by W. R. Benton
He moved to his horse, placed the ammunition in his saddle bags, gathered his gear and mounted. He gave the old place one final look around, wiped the tears from his eyes, prayed for protection and forgiveness of his sins, and then headed his horse west, which was where the escapees were headed the last he'd heard.
Glancing up at the sky, Lew said just above a whisper, “Edna, tell the children I'm avenging the deaths of all of you, no matter how long it takes me. I love you, baby, and miss my kids. I'm sorry I wasn't here to protect y'all, but by God, I'll kill every man jack of 'em I ca n find.”
He mounted his horse, broke into tears again, pulled his neckerchief out and wiped his eyes dry. He was dressed nothing like a preacher now, his white collar packed away. He wore a buckskin shirt, jeans, brown cowboy boots with spurs, and a dark gray Stetson hat. Across his legs lay a Henry repeating rifle, which he usually carried anyway, but normally kept in a sheath. He'd pulled the long gun this morning because of the money he carried and the fact the law would now want him for killing Oaks.
For hours all he heard was the even 'clip-clop' of his mare and nothing was moving around him, except for wild critters. At times, he'd pull the w hiskey bottle he'd bought in the saloon from Frank, and take a long pull. He knew the strong amber drink wasn't good for a man, but at the time he needed something to kill his pain. At one point he carried on a one-sided conversation with his dead wife, arguing over his need to track down their killers. He never considered he might be losing his mind, because all his mind and heart carried was a deep anger and total hate.
About two hours before dusk he saw a bright flash of light, followed a few seconds later by a sharp crack of thunder. Glancing up for the first time all day, he saw he was in for a rough storm. He pulled into some trees, used a sheet of canvas to make a lean-to, and then placed all his gear inside to keep it dry. He pulled some smoked ham from his saddlebags, one of the few things he purchased at the store in town, and added the meat to a pot of pinto beans. The beans were cooking on a small fire, under his shelter.
The rain came with darkness as he sat under the tight canvas eating his under cooked beans. He was an eas y man to feed, not particular about what was on his plate, and his four years of fighting in War of Union Aggression had turned him into a man who could and would eat anything slower than him. At least , he thought, I'm not eating worm infested salt pork, like we did during the war.
He'd not a lways been a man of God and at one time he'd considered himself a killer and worthless as a human being, but he wasn't born that way. He'd been raised on a poor rock farm down in the Missouri Ozark Mountains, about eight miles south of Rolla. Actually, his childhood home and the one he just sold were within five miles of each other. His pa and ma had raised him right and with the Lord in his heart. Then came the Civil War, but he'd turned ruthless and cold a few years before that. He'd killed and considered himself a gunfighter, but looking back, he realized he wasn't even close.
Like most of the young men his age, he'd entered the war looking for excitement, respect and the chance to wear a flashy gray uniform. He'd strutted around like a barnyard rooster with his new clothes, but not for long. However, he'd strutted long enough to meet and fall in love with Edna Wilcox, and she'd promised to wait for him.
His mind began to meander as he sat under the canvas listening to the rain as he ate his tough beans.
“Corporal Stuart!” the General called out as he sat on his horse. The year was 1862 and death was a well known visitor.
“Sir?”
“Where is your Captain?”
“He's dead, sir, I saw him fall in the last battle. He took four bullets to the chest.”
“What about your First Sergeant and Sergeant Major?”
“They're all dead, sir.”
“Can you read and write, son?”
Snapping to attention, Lew said, “Oh, yes sir, my momma taught me using the Bible. However, I can do math better than I can write, sir.”
“As soon as you can, round up some Captain's rank, Stuart, you're my new Captain.”
“I imagine if I look this field over, sir, I'll find some Captains rank the wearer don't need anymore.”
The General gave a loud sigh and then said, “Your words are sad, but so very true, young man. I'm afraid our losses were great this day. As soon as you get your rank, bivouac your men in place for the night. At 1800 hours there will be a meeting for all officers outside my tent. You'll have to select your own Sergeants.” the General said and then rode toward the main column of men.
“Dang me, Lew, you're a Captain now!” Wilkerson commented and then grinned.
“Boys!” Corporal Thomas called out, “move among the dead and wounded and fetch Lew some Captains rank.”
An hour later, they all sat by the dancing flames of a small fire, as Johnson sewed Lew's rank on the collar of his shirt. Lew had never expected to make Sergeant in the war, much less an officer. And not a person at the fire noticed the dried blood on the three braided golden bars set in a y ellow background. The coppery smell of blood, the smell of human waste, and gore no longer bothered these men. They'd turned hard, and just this morning they'd been ordered to take ten Yankees back as prisoners, but instead, they'd marched them about a half mile from the Captain and then killed them in cold-blood. They then told the First Sergeant the men had made a run for freedom. Why? Because no one wanted to walk the three miles to headquarters and return, just to drop off some Yanks. Often during a battle, men would throw their hands up to surrender, only to have a bayonet forced through their gut or to be shot down. The troops on both sides were bloodthirsty and not inclined to take many prisoners. Prisoners had to be cared for, often doctored, fed, and required constant security. It was easier and more convenient to just kill them.
His mind was suddenly returned to the present by a noise, so he listened closely. He'd heard something, but what?
Somebody is out there, because I hear 'em moaning or so it sounds like , he thought as he removed his right pistol, pulling the hammer back. He'd spent a good hour, as the beans cooked earlier, wiping his handguns clean of grease and then giving them a good scrubbing. Both pistols had been cleaned, loaded, and were hanging low on his hips. His cartridge belt was around his waist and he knew a day would come when he'd need them both.
He had two bottles of whiskey, because he'd taken a full one from Oak's room right after he killed him with the butcher knife. He pulled the cork from the closest one, took a long pull, and then placed the bottle aside. He pulled the brim down in front on his slouch hat, and made his way from his shelter.
He walked out into the rain for about ten feet and began circling his camp. He was about fifty feet from his horse when he spotted a person face down in the mud of the trail. Even from where he stood he saw blood seeping from the downed form's ba ck, only to be washed away by the rain.
Holding his pistol at the ready, he used his right foot to roll the body over. He was surprised to see a woman looking back at him.
“H . . . help . . . me.” she plea ded.
He holstered his pistol, picked her up with both hands and carried her back to his camp. Once at his shelter, he placed her on his wool blanket and placed a cast iron pot with water on to boil. He had to remake his fire, because the rain kept killing the flames. Finally moving it under his shelter, he put water on to cook. He had to keep his fire small or risk burning his shelter down around him.
“Relax now, but I have to undress you to see all your injuries. I will not take advantage of you.”
Silence.
He checked her breathing and then realiz ed she was unconscious. He removed her shirt, which was a man's homespun, and noticed immediately she wasn't wearing any underwear. Dipping an old rag he carried in his saddlebags he wiped blood away and saw she'd been shot in the back. The entrance hole was small, oozing blood, but the exit hole was large and bleeding freely. He placed his knife in the flames, knowing he'd have to cauter ize her entrance and exit wounds.
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br /> As the knife blade heated and turned colors, he noticed she was a small woman, with dark blond hair, big eyes, and full sensuous lips. She may have weighed a hundred pounds if soaking wet, and she was.
He looked her over closely, even under each breast, but saw no other injuries. He thought nothing at feeling and raising her breasts, or checking her lower stomach for injury. His Edna wasn't his first woman and he'd bedded more than one before he'd married. He felt no lust for this woman and if anything, was filled with wonder. Why was she out in the middle of a storm, shot in the back, and who had shot her?
As soon as his blade was shimmering red-white, he picked it up by the hot handle and placed the flat of the blade against the exit hole in her shoulder. There came a light puff of flame, a heartbreaking scream from her, and then the overpowering smell of burnt flesh. He quickly rolled her over and burned the entrance wound as well.
He then tossed the hot knife in a puddle of water and as it sizzled cooling off, he downed a good half pint of whiskey. He didn't think to pray for the woman. He knew she'd either heal or die, but he'd done all he could for her.
Overnight he sat by her side, feeding her whiskey and taking a gulp himself at times. Near daylight, the rain stopped. As the wetness dripped from the oak, walnut, and cedar trees he saddled his horse. Shot or not, he couldn't leave the woman alone out here, and besides he had to keep moving or the law would catch up with him. He placed her in the saddle, tied her to the horse and then leading the animal by the reins, he started walking west.
He knew he was close to some small town that would never amount to much, so he could give her to a doctor and get on with his search. It was near noon, before he saw a sign that read, “Bulldog, Missouri, population 34.” At one time it must have had a thousand residents, because it was marked out with red paint, then showed 56 and it was covered by a big red X too.
Probably Less than 34 now , he thought, but I hope they have a doctor for this woman. I don't think she'll die, but she's slowing me down.
He soon entered the town and saw a saloon, general store, livery stables and just a little more. Few people were out, but he did approach a cowboy dressed in a duster. “Y'all got a doctor here in town?”
“Yep, but this time of the day, you'll find 'em in the saloon. Hell, 'bout any time of the day you'll find Doctor Todd in there. He's a drunken mudsill, but the only doctor in town.”
“I do thank you kindly. Uh, which saloon?”
“Try the Mad Dog Saloon, because that's next door to his office. It's behind ya, oh, about a hundred feet on the right. Has the big sign with a British bulldog on it.”
“Okay and thanks, mister.”
“No problem and best of luck.”
Lew led the horse to the front of the saloon, tied up at a hitching post, and entered the saloon. He walked to the bar and asked, “Is a Doctor Todd in here?”
The tall and lanky bartender said, “Back table near the window. You're lucky today, because he's only had about a half pint of whiskey.”
Lew walked to the man's table and said, “I'm Stoner, uh, James Stoner, and was on my way north when I discovered a woman near my camp last night. I know nothing about her, other than she was hit in the upper shoulder with a pistol round. If you will care for her, until she's able to get by, I'll pay you.”
“How much?”
“I don't have any idea yet. I thought you'd take a look at her, get an idea of how much treatment she needs, and give me a cost.”
“I can do that. Uh, Stoner, what do you do for a living?”
“I'm an out of work preacher, Doctor Todd, so I have little money.”
Todd laughed and said, “I've yet to meet a rich doctor, dentist, or preacher, but let's take a look at your woma n.” He stood and followed Lew out the door.
Thirty minutes later, in the doctor’s office, Todd said, “Hell, you did all the patchin' up, so my fee is seventeen dollars and a half, for two weeks of bed rest in my office.”
“Doc that's more money than most hard working men make in a week of hard work. Can you come down a mite? I don't even know this woman, but I feel obligated to see her well cared for.”
“Why do you feel anything for this woman? I mean, we don't even know her name.”
“I was married a few years back and had me a passel of little buttons, seven to be exact. I went off on my usual preaching circuit and when I returned they'd all died, including my wife, from an unknown fever. I have a soft spot for women and kids now.” Lew lied easily enough.
“I'd guess so. Okay, make it a golde n eagle for two weeks, but I can go no lower.”
It was then the woman opened her eyes and in a weak voiced asked, “W . . . where am I?”
Dr. Todd said, “You're in Bulldog, but I didn't catch your name.”
“I'm April Gunn. I remember arguing with Charles, running from the house and then feeling something hit me hard in the back.”
“Well, this gentleman here, Reverend James Stoner, brought you to my office and I'm Doctor Todd. I'm afraid you need at least two weeks of bed rest.”
“Miss Gunn, why would this Charles fellow shoot you? Is he your husband or pa?” Lew asked.
“He's my husband, and a mean sonofabitch when he's been in his cups. Most of the time he beats my ass and then rapes me. But, this is the first time he's tried to kill me.”
“He is your husband?” Todd asked.
“Yes, but before we married he was as nice as they come. He's a good man, most of the time, but he turns barnyard dog mean when drinkin'.”
“Ain't no reason for a man to beat on a woman or take her against her will. How about you telling me where you live so I can ride out to your place and let him know you're hurt pretty bad?”
“Go back to the river, then ride north for two miles, and you'll see our place near where another smaller river runs into the Big Piney. It's in a valley, white house, blue shutters, and a brand new barn. I know Charles has sobered up by now and scared to death something happened to me.”
Putting his hat on, “I'll ride back and have a talk with him. I'll let him know God doesn't like women beat on or shot. I think he'll receive my message quickly enough.”
“I surely hope so, Mister Stoner, because deep down inside he's a good man.”
“Don't you worry none, I'll let him know you're here.” Lew said and then thought, After I beat the hell out of him.
Chapter 4
DUPREE spat a wad of bloody mucus to the sawdust covered floor, just an inch from his face, then tried to raise his pistol, only his body didn't want to obey any commands from his brain. He didn't fee l much pain, not yet, but knew it'd come with time. He was able to cock the pistol, but he couldn't get it to come up any higher.
When the barrel of Dupree's gun raised a tad, Samuel fired again and this shot took the man in head, about a quarter of an inch above his left ear, splattering bone, brains and blood all over the wall. When the bullet punched a hole through the man's head and the floor, the b artender yelled, “Somebody fetch a doctor!”
“He's down, Sam.” Dutch said and started to rise.
The bartender pulled a sawed off Greener shotgun from behind the bar and said, “Sit back down mister, and you, the man who did the killin' , ya go back to your table and we'll wait on the sheriff.”
“Why do ya have that thing pointed at me? Hell, I tried my best to avoid a fight and even warned the man I'd kill 'em.” Sam said in anger as he flopped down in his chair.
“I saw and heard it all. We'll let the coppers decide if ya walk free or not. I'm just a bartender, but I'm tired of gun-play and then everyone scatters leavin' me to explain what happened to the law. From now on, everyone stays put until a law dog questions folks.”
“Well, that's fine with me, but if that's the case, bring us a quart of good rye.” Bill said.
Ten minutes later a deputy walked in, along with a doctor, and the lawman asked, “Who did the shootin'?”
“I did,” Samuel said, “only I tried
my damnedest to a void gun play.”
“Oscar, is that how you saw it?” The law dog looked at the bartender.
Oscar explained what he'd seen and added, “George, this Sam man here tried his best to avoid a fight, but when that other feller went for his gun, he didn't stand a chance. This Sam jasper plugged him twice, before he even cleared leather, but that feller still tried to kill 'em. When on the floor, he raised the barrel of his handgun the last time, so Sam put a slug in his head. That was all she wrote on this gunfight.”
The deputy questioned all the patrons of the saloon, as the doctor pronounced Ben as dead as all get out, and then moved to the bar. Ordering a double bourbon, he sipped his drink and waited for the lawman to finish his invest igation. Everyone in the place stated Sam had tried to get out of the fight, but the other man was bound and determined to get his ass killed.
Walking to Sam's table, the deputy said, “That was good shootin' for a man dressed like a cowboy. Both of those slugs in the shoulder could have been covered with a double eagle. Where'd a man like you learn to shoot like that?”
“In the war, son, and all of us that survived are good shots. We had to be, just to survive.” Sam said.
“The bad shots,” Bill added, “died pretty quick. His shooting wasn't nothing any one of us three couldn't do. I'll bet if you lined up fifty vets from the war, the side don't matter none, a good forty-eight of them could shoot a close group like that.”
“Maybe so. Listen, I don't have anything to take you in for, but I want you out of my town come first light. Do you understand? This is a quiet place and I'm paid to keep it that way.”
“I'll be gone at sunup, but not because ya told me to scat. I have business out west and won't be in this town longer than need be.” Samuel said, picked up his cigar and took a puff. He let the smoke float toward the deputy.
“Bring us another bottle, bartender.” Bill called out as he stood.
“Good. If I run into you again tonight over any kind of trouble, I'll run your ass in and then think of a charge after I lock you up.” the copper said, and then using his ri ght hand, fanned the smoke from his face.