Sawbones

by William W. Johnstone

  He laid a hand on Knight’s shoulder. “You hold your temper in check, sir. Don’t go shooting anybody, especially him, unless you want to lead this outfit.” Alton studied him.

  Knight pulled free.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you to lead such a dangerous group. Now, you want to help me paw through the booty to see what’ll keep us going for another week or two?”

  “I’m no thief.” Knight stormed from the trading post.

  He heard Hector Alton’s mocking, “Not a thief, except for a few horses and an entire set of clothes off a dead rancher. And I do wonder where that six-gun came from.”

  Knight swung into the saddle and rode off, the words ringing in his ears. Alton was right. He wasn’t any better than Nott or any other petty thief, except stealing bothered him.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Why can’t we move on?” Samuel Knight put the question to Milo Hannigan and did not try to sugarcoat the tone. “Robbing the trading post didn’t get us anything worth mentioning, and three men died.”

  “Wasn’t anybody who mattered,” Johnny Nott said. He cleaned his fingernails with a large knife and never bothered looking in Knight’s direction. “Not all of us are squeamish about folks dyin’.”

  “I saw more die than you’ll ever kill,” Knight snapped. “Too many of them died under my knife. It wasn’t possible to save all of them. Or even many of them.”

  “The difference, Doc, is that you didn’t put ’em on your table ’fore you killed them. Yankees did. Me, I make sure it’s my lead in their black hearts. There wasn’t a one of the men at the trading post what wasn’t a Yankee. You’re not tellin’ me to save a Yankee, any Yankee. Ever. Not a one of ’em is worth savin’.”

  “We didn’t have a quarrel with them, and they didn’t owe us a cent.”

  “They were Northerners,” Nott said, flicking dirt from the knife tip and swinging around to squint hard at Knight. “You sound like you’re turnin’ soft on them, Knight. You don’t care to kill Yankees anymore?”

  “I took a vow to save lives, not take them. And we’re not at war. They won, Nott. The Federals won, in spite of anything we did then or can do now.”

  “And you’re fine with what they’re doin’? You’re fine with that carpetbagger in bed with your wife and the two of ’em—” Nott went for his six-shooter as he saw Knight’s reaction. He was too slow by half.

  Knight’s revolver was already coming up fast, his thumb on the hammer.

  “Wait, Doc.” Ben Lunsford grabbed Knight’s arm and held on to keep the six-gun from rising to center on Johnny Nott’s chest. “You don’t want to do this. We’re all friends here, partners. If there’s one thing them Yankees would want, it’s for us to be fightin’ amongst ourselves.”

  Knight pulled free and slammed his pistol back into the holster. Without a word, he walked away. Behind him he heard the low murmur as Nott protested being thrown down on like that when he didn’t expect it. Knight and Nott had never gotten along, but now he had created a real enemy. Watching his back became a priority anytime he and Nott were together, and maybe especially when Nott was out of sight.

  “I saw what you did, Dr. Knight. You’ve got a fast hand. About the fastest I’ve seen.”

  “Other than your own, Alton?”

  “There’s no call for us to brag on ourselves. We’re both mighty quick with a gun.”

  Knight spun on the dandy and shoved his face within inches. “Why are you here, Alton? I patched you up, and your arm and side are all healed. You attached yourself to Hannigan like a horsefly to a rump.”

  “That’s mighty graphic. I can see it now, only instead of one of those black horseflies, it’s a fly with my face buzzing around before coming down to suck some blood. Is that what you meant?”

  “You’re not mad at what I said. Any other man would be.”

  “Might be your speed with that Colt scares me.”

  Knight edged away. Hector Alton never moved a muscle. Whatever he felt, it wasn’t fear. The harder Knight tried to figure out the man, the muddier the picture became. Saving him from the two soldiers had been too coincidental to believe, and now he rode with them for no reason Knight could fathom. Killing traders and gaining nothing from it hardly squared with the way Alton acted and spoke. Everything he did furthered his personal plans.

  Knight had no idea what those plans might be.

  “If you want to hold up banks like Nott keeps saying, why not team up with him? Partners splitting the take two ways is better than spreading around twenty dollars among eight of us.”

  “Well, sir, I’ve taken a fancy to riding with Milo Hannigan. It can’t be that a man as smart as him doesn’t have a stack of wanted posters following him around.”

  “You talk like a bounty hunter.”

  “A bounty hunter? Not that, Doctor. I want to ride with real outlaws. Anyone who can plan a daring theft is someone I support. My gun will back up the man with a stagecoach to rob. So far, all we’ve stolen have been those beeves and a herd of horses.”

  Knight felt the sting. Other than the rancher’s horses, he was the only one bringing in stolen mounts. “You ought to be afraid of the army finding out who gunned down their two soldiers.”

  Alton grinned crookedly and shook his head. “We know what happened. You’d be swinging from a gallows if I hadn’t shot them boys, but as far as the Federals know, you’re the one who killed the pair. What was the one’s name? Reilly? Him and you were acquaintances? Don’t you think Captain Norwood knows that? It’s your name on any arrest warrant, not mine. Nobody in these parts knows me.”

  “Why did you come here, Alton? It’s a long way from New Orleans. We don’t have the whorehouses or gambling or much else to appeal to a sophisticated man about town like you.” The man looked for all the world like a riverboat gambler. Or a gunman, with his two pistols in shoulder rigs and another pistol hidden away.

  “A change of scenery is always good for a man. You realize this now that you’ve tried to go home to Pine Knob and found it wasn’t as you . . . left it.”

  “A better question is why do you stay? Hannigan isn’t offering anything but trouble. Nott is killing men and not gaining anything but the sick personal thrill of it. Is that what you want to do? Kill people like you did the two soldiers?”

  “You are a troubled man, Dr. Samuel Knight. A troubled man. Settle down some and we can talk again.” Alton went off, whistling tunelessly.

  Knight’s hand twitched. It was so easy to draw and fire.

  But that’s what Nott would do. Shooting a man in the back wasn’t an honorable thing. Murdering a man went against everything Knight believed. He was better than Nott, and he was better than Hector Alton. But the questions about the dandy festered like a burr under a toenail. Why had he come? Why’d he stay and what had provoked him to shoot the two soldiers? No answers came.

  That told Knight as much as he needed to know. Suddenly, getting away from the gang mattered most. If he rode with Hannigan much longer, the law would catch up with him. The law or the army, Captain Norwood riding at the head of the column as bugles blew and cavalry sabers flashed in the bright Texas sun.

  He had to part ways but felt an obligation to the Lunsfords. The two weren’t outlaws, not like Nott or even Milo Hannigan. If he got them to ride with him, he would feel better. And to hell with the rest of the gang.

  * * *

  “What’s wrong, Doc?” Hector Alton levered around into his rifle. He should have been watching the road but kept a hawklike gaze on Knight.

  “This is wrong. For two weeks we haven’t done anything right. We should be in El Paso del Norte by now. Farther west. In New Mexico. Anywhere but here.”

  “You stayed and you didn’t put up much protest when Hannigan suggested robbing this stagecoach. It’s been a week since word of the gold shipment got out. Don’t you think he’s been careful?”

  Hannigan had scouted along the stagecoach route to find the perfect place for the robbery. Askin
g around the town—Knight couldn’t even remember the name—had brought assurances that the gold shipment was real and significant. The raid on the trading post had been spontaneous and that lack of planning had shown, in both the bodies piled up and the lack of money stolen. Hannigan did everything right this time to make sure nobody got shot and that they would ride away with saddlebags full of gold coin.

  “I can’t fault him except on one point. What’s the gold for?”

  “I don’t follow you.” Alton shifted to aim the rifle down the road toward the spot where the stage slowed on a steep incline. “What do you mean?”

  “Gold coins? A stagecoach carrying a strongbox crammed full? The bank in that town is tiny.”

  “That’s why we aren’t robbing the bank. There’s nothing there.”

  “Who gets the gold? There aren’t cattle markets around. Farmers won’t bring in their crop for another month. Who’s sending the gold and where’s it going?”

  “You worry too much, Doc.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Ben Lunsford does, and you don’t mind. We’re an informal bunch. I told you. Call me Heck. You want me to call you Sam, like Hannigan does?”

  Knight ignored that and said, “There’s the stage. I see the dust cloud its wheels kick up.”

  “Time to get rich.”

  Knight’s gut churned. His objection to the robbery had been ignored. Becoming an outlaw didn’t set well with him, no matter who that gold might belong to. After this, even if the Lunsfords refused to join him, he planned to leave the gang.

  Alton’s rifle barked. Knight jumped, though he expected it. He swung his own rifle around and tracked the driver. If the stagecoach didn’t stop at the top of the incline, he was supposed to shoot the driver. He drew a bead, then moved it away from the bulky man’s midriff. For him, now that he had spent so much time shooting at game, this was an easy shot. The difference was that a human life hung in the balance, not a deer’s or rabbit’s.

  The driver looped his reins around the brake and stood in the box, hands high. Knight straightened, then blurted, “Where’s the shotgun messenger? There’s no guard in the box with the driver.”

  “So what?”

  “The gold, the gold! Who sends that much gold without a guard?”

  “Might be they thought to sneak it past. We don’t see a guard, we don’t think anything there’s worth stealing.” Hector Alton sounded pleased at his conclusion.

  Knight jumped to his feet, shielded his eyes, and made a slow turn, taking in the entire terrain. He spun back and saw Hannigan, Nott, and Lattimer riding toward the stage, bandannas up over their noses and six-shooters drawn. Every instinct in Knight’s body told him something was wrong, and a second later he saw what it was.

  Bluecoats boiled from inside the stagecoach.

  Knight lowered his rifle and fired. The slug took off the lead horse’s ear, causing enough of a ruckus to give Hannigan and the others a chance to react to the soldiers. Two men had even ridden in the boot. They threw back the canvas flap and tumbled out, carbines blazing.

  The sudden noise, the commotion, and so many horses rearing in fright turned the robbery into chaos. That was all that saved Milo Hannigan from being shot from the saddle by the hard-riding Captain Norwood. The officer and a squad of men had hidden in some nearby trees and charged the robbers.

  Knight settled his nerves, took a breath, and started shooting. To kill another man, even a Yankee soldier, turned his stomach. He did his best to send his rounds into the side of the stage. The sound of a bullet ripping through wood added to the confusion. When the team hitched to the stage pulled free and raced away, even more dust clouded the scene.

  “They’d better get away now while they can. Did they see the soldiers coming at them?” Knight spoke to empty air. Hector Alton had vanished along with his horse.

  Realizing he had been given silent advice, Knight backed away, found his horse, and galloped away. Letting the others fight their way free of the ambush didn’t set well with him, but if he was caught, he would hang. Norwood would take a single look at him and order his men to tie a noose and find a tree tall enough for an execution. The only solace Knight took in his retreat came with the knowledge that none of the others had a reward on his head. If they were caught, it would go easier on them than if they were wanted for a dozen other crimes.

  At least he didn’t think anyone else had a wanted poster following them around. Nott might. Knight had no good feelings for the back shooter, but the others deserved better than to be locked up in a federal jail, probably all the way north in Detroit, for such a poorly planned and executed robbery.

  He reached the edge of a forest and plunged into the shade. It felt as if he’d entered a different world. More than once he changed direction to lay a false trail. His horse’s hooves crushed pine needles and twigs as he rode but with enough backtracking and riding along game trails to find creeks to follow, he stood a good chance of becoming impossible to track.

  By the time the sun dipped low, he approached their camp. Two horses stood off to one side where a rope had been strung to use as a tether. He recognized Hector Alton sitting on a stump. The other man had his back to him and vanished into shadow. Knight made a circuit of the camp and got a better look at the man with Alton.

  He rode in and dismounted. “Are you all right, Porkchop?”

  “Doc, they shot me up. I can’t keep all the holes plugged.” The man tried to stand, wobbled, and collapsed.

  Knight grabbed his medical bag and went to the fallen outlaw. He ripped open Porkchop’s shirt.

  “My good shirt, Doc. You tore it.”

  “That’s the least of your worries. You have any whiskey? This is going to hurt like hell.” He took out a thin flexible probe and forceps. Porkchop had taken no fewer than five slugs. Dismissing the two in his arms as minor, Knight concentrated on the three in Porkchop’s chest and belly. The thin rod snaked down into the wound until resistance betrayed the depth of the bullet. He used the forceps to pull out the first slug, tossed it into the dirt, and worked to stop the bleeding.

  “Here’s all the liquor I got.”

  He glanced up. Alton held out a pint bottle. Keeping his hands on the wound, Knight said, “Pour a little in this wound. Then give a healthy swig to Porkchop.”

  By the time the whiskey was gone and Porkchop had passed out, Knight had pulled all five bullets from his body. His hands were covered in blood up to his elbows and so much had leaked from the patient that the ground had turned to bloody muck.

  “He got shot up bad. Is he going to make it?” Alton peered over the doctor’s shoulder.

  “Get a fire started. I need boiling water to clean up the wounds.”

  “Is that smart? The blue bellies must be out there hunting for us.”

  Knight wasn’t in a mood to argue. He stabbed out with the forceps as if they were a knife. “Do it.” He put enough menace in his words to make Alton obey automatically.

  The man caught himself, then said, “You got a temper, Doc. A real temper. You are going to get in big trouble if you don’t keep it under your hat.”

  Knight almost came to his feet to drive the forceps into Alton’s back, then caught himself. The dandy meant to fuel that anger, but Knight took it as a warning and something to be aware of. Going off half-cocked benefitted no one and only got him deeper in trouble. He settled down and worked on the wounds, taking a heated pebble with his forceps to cauterize the worst of the wounds to be sure all bleeding had stopped. By the time he finished, Porkchop had even stopped moaning. He looked up to see Milo Hannigan and the others slowly making their way into the camp.

  From the bloody arms and faces, the rest of them hadn’t escaped untouched. A quick count showed that no one had been left behind—or killed.

  Knight went to Ben Lunsford. “You and Seth all right?”

  Ben painfully dismounted and turned to him, nodding slowly.

  A quick check assured Knight the wounds
were superficial. “You get yourself cleaned up. I’ll see to the others.”

  “Lattimer took a bullet in the shoulder. That man’s gonna have more scars than you can shake a stick at,” Seth Lunsford said. He held up his arms and spun about to show he had escaped unwounded. “It was pretty terrible, Doc. We got away, though.”

  “This time.” Knight failed to hold down his complaint.

  Hannigan went over. Every line in his face blazed anger. He hunted for someone to take it out on, and Knight had given him the target. “You weren’t anywhere to be seen. You have something to do with them Federals coming at us from all directions?”

  “Nobody warned them,” Knight said. “They set us up. What happened at the trading post told them we were in the area, and asking about gold shipments the way you did sent some townsman running to Norwood. The ambush had to happen, if you believe the army’s here to keep the peace.”

  “Peace, my ass! They’re here to enslave us. They—”

  “Admit it, Hannigan. You made a mistake, and we all paid for it. Porkchop’s going to live, but only because Alton and I took care of him.”

  “Alton. Where is that popinjay? I should never have trusted a man who dresses like that.”

  “We should have been in Arizona by now. Or Paso del Norte or anywhere that’s not the Piney Woods. There’s nothing here for us.”

  “Speak for yourself, Sam. You’re the one who’s burned all his bridges. We can live off the banks and stages, and there’s got to be an army post or two we can rob.”

  Knight saw Lattimer sink to the ground and flop back. Seth had said it was only a shoulder wound, but the man had lost blood and might be going into shock. Without so much as a fare-thee-well to Hannigan, Knight went to the fallen man and began working on the wound. The bullet had buried itself in deep and stopped only when it hit bone. For the time and effort he expended on Lattimer’s wounds, he could have fixed Porkchop twice over.

  The stars hid behind swiftly moving storm clouds well past midnight by the time he finished bandaging everyone. Exhausted, he stretched out on the ground and tried to sleep. He kept thinking of the trap and how close a call it had been. They all might have ended up in a Federal prison—or worse. If Hannigan or Nott or any of the others had killed another soldier, Captain Norwood would never rest until they were all caught or killed.