Sawbones

by William W. Johnstone

  Knight put aside the two empty rifles and took up a third. He had Comanche warriors as targets. Somehow, this steadied his hand even more and let him get off one killing shot after another. Only one Indian remained when the rifle came up empty. The Comanche screeched and waved a knife high above his head as he charged.

  Knight drew his Colt Navy and aimed it. The Indian skidded to a halt, stared wide-eyed at him, then turned and ran. Knight never cocked the gun or pulled the trigger. He knew the gun was empty. Two quick steps took him to the dandy draped over the saddle. Patting the man down for more weapons produced nothing but a pair of brass knuckles. They would be useless in the kind of fight offered by the Indians. Knight rummaged in saddlebags for the man’s two spare six-shooters and returned to his spot on the hill, ready to add some lead to that still flying below.

  Such a distance with a handgun defied the odds. He began firing, not so much hoping to hit anything as to add to the confusion. One Indian had run off due to a bluff. This was a more emphatic one.

  It worked, too. Whether the Indians had taken enough punishment from those inside the house or thought they faced an entire army attacking from the rear didn’t matter. They galloped away, leaving the dust to settle on their dead.

  “Come on. Let’s see if anyone’s alive.” Knight tried not to imagine what he would find in the house. Better to deal only with reality than conjure up death and destruction where none might exist.

  He led his team of horses down the hill, going slow to give Hannigan or whoever remained inside the house a chance to identify him. When no bullet ripped toward him, he figured his approach worked. Either that or they had run out of ammunition. Almost to the house, he stopped to stamp out bits of tar that had dripped from an arrow to the ground and threatened to ignite a patch of weeds.

  “Hello! I need some help. I have a wounded man.”

  Milo Hannigan came onto the porch, limping. He clutched a rifle in one hand and used the other to support himself against the railing. “You keep coming back like a bad penny. Every time you turn up, you’re bringing another surprise. Who’s that?”

  “Don’t rightly know, but he saved me from getting captured by two soldiers from Pine Knob.”

  “Do tell.” Hannigan bellowed for help.

  Sounds like rats scurrying turned into boots thudding on wood planking. Ben Lunsford came out, six-shooter in his hand. Behind him stood Johnny Nott, covered in blood.

  From a quick study, Knight decided none of that belonged to Nott. “How’d the fight go this time?” He didn’t want to hear the casualties but asked anyway.

  “The rancher’s in bad shape. His future son-in-law is running things. Two of the cowboys?” Hannigan shook his head. “Porkchop caught one in his shoulder, but Ben fixed him up. No change in Lattimer or Seth.” With some pain he thrust out his leg. “I stopped an arrow when they first attacked. Snuck up and fired from hiding.”

  “This job’s costin’ more’n anybody figgered,” Porkchop said, collapsing into a chair behind Hannigan on the porch. “Worst part is, them Injuns stole all the cattle. I asked. The rancher only had a couple pigs. They’re gone and all et up by now. Damned redskins.” He coughed up some blood and spat.

  “We going to get paid? The money, at least?” That hardly mattered to Knight but he had to ask. He wasn’t sure why.

  “We took what money he had. How do you want your ten dollars? In greenbacks or two-bit pieces?”

  “I had my mouth all set to wrap around a steak,” Ben Lunsford said. “You need help with him, Doc?”

  “I could use it.” He began untying his patient. It took most of his strength to keep the dandy from slipping off and landing in a pile on the ground.

  “The groom-to-be has sent for the army,” Hannigan said. “One of the hands went off before the Comanches hit us again.” He saw Knight’s reaction. “It was blue bellies that caught you, wasn’t it?”

  “The dandy gunned them down and saved me from being dragged back in front of Captain Norwood. The soldiers recognized me.”

  “We got to ride before they come to fight off the Indians,” Hannigan said. “We’re in no shape to ride, but those spare horses you got will help since most of ours were stolen.” He spat disgustedly. “Thievin’ redskins.”

  “I’ll see to Seth and the others. Are they inside?”

  “Go on, Sam. There’s plenty of tack to saddle up these nags you brought.” Hannigan went to where the dandy lay. “What are we going to do with him?”

  “Leave him.” Knight remembered how easily he had gunned down the two soldiers, not knowing who he saved or anything about the situation with the Indians on the warpath. “He never told me his name.”

  “Alton.” The stranger’s voice was no more than a husky whisper.

  “What’s that?” Hannigan knelt and gripped the fancy lapels and lifted.

  “My name’s Hector Alton. You can’t leave me. Not if the army’s coming. I gunned down two blue bellies to save Knight.”

  “That so?” Hannigan looked up.

  Knight only nodded. Something churned in his gut that told him it was wrong having anything to do with this man—with Hector Alton. Before he put his finger on it, Ben Lunsford called to him from the house. He abandoned Alton to Hannigan’s custody and went inside, expecting the worst. To his surprise, Seth sat up, had color in his face, and grinned in recognition.

  “Doc. You made it back in one piece.”

  “Barely. Let me check your bandages. We’re going to hit the trail mighty soon.”

  “There’s nothing keepin’ us here,” Ben Lunsford said. “The rancher died. All that one talks about is marryin’ the girl and ownin’ this place.” He leaned over and whispered confidentially, “I don’t think he loves her. He just wants the ranch.”

  “What there is left of it. Milo said all the cattle have been run off. Porkchop complained about no pigs. For defending them, all we got is ten dollars apiece.”

  “You know, Doc, you and the rancher are—were—are about the same size. Why don’t you take some of his clothes as payment? That cowhand of his ain’t goin’ to wear his boss’s clothes.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Ben said, “his future wife would be reminded of her pa. That’s not a wedding night fit for man nor beast.”

  “Get Seth out and help Milo get the horses ready.” Knight heaved a sigh. “Looks like we have a new recruit by the name of Hector Alton.”

  “Alton?” Ben Lunsford scowled. “I’ve heard that name. Leastways, I think I have. Maybe the face will ring a bell.”

  “You watch your back. Just like you do with Johnny.” Knight felt the jaws of a vise closing around him. He had to run because the cavalry had been called, and he didn’t trust the men he rode with. His life had gone downhill fast after returning home.

  “I gotcha.” Ben Lunsford helped Seth to his feet and out the door.

  Knight prowled through the house, opening drawers and feeling like he was a grave robber. In a way he was, but he told himself the rancher owed them for risking their lives. It wasn’t their fault there had been so many Comanches. It wasn’t their fault, either, that the rancher had caught an arrow that took his life.

  He made his way to the wardrobe in the bedroom. More than half was filled with women’s clothing. Pushing that aside, he came to the rancher’s duds. He took out a black Sunday-go-to-meeting suit. It was too formal for the trail but nothing else in the wardrobe was much better than the tatters he wore. Looking like an undertaker was the least of his worries, but best of all in the bottom of the cabinet stood a pair of boots. He kicked off his with holes worn through the soles and patched with old newspaper and tried on the rancher’s boots.

  A few steps convinced him they were a mite small but better than what he had worn since leaving New York. He rooted around a little more, then came upon the real find. A box with powder, slugs, percussion caps and wadding perfect for his Colt Navy. That weighed down his left pocket while he settled the holster an
d six-gun on his right hip. Facing a full-length mirror, he struck a pose. He looked downright prosperous. Then he squared off with his image, pulled back the black coattail and drew as fast as he could.

  “That’s mighty impressive.”

  He stepped to one side and saw Hannigan’s reflection in the mirror.

  “You practice more and you’ll be the second fastest gunman in all of Texas.”

  “Second?”

  “You’ll never best me, Sam. Don’t forget that. Get your ass out of here. We’re ready to ride.” Hannigan turned to leave, then said, over his shoulder, “That recruit you brought in . . . Hector Alton. He’s going to work out just fine. He’s got the right attitude, especially about the Federals and their carpetbagging ways.”

  Knight followed Hannigan and had gotten to the hallway when a gunshot rang out. Running, he burst onto the porch. Hector Alton stood propped against a railing, his six-gun held in his left hand. A cowboy lay dead on the porch.

  “What happened?” Knight had to ask since Hannigan didn’t. “Why’d you shoot him?”

  “This is the kid who was goin’ to marry the boss’s daughter,” Ben Lunsford said. “He was a snake but not dumb enough to throw down on any of us, not after we saved his worthless hide the way we did.”

  “He tried to stop us from leaving,” Alton said, tucking his six-gun back under his right arm. “He wanted the army to arrest us for not doing our job of protecting him.” Alton snorted. “I never agreed to protect him from anything. Lifting that rifle in my direction was a mistake.”

  Porkchop hobbled over and looked at the body. “He wasn’t inclined to pay us. I say, good riddance. The girl’s better off not havin’ to marry him. Which is my horse?”

  Knight locked eyes with Alton. The faint smile on the man’s lips showed how much he had enjoyed taking a life.

  “Doc, come on. Mount up. We gotta ride!” Lunsford said.

  Knight silently mounted and followed the others as they rode west once more, leaving the carnage behind. He made sure to keep Johnny Nott in front of him. Him and Hector Alton.

  CHAPTER 15

  Gerald Donnelly tried not to limp. It was unseemly for the man in charge of Reconstruction in the entire town. While he lacked a title, everyone knew he held the reins of power. No one in Pine Knob so much as sneezed without asking first—and paying for the privilege.

  As he made his way down the main street, he passed in front of the bank. He balanced on his cane and touched the brim of his hat to acknowledge the banker, Frederick Fitzsimmons, sitting behind his big desk and looking important. The banker pointedly turned away, giving Donnelly cause to smile. Fitzsimmons had run things before the war, and maybe during, as well. While most of the men were in the CSA, he had taken advantage of the financial problems so many left behind had experienced by foreclosing and taking the deeds to many farms and a few surrounding ranches.

  He had no love for Gerald Donnelly. Not when Donnelly told the circuit judge to seize all that property and put it up for sale. More than one prime farm had come his way as a result, much to Fitzsimmons’s dismay. The banker had been the richest man in town. A few short months reduced him to just another business owner. Donnelly vowed it wouldn’t be long before he took more than all the fine horses and their pasture behind his house from the corrupt banker. Fitzsimmons would be lucky if he didn’t get his neck stretched for all the crimes he had committed.

  Yes, sir, Reconstruction would put it all right.

  Donnelly shot the banker one last sardonic smile, then hobbled on. His foot hurt like a million ants chewed on it. Knight had been expert in slicing the Achilles tendon. The fool of a doctor in town now said nothing could be done. He had tried to stitch up the wound and had let it get infected. Donnelly needed to find a way to get a new doctor in town and drive that one out.

  When Dr. Samuel Knight had left, the city fathers had done what they could to replace him. All they had found was a first-year medical student with eyesight so bad the CSA refused to take him. For most things, his near blindness hardly mattered. Let him get his nose down into a wound to see what he stitched up, but Donnelly knew the infirmity had kept the man from doing a proper job.

  Either that or he was in cahoots with Knight. That was a distinct possibility. Most of the town opposed Donnelly and were unrepentant rebels.

  The whitewashed city hall rose to his left. He leaned against a post on the boardwalk and studied it. The mayor and three members of the town council had offices there, as well as Marshal Ike Putnam, when he wasn’t in his tiny jail immediately to the north. The marshal hadn’t cooperated with him. Losing his office space gave a subtle hint what else Donnelly could do with the power of Washington behind him. He had a couple men in mind to replace Putnam after he got rid of him. That was taking longer than he’d expected because the marshal was the mayor’s brother.

  The mayor had to go, too, for real peace to come to Pine Knob. But not today. The next election would be soon enough for the broom to sweep clean. Donnelly would see to that.

  He made his way across the dusty street, dodging wagons and horsemen who had no respect for his infirmity. His cane clicked against the wood steps leading up to the city hall’s double doors. Inside he heard a scurrying as if rats had taken over the building. His telltale cane alerted everyone in the town hall that their civic adviser was on the way.

  “Good morning, Mr. Donnelly.” A slight man with sandy hair, glasses and a perpetually frightened look opened the door for him.

  “Is Captain Norwood here yet, Eustace?”

  “He said he’d be late, sir. Something about losing a scouting party.”

  “If he’s not here in fifteen minutes, ride out to the camp and tell him to get his ass here immediately.”

  “Uh, yes, sir. I, uh, I’ll give him that message.”

  “Exactly as I told you. Don’t weasel out and try to prettify it. He has to know who’s in charge here.”

  “I know who’s in charge, Donnelly.” Captain Norwood came up from behind, his step surprisingly soft. “While you are in charge of civilian affairs, I am the district military commander. The only military commander, I might add. I answer to the War Department only.”

  “In my office, sir.” Donnelly refused to argue in front of underlings such as Leonard. Further, he knew ears were pressed to door panels around the small rotunda, all eagerly waiting for a fight between him and Norwood. Such gossip would cause tongues to wag for weeks. He would not give them the pleasure of such a fight. Moreover, arguing with Norwood made it seem as if he wasn’t in control of everything to do with Pine Knob.

  That had to be avoided or he would find the citizens of this sleepy little town taking up arms against him, the very thing he had been sent all the way from Boston to prevent. Any insurrection had to be snuffed out before it gathered fuel for fire that existed because of the war. Only if he failed to keep everyone in line would use of the military be required. And Gerald Donnelly never failed. Ever.

  “Allow me.” Captain Norwood held the door open. He made a sardonic half bow as Donnelly crowded past and went into what had been the mayor’s office before he had appropriated it. The view of the piney woods was the only thing about it that Donnelly liked. He didn’t care that the mayor ended up in a room hardly larger than a broom closet. The decisions required to keep Pine Knob a functioning town came from here, not the mayor’s desk.

  He hobbled around the desk and collapsed into the chair. It creaked under his weight. A new chair was necessary if he intended to keep decent office hours. His cane clicked down on the desk so the tip pointed toward the officer. He doubted Norwood noticed the thin metal tip covering the muzzle of the gun built into the walking stick.

  “Captain, you have a wrongheaded idea about how things are decided around here. You do not tend to civilian affairs. I do. Your role is to keep the peace and do as I tell you.”

  “General Sherman disagrees. I have orders divorcing me from civilian control. With the Indian uprising gath
ering ferocity, my troopers must patrol farther afield every week to prevent massacres.” He made a sour face. “A ranch not twenty miles away has been attacked. Drifters joined the ranch hands to fend off two attacks. With such persistence, the Indians are likely to commit to a third for revenge.”

  “Have you sent a squad out to support them?” Donnelly saw the answer in the man’s face.

  “A better use of my men’s time is not to tidy up after an attack but to find the Comanches’ camp and deter them there. With force, if necessary, though I prefer to negotiate. Whatever their demands, they might be met and violence forestalled.”

  “You’re a West Point graduate, aren’t you?”

  “A proud West Pointer, yes. What of it, sir?” Norwood drew himself to full attention. If his knees locked any harder he would faint and topple over—while still at attention.

  “Nothing, just making an observation.” Donnelly disliked seeking favors from a man he despised, but he lacked manpower to do it himself. Norwood wasn’t committing his soldiers to field action, which meant any of several possibilities. They were ill-trained and vulnerable against braves tempered in the fires of a dozen raids. Equipment had yet to arrive. Norwood lacked sufficient officers to sortie. All might be true, but nothing of that mattered. The captain had sufficient manpower to find and bring in Samuel Knight. That took precedence.

  “You are not inclined to idle speculation, sir. What is the reason you requested my presence this morning?”

  “No need to be so stiff and formal, Captain. Please. Sit down.”

  “I will remain standing.”

  Such petty disobedience almost made Donnelly say something he would regret. If the officer sat with his trousers so sharply pressed, the pleats might cut into a good chair. Or—

  He forced himself to smile and bow his head slightly. “As you wish. What have your scouts reported?”

  “Pine Knob is in no danger from the Comanches.”