two men had ambushed him. If not for the old man and woman, he might have had to do some mighty swift talking─and riding─to avoid a jail cell.

Now, he had to be wary. Kerr heard about it all and knew Jess was in town. He expected Kerr to put a reward out for his dead body. The man would have to be careful about it though, if he wanted to maintain his status as a respectable businessman and rancher here in Colorado. He couldn't just make a Harper bounty turn into a free-for-all that would be traced back to him.

Jess nodded to the hotel clerk as he passed the front desk. "G'night, Henry."

"Looking good, Mister Harper." The skinny, half-asleep clerk leaned back in his chair, yawning. "Glad you're all healed up."

The old man seemed a decent enough sort, Jess thought as he climbed the stairs. A heck of a lot nicer guy than the danged manager that assigned him what he claimed was the only vacant accommodation when he had checked in. Was a third-story room really the only one that had been available for a man recovering from a bullet wound? He had his suspicions about that. This sure wasn't no busy metropolis like St. Louis. He had never seen anyone else on that top floor, and in three days' time he had only encountered two people on the stairs to the second story.

He didn't know who you could trust in this forsaken town. He knew for a fact it was that purty little nurse, who was the doctor's niece, who was the one who told Kerr about him. And there in the saloon he had recognized Jericho Cutchinson, despite the man's attempt to hide in the shadows with his pulled-down hat. He knew Cutchinson as a hired gun who had fought for Kerr during the range war. Likely Kerr hired him to do another job now─on him. Jess figured the two men with Cutchinson were up to no good too, from the way they kept eyeing him. The only truly goodhearted, caring person he had come across was Jimmy who worked as the clean-up and errand boy at the saloon.

Jess unlocked the door to his room and relocked it behind him. Sagging against the portal, he took a minute to recover from the trudge up the stairs, so he could sturdy up his legs. They had nearly given out with him on that last flight of steps as what he had been through in the past week wreaked havoc on his strength. The threatening blackness had come close to causing him to collapse in the hallway.

He dropped his Stetson on the small chair by the door, uncorked the whiskey bottle, and took a couple of good long swigs.

Hope that'll help take the edge off.

He corked the bottle and set it on the bedside table. After unbuttoning his shirt one-handed, he painfully stripped it off, grimacing at the sharp spears that spiked through his left shoulder.

That blond saloon girl had nearly sent him through the roof with the way she kept rubbing his arm and leaning against him. He had endured it as long as he could. He knew every eye in the place was on him, which was exactly what he wanted as he carried out the ruse, conveying the message to each would-be bushwhacker that he was a perfectly healthy and readied gunslinger.

After using his shirt for a quick swipe of the sweat that beaded across his forehead, he tossed it aside, thankful for the dim lights in the saloon that prevented folks from noticing the fever flush to his cheeks. Carefully, he peeled away the bandage. Stitches were holding the angry red wound together, but it was increasingly swelling from the pus building inside. The infection had been kept to a minimum when the town's doctor was treating him, but ever since he'd been tending to it himself, it had worsened. He wished he could have Doc take another look at it, but he couldn't take the chance on that nurse spreading the news to all of Colorado that he wasn't at his best.

Bottle again in hand, Jess crossed the small room to the window and looked outside. He saw Cutchinson's compadres, those two cowpunchers from the saloon, mount their horses and leave town. Good. Looked like they believed his performance. Swaying slightly, he sank into the chair at the small table by the window.

He took another big swallow of the whiskey. Whew. It was strong all right. And that was good. He had bought the pure stuff for a need beyond just dulling the pain.

Next to the bowl lay a washcloth and small towel. He folded the washcloth into a tight square and fitted it into the grasp of his left hand. He raised the bottle of alcohol again, but not to his lips this time. He sighed as he poured some alcohol on a corner of the towel. The actions of a man used to doctoring himself.

With his right hand, Jess took the whiskey-soaked towel, and without so much as even a second of hesitation, he blotted it across the shoulder wound. Crushing the washcloth in his tightened fist and squeezing his eyes shut, he pursed his lips into a tight line as a low grunt forced its way up his throat.

After gulping breaths until both the fire in his shoulder and the pounding of his heart settled down a bit, he relinquished his hold on the washcloth. He unfolded it, rolled it into an oblong ball of sorts, and then temporarily laid it aside on the table.

He tried to ignore the throbbing in his shoulder and worked at convincing himself into as much a state of numbness as he could summon, which wasn't a whole heck of a lot.

Pulling his knife from his boot, he eyed its razor-sharp edge, its gleaming point. Then he set it in the basin there on the tabletop. Maintaining a calmed pulse, he sat for a full minute staring at the knife.

Finally, exhaling a heavy sigh he picked up the bottle again. Pausing with it held above the basin, he slowly shook his head.

"Sure a rotten shame to have to put dadgum good whiskey to a use like this."

Dousing the knife, he watched the alcohol stream down the blade. He flipped the knife over and repeated the pouring.

He knew what was ahead. But knowing that it simply had to be done didn't make it any easier to carry through with the procedure.

His gaze moved from the knife to the rolled up washcloth. Resignedly, he picked it up and placed it in his mouth between his teeth. Pressing his left forearm tightly against his middle to steady the muscular limb, he sent up a brief request for the Almighty's help. Then he wrapped his right hand around the hilt of the knife.

Lance and drain. Jus' go on and git it over with, Harper.

His jaws clamped down, and he bit hard into the cloth. As the knife bit into the swollen and agonizingly tender, crimson mound on his shoulder.