Smolder on a Slow Burn

by Lynda J. Cox

  Bayless asked if the undertaker had brought in the bodies and if he had been able to identify them. The undertaker said he did and then elaborated on the answer in that he had been told who they were by the man who had sent him out there in the first place. “He told me who they were.”

  “Objection. Hearsay.” Drake never even looked up from his notes.

  “Sustained. Wilbur, you brought three bodies in but if you hadn’t been told who they were, you wouldn’t have been able to identify them?” the judge asked.

  “That’s right.”

  Bayless asked, “Could you ascertain how those men died?”

  “Yes.”

  Bayless waited. When nothing further was forthcoming, he asked, “How did they die?”

  “Lead poisoning.”

  A ripple of laughter moved through the courtroom and even Allison had to smile. Drake looked at his brother and grinned. He then leaned an elbow onto the table and propped his chin in his palm, as if riveted by the undertaker’s testimony.

  “Please be a bit more specific.”

  “They was all dead from gunshot wounds. One of them was shot once in the shoulder and then in the chest. Another was dead from one shot to the head. The last one had two bullets in the back.”

  “Are you certain about that?”

  “I ain’t no expert on anatomy, but I do know my fronts from my backs.” Wilbur sounded offended that his credentials were being so questioned. “He had two bullet holes in his back.”

  “Did you remove the bullets from those bodies?”

  “Yep.”

  “Could you ascertain the calib—”

  “Objection.” Drake still had his chin propped in his palm.

  “Sustained,” Fishe stated. “Even I have to admit that’s beyond your expertise, Wilbur. Let’s try this. Were they large or small caliber rounds?”

  “Large. They weren’t no varmint rounds.”

  “Is that less objectionable, Mr. Adams?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”

  Bayless looked from Fishe to Drake and then lastly to Wilbur. “I have no further questions.”

  Judge Fishe gestured to Drake. “Your witness, Mr. Adams.”

  Drake shook his head. “I have no questions for this witness.”

  Bayless then called the sheriff to the stand. Allison felt her stomach knotting with the glare he leveled at A.J. She had no doubts he would as soon shoot A.J. as anything else.

  “Pete, did you go out with Wilbur to bring those dead men back to town?”

  “Sure did.” The sheriff shifted his weight on the chair. “It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Objection.” Drake sat up straight, now.

  “You can object all you want, Mr. Fancy Lawyer, but them dead bodies wasn’t pretty. Your Reb client butchered them.”

  “Your Honor, I want the last statement stricken from the record.”

  “Pete, that’s enough.” Fishe turned to the sheriff. “Just answer the questions. You don’t need to elaborate. There are ladies in the courtroom. There isn’t a court recorder, so I can’t strike the last comment, but I will instruct the members of the jury to disregard that statement.”

  “Pete, could you tell how those men died?” Bayless asked.

  “Yep. They was shot in cold blood.”

  “Objection! Your Honor, please…”

  “Pete, I’m going to say this one last time. Just stick to answering the question. And, before Mr. Adams asks, I will instruct the jury to disregard the last statement again.”

  “No, Your Honor, thank you. Please, leave it. I will follow up.”

  Allison shivered with the ice suddenly in Drake’s voice. A.J. still maintained the stillness of a marble statue. The only movement she saw from him was the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed.

  Bayless looked to Drake, as if trying to puzzle through what he was going to do with the sheriff’s statement that he asked not to be disregarded. He finally said, “I have no further questions.”

  Drake pushed himself to his feet, and glanced around the courtroom for a moment. He sent a quick, reassuring smile to Allison that did nothing to ease the knots in her stomach. “Sheriff, were you at the scene when the shooting took place?”

  “You know I wasn’t.”

  “Is that a yes or no, sheriff?” Drake closed the distance, until he stood over the aging sheriff.

  “That’s a no. I wasn’t there.”

  “Then how can you state as a fact that those men were shot in cold blood?”

  “‘Cuz all their guns was in a pile next to that dead horse he left out there and the shells had been ejected.”

  The guns…the ones A.J. left. Allison clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking. Harrison moved just enough to cover her hands with one of his and squeezed. She glanced up at him and he gave her the same reassuring smile Drake had.

  “And, could you tell if those guns had been fired or not?”

  The sheriff didn’t answer. Drake pushed him. “Did you smell the barrels, to see if they had been fired recently? Did you break open the cylinders, to see if there was powder residue? Did you look to see if there were shell casings?”

  The sheriff kept his silence. Drake moved in closer. “Did you do any of those things?” When the sheriff still didn’t answer, Drake demanded, “Your Honor, please instruct the witness to answer.”

  “Pete, answer the question. Did you check those guns or look for casings?”

  “Judge, I know that man killed those three in cold blood. Be just like a Reb.”

  Fishe pounded his gavel. “Pete, either you answer me when I ask you, or I’ll hold you in contempt, and won’t that look right nice, the sheriff locked up in his own jail for contempt? We are not going to refight the Civil War, either. Now, did you or did you not check those guns to see if they’d been fired recently?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Drake pounced. “So, you have no way to determine why or exactly when those men were shot, do you, sheriff?” Before the sheriff could respond, Drake added, “I have no further questions.”

  As Drake walked back to the table, the judge banged his gavel again. “This court is in recess until two this afternoon.” He stood and shouted, “Helga, you can start serving dinner, now.”

  A.J. walked from the courtroom which was quickly becoming a dining room again. Allison followed him, with Harrison and Drake right behind her. At their suite, A.J. let himself into the room and sank into a chair. He dropped his head into his hands, staring at the floor.

  Allison crept over to him and sat on the arm of the overstuffed chair. Without a word, she slid an arm around his shoulders and dropped her cheek against his head. He twisted on the seat, caught her around the waist and pulled her fully into his embrace.

  “Drake and I are going to the dining room for dinner. I’ll see if I can get a tray sent here for you two,” Harrison said from the doorway.

  “Good luck with that,” A.J. said.

  Once the door closed, Allison asked, “Are you all right?”

  A soft chuckle broke from him. “As all right as I can be in the circumstances. It’s interesting to see my life portrayed in such diametric opposites.”

  “I’m worried about you,” she admitted, drawing her hand down his arm. “You don’t move and…”

  “Old habits die hard.” A.J. leaned back in the chair, pulling Allison onto his lap. He dropped his head to the chair back. “I just shut my mind off and go somewhere else. When I was at Infernum, I went back to Clayborne. Now, I’m back on a train remembering every word we said to one another.”

  “You mean like ‘Go sit somewhere else?’”

  He laughed fully this time and Allison felt the tension draining from him. “Yes, that conversation, too. I’m glad you didn’t do what I told you to do.”

  “I honestly couldn’t. I would have fallen into your lap if I had tried to walk on that moving train.” She concentrated on his hand cradling her head to hi
s shoulder, and his chest rising and falling with each breath.

  “Much to my deep disappointment, I might add.”

  A knock on the door interrupted anything Allison planned on saying. She pushed herself off his lap, walked to the door, and opened it. The sheriff stood outside, a silver platter loaded with food, balanced on a heavy revolver pointed directly into her stomach.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He who is bent on evil can never want occasion.

  ~Publilius Syrus

  The sheriff gestured for Allison to step back. A.J. was on his feet, his heart already in his throat. In two strides he crossed the room, and pulled Allison away from the sheriff and behind himself. His left leg burned and he balanced most of his weight on his right.

  Pete partially shut the door to the suite and without taking his gaze from them, set the tray down so he could bring the revolver higher. He advanced into the room. “You’re going to run and I’m going to kill you in an escape attempt.”

  “No.” Allison’s whimper knifed through A.J.

  A.J. shook his head. “I agree with my wife, sheriff. I’m not running.”

  “You will or I’ll shoot you in front of her and then I’ll put a bullet between her eyes, just like you did to my nephew. I ain’t got no reason to kill her, but if you don’t run, I will kill her, too.”

  He felt Allison trembling against his back. “You can’t do that, sheriff. If you kill me, she’ll swear it was murder. And, I’m not about to run and take the chance you kill her, too, to cover your tracks. I’m sorry, I’m not running.”

  Pete pulled the hammer back. “It’ll be her word against mine. No one will believe her. She’d lie to defend her dead Reb husband’s honor.” He gestured with the revolver. “Step away from her, Reb, and start out that door.”

  “No.” A.J. drew a long breath. “You want to kill me, you look at me when you pull that trigger.” If he kept him talking, sooner or later, Harrison and Drake had to come back. He didn’t care if he was shot, but he had to make sure that Allison wasn’t. And, maybe, he could take the sheriff down before he did shoot.

  The sheriff shifted his gaze from A.J. to Allison. In that slender second, A.J. launched himself at the aging lawman. His left leg gave under him, but he managed to grab Pete’s arm.

  Even as he did, Pete pulled the trigger. As the deafening roar of the revolver sounded, the bullet grazed A.J.’s upper arm. Behind him, he heard Allison scream his name. Still holding onto Pete’s arm for all he was worth, A.J. looked over his shoulder.

  Allison sank to the floor, her face white, blood staining her upper shoulder. A new roaring filled his ears and he threw his whole weight against Pete, forcing the man backwards, bending his arm at the elbow.

  Helga burst through the door, rolling pin raised high over her head, screaming like a Valkyrie. Without the least hesitation, she smashed the rolling pin down on Pete’s head. Harrison and Drake rushed in right behind her.

  The dull thud when Helga’s rolling pin connected resonated in the room and the man slumped, dazed against A.J. He shoved the man off, knocking him into Harrison and spun around to Allison. She sat on the floor, her face drained of color. Her hand was pressed into her shoulder and blood oozed between her fingers and dripped down her arm.

  He crossed the floor and dropped to his knees next to her and pulled her into his arms. He put his hand over hers. Despite the panic choking him, he managed to whisper, “It’s going to be okay, Alli. You’re going to be okay.”

  He heard Drake shouting for someone to find a doctor. And, then he heard Judge Fishe bellowing, “What in the hell is going on here?”

  A.J. tried to shut the confusion out. Allison dropped her head onto his shoulder. She caught his jacket sleeve and he winced. “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  “I’m fine. I just got grazed.” He looked over to the doorway, where Harrison was keeping Pete sitting on the floor with a revolver pointed directly into his head. The judge was talking to Helga. Drake crossed the room, Helga’s apron in his hands.

  “Here. That woman gave me this to use to staunch the blood flow until the doctor gets here.” Drake dropped to one knee. “You’ve been shot, too.”

  “I’m fine. Where in the hell is that doctor?” A.J. pressed Helga’s pristine white apron into Allison’s shoulder and muttered, “Sorry,” when she cringed.

  Allison’s eyes closed as she whispered, “I’m cold.”

  Schaffer pushed his way into the room. “Doc’s out at the farmstead. He’s got a woman having a baby and his wife said she don’t think he’ll be back before tomorrow.”

  Fishe grabbed Schaffer’s collar, and pulled him backwards before he shoved him toward the door. “Show that federal marshal where the jail is so he can put Pete in there.” He turned to Helga. “I hate to do this, but we’re going to need some of those pretty white tablecloths of yours to make bandages out of. And, bring me a pair of scissors right away and then go throw a big needle and some thick thread into a pot and start it boiling.” Lastly, he looked across the room to A.J. “Get that woman off the floor and into bed. Then, the rest of you get out of here.”

  A.J. scooped Allison into his arms and stood. He dropped again to one knee as his left leg gave out. Drake caught Allison and A.J. forced himself to his feet. He grabbed the edge of a small table and staggered the few steps to the bed where he took over holding pressure on the wound in Allison’s shoulder.

  Drake gripped his upper arm for a moment. “She’ll be okay.”

  All he could do was nod. Helga returned with the scissors and a stack of white tablecloths. Fishe grabbed them and waved the scissors at Drake. “Out, young man.”

  Before the judge turned his attention to him, A.J. ground out through clenched teeth, “I am not leaving my wife.”

  “Wasn’t about to tell you that,” Fishe said. “Helga, bring me that thread and needle once it’s boiled for about three minutes. Bring me a bottle of honey, too. And, send Schaffer down to the saloon to bring back a bottle of whiskey. A big bottle.”

  “Honey?” A.J. stared at the judge.

  “It’s an old Indian trick. For some reason, honey keeps infection out.” Fishe slammed the door. “Damn inconsiderate fools…Mr. Adams, I know a little about doctoring. You’re going to have to cut that dress off her and any undergarments she’s wearing on top. I promise I will…”

  “Just keep her alive, Judge. Otherwise, you may as well take me outside and put a bullet in my head.”

  “Like I said, I ain’t no doctor, but I know a little about doctoring.” The judge handed A.J. the scissors. “Let’s get that stuff off her. Hopefully, the bullet went right through.”

  A.J. didn’t hesitate. He cut the bodice of Allison’s dress and the camisole underneath. With a deep breath, he pulled the garments from her shoulder and took several more deep breaths when the blood welled up in a jagged wound.

  “Get her up for a minute,” said Fishe. “Let’s see if that bullet went through.”

  A.J.’s stomach lurched when he lifted Allison and there was a corresponding wound on her back. Fishe asked, “Are you going to be all right, son?”

  A.J. nodded. A knock on the door and Helga marching right in saved him from having to answer. She handed a large jar of honey to Fishe and set a pan of steaming water on the nightstand next to the bed. “Your little liebchen…I should have broken Peter’s head.”

  “As dazed as he was, you may very well have, Helga.” Fishe picked up the scissors and started cutting the tablecloths. Helga snorted and grabbed them from him. With a hard tug on the fabric, she ripped the cloths into wide strips. “Vhere ist Bradley mit dat vhiskey?”

  “Right here, Helga,” Schaffer announced from the doorway. Helga didn’t put down the strips of cloth as she snatched the bottle from Schaffer’s hand a moment before she shut the door in his face. She marched over to the bed and sat next to Allison’s still form. She whispered softly in her native language, and brushed a hand over Allison’s head, then looked up at
A.J. “Thankfully, she is unconscious. The vhiskey vill hurt.”

  The judge backed to the door. “I’m going to let those folks know you’ve got this handled, Helga.”

  Her white-blonde head bobbed. “Ja. That would be a good idea.”

  Helga waited until the door closed. “I’m sorry,” she said, and poured the whiskey into the wound. Allison reared back and a cry broke from her. Her eyes flew open and she tried to push Helga away.

  A.J. caught her hands. “I know, darlin’. It hurts.”

  Helga poured more whiskey into the wound, evoking a thin, keening cry from Allison. Helga kept repeating, “I’m sorry.”

  Allison buried her face in his chest while Helga folded one of the shredded tablecloths into a thick pad. She handed it to A.J. and gestured to the wound on Allison’s back and she folded another thick pad. Before she secured the pads in place, Helga poured a generous portion of honey onto each of them.

  Allison’s tears wet his shirt and it took everything he had to keep from pushing Helga away. Every tear burned like acid. How could he have been so damn stupid to think he could have gotten that gun from the sheriff and Allison not get hurt?

  Finally, Helga said, “I’m done.”

  A.J. didn’t let Allison go.

  Helga gestured at his arm. “You must let go of her so I can see to you. You’re dripping blood from your arm.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Allison pushed against him, as weak as the proverbial newborn kitten in his estimate. “You were shot, too. Let her bandage your arm.”

  He eased Allison into the mattress and stood. Without more urging, he stripped off the dove gray jacket and the white shirt, the action combined with a hissing intake of breath through his teeth. Blood ran down his arm, spattering onto the rug.

  A.J. sank to the bed, again and Allison immediately caught his hand.

  Helga took one look at his arm. “Gutt Gott! I vill have to sew that.”

  “Give me a good drink of that whiskey before you do,” A.J. said.

  Helga handed him the bottle. “Pour it over that vhen you are done.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A.J. couldn’t have said which was worse, the burning of the whiskey in the path the bullet took, or the sensation of the thread being pulled through his skin. When Helga was finally done putting six stitches in his upper arm, he was sweating and more than slightly nauseated. She bandaged his arm, and then said, “I’ll send your son in here to carry her to another room. I vill need to clean this room and the bed before anyone can stay in here.”