Closing his eyes, Ash tried to relax. The morphine helped. It brought on the most wonderful feeling he ever experienced. Pure bliss was the only way to describe it. His veins pumped honey, his body tingled with pleasure, his brain soaked in delight. He never wanted it to end.
Ash’s chest, though, still felt as if a great weight were pressing down. He shifted to make himself more comfortable. It did no good. The heavy sensation persisted.
Ash thought about the sawbones’ idea. Boston was a long way from Texas.
He’d hate to go to all that trouble only to die on the operating table. Provided he even made it there. The stage ride alone might kill him. All that bouncing and jostling was enough to make healthy men and women ill. “What would it do to someone in my condition?” he asked out loud.
Then Ash thought about Ben Sharkey, about the ruse he had fallen for. He remembered the expression on Sharkey’s face when he squeezed the trigger. God, how Ash would love to pay Sharkey back. His trigger finger twitched at the prospect.
It seemed to Ash he could do one of two things. He could risk the trip to Boston, which might kill him, and if it didn’t, could then risk being put under the surgeon’s blade, which also might kill him. Or he could spend the time he had left doing what he most wanted to do.
Sunlight had faded from the bedroom window when Doc Peters returned bearing a tray with a small bowl of chicken soup. He sat on the edge of the bed and ladled a spoon into the soup. “Open up. We need to get some food into you.”
“I’ll feed myself, thank you very much.”
“You can’t and you know it. You’re not strong enough yet.”
Ash sought to prove him wrong by reaching for the tray. Almost instantly his chest spiked with pain. Not only that, his stomach roiled and bitter bile rose in his throat. Grimacing and wheezing, he let his arm drop.
“I warned you,” Doc said. “It will take a good long while for you to be able to move about. Even then you won’t be your old self. You’ll have to take everything nice and slow. On the stage ride you’ll want to bundle in blankets to cushion your body.”
“I’m not going to Boston.”
In the act of lifting the spoon, Doc stopped. “What? Why not? Didn’t I make it plain that Dr. Brewster is your only hope?”
“A slim hope, Doc. Your own word.”
“Yes, but . . .”
Ash looked down at his chest. “I could die with every breath I take. Why not make the time I have left count for something? Why not die doing what I should have done years ago in Salina, Kansas?”
Doc put the tray on the bed and sat back. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“The man who did this to me. Ben Sharkey. He’s a killer through and through. As long as he goes on breathing he’ll do to others what he did to me. I can stop that from happening.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting that you plan to go after him? Deputy Blocker told me that the man who shot you headed north with a younger man right after the shooting. Blocker led a posse clear to the county line but couldn’t catch them. By now this Sharkey could be anywhere.”
“I can find him. I’m good at manhunting.”
“Think, man. You are talking about days and weeks in the saddle. All that jouncing could do you in as readily as a stage ride.”
“I have been thinking, Doc. All afternoon. I want my death to count for something.” Ash stared at the gray of twilight out the window. “If I can find Ben Sharkey, I save the lives of all those he’s likely to kill in the months and years ahead.”
“By ‘find’ do you mean arrest him and put on trial?”
“I can’t go on wearing a badge. I’d be next to useless.” Ash shook his head. “Let’s just say that the next time Sharkey and me meet, only one of us will ride away.”
Doc grew somber. “I’m surprised at you, Asher. They have a word for that. You might have heard of it in your profession. They call it murder.”
“What do you think he’s done to me?”
“An eye for an eye and a murder for a murder? How can you throw away all the years you’ve worn a badge for something so trivial as vengeance?”
Forgetting himself, Ash went to move and the weight on his chest became a crushing anvil. He lay still until it subsided enough for him to say, “It’s not trivial to me. I see it as justice being done.”
“The slug grinding at your heart might kill you before you can track him down.”
“Maybe,” Ash conceded. “The important thing is that I get to have a say in how I go out of this world. Not many of us do.”
Doc Peters sighed. “This justice of yours will prove fatal. You know that, don’t you?”
Asher Thrall nodded.
Chapter 5
The ring of horseshoe on rock was much too loud. Ash rode with his hand on his Remington, his hat pulled low to keep the glare of the sun out of his eyes. In the heat of summer the hills were brown and dry. He had passed the last ranch more than a week ago.
The west part of Texas was a stark land of rattlesnakes and scorpions. Home to coyotes and cougars. Apaches roamed the region too, and Apache warriors would like nothing better than to come on a lone white man where no lone white man in his right mind should be.
Ash lifted the reins to spur up a hill, and gasped. That awful feeling was back, the terrible weight on his chest that wasn’t a weight at all but the pressure of the slug on his heart. For almost a month after he was shot the pressure and the pain had been nearly constant. It had been almost more than he could endure. If not for the morphine he might very well have done something he never, ever thought he would do.
The morphine. Ash glanced at his saddlebags. He had enough to last a spell. Without it . . . he shook his head.
Just like that, the pressure went away. Ash lifted the reins and continued his climb. It deviled him how the attacks came and went with no way to predict. He’d hardly felt a twinge since sunrise.
From the top of the hill spread a maze of more hills crisscrossed by washes and ravines. A harsh land, as inhospitable as any on earth. A land where outlaws hid with little fear of discovery by the law.
Ash looked down at the spot on his shirt where his badge used to be. He wasn’t the law anymore. He was an ordinary citizen. Legally, he had no right to do what he was doing. Bounty men hunted other men but he wasn’t after bounty. He didn’t give a damn about any reward money that might be on Ben Sharkey’s head. He just wanted Sharkey dead.
Ash remembered how persistent Doc Peters had been in trying to talk him out of it. In particular, one talk stuck in his mind. It had been about the eleventh or twelfth day he was bedridden and he had just finished a bowl of stew.
“Can we talk?” Doc had broached the subject.
“I owe you my life. You want to talk, we’ll talk.”
Doc had carried the tray to the dresser and come back to the chair. “I wish you would stop saying you owe me. I didn’t do anything.”
“I’m breathing, aren’t I?”
Doc had run his fingers through his hair. “It’s about this plan of yours. Please reconsider.”
“No.”
“Why spend the time you have left in misery? Sit in a rocking chair somewhere and savor what life is left to you.”
“We’ve been all through this,” Ash had responded. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m not gong to sit around feeling sorry for myself when I can make a difference.”
“That’s noble of you—,” Doc had begun.
Ash had interrupted with, “I’m being as selfish as hell. Blowing out Ben Sharkey’s wick will save however many folks he’s bound to kill if he goes on breathing but I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for me.”
Doc had drummed his fingers on the chair. “Very well. Let’s say that by some miracle you succeed. You find this Sharkey and you do whatever you aim to do to him. What then?”
“How do you mean?”
“What about after he’s dead? Have you thought that far ahead?”
“No,�
�� Ash had admitted.
“I advise you to come back to Mobeetie and take it easy for as long as you have left. The people here like you. You’ve been a fine law officer. Just the other day the mayor was saying how you’re the glue that holds this town together. You know its reputation.”
Indeed, Ash did. “The toughest town in Texas” was how Mobeetie had once been described. Hardly a month had gone by without a shooting or a knifing. It got so bad the town council fretted that law-abiding folks would be afraid to move there, and hired him. “Mobeetie will get along fine without me. They’ll pick a new marshal and life will go on.”
“You underestimate your worth.”
“Sorry, Doc. I’ve got it to do.”
On that note their talk had ended. They’d had others, but Ash refused to be talked out of his quest.
Soon after Ash was finally up and about, he had turned in his badge. He insisted on walking to the marshal’s office without help. Deputy Blocker was flabbergasted by the news.
“You’re doing what? I can’t accept your badge, Ash. You need to go see the mayor or the town council. They’re the ones who pinned it on you.”
“Explain for me.” Ash had taken off his tin and reverently set it on the desk.
“I don’t know what to say. There aren’t any words.”
Ash had gone over and held out his hand. “There’s this.”
The council had asked Blocker to fill in while they made up their minds whether to offer him the position permanently or to hire someone else.
Ash spent the next day outfitting for a long spell in the saddle and off he went. Now here he was, a moving speck in the middle of vast emptiness.
The roan pricked its ears and raised its head.
Ash gazed out over the bleak landscape and saw nothing to account for his mount’s sudden interest. He started down the hill and stiffened when gray tendrils caught his eye—wisps of smoke, maybe a quarter of a mile off. It could be the men he was after.
It could also be Apaches.
A dry wash hid him until he was near enough to smell the smoke. Drawing rein, Ash dismounted. He braced for more pressure in his chest and was relieved when there was none. Tugging his Winchester from the saddle scabbard, he stalked forward.
Voices told him they were white men.
Ash wormed to the crest of a wash. Below, hunkered around a campfire, were four men as scruffy as goats and as dirty as pigs. Each was an armory. Rifles were within quick reach.
Ash quietly worked the Winchester’s lever. Just as quietly he rose and moved toward them, the Winchester level at his hip. They were talking and joking and didn’t realize he was there until he was almost on top of them. Then a greasy-haired specimen with yellow teeth sprang erect, crying out, “We’ve got company, boys!”
Ash covered them but didn’t say anything.
The four glanced at one another and then at him and the man who had stood said, “Well, say something, damn it. Where the hell did you come from? You must be part Injun to sneak up on us like you did.”
“No need to point your artillery at us,” said another.
“We’re friendly,” claimed a third.
Ash sidled to the right so he had clear shots at all four. “Where do I find Ben Sharkey?”
Again they glanced at one another. A sly look came over the man on his feet.
“What was that handle again, Mister?”
Ash fixed the Winchester on him. “Pay attention. I’ll only say this once. Ben Sharkey is hiding out somewhere in these hills. I figure you four know where. Spare yourselves and tell me.”
“Listen to him,” taunted the last of the bunch.
“Who do you think you are marching in here like this and holding us at gunpoint?” demanded the one on his feet.
“I’d hoped we could do this easy,” Ash said. Inwardly he wrestled with his conscience. As a lawman he’d never harmed another soul unless he was given no choice. But he wasn’t wearing a badge now. He could do whatever he pleased.
The only thing was, what he wanted to do was something he would never do when he was wearing a badge.
The man who had stood showed his yellow teeth in a smirk of contempt. “There’s four of us and only one of you. Why don’t you skedaddle before you get us mad?”
Ash took another sidestep, his gaze on the three by the fire so that the one who had stood wouldn’t guess what he was up to. When he was close enough he lunged, slamming the Winchester’s stock against those yellow teeth. There was a distinct crunch. The man screeched and fell to his knees, blood and bits of broken teeth dribbling from his mouth. The other three started to rise but Ash trained the Winchester on them.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“Damn your hide!” a bearded man snarled.
“I’m going to ask again,” Ash said. “Where do I find Ben Sharkey?”
“What makes you so sure we know him?”
A quick step and Ash brought the stock crashing down on the man’s head. The crown of the man’s hat flattened and he folded at the waist and keeled onto his side, unconscious.
Fear showed on the last two. The skinniest gulped and splayed his fingers.
“Don’t hit me, Mister! I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
“Grimes!” the fourth man spat.
Grimes swore, then said, “What’s Sharkey that we should bleed for him? He doesn’t ride with us. He hides out in the badlands the same as we do, and that’s all. We don’t owe him a thing.”
“It’s not right to give him away,” the fourth man insisted.
“Since when did you get morals?” Grimes retorted. He faced Ash. “Mister, I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. You want Ben Sharkey, you’re welcome to him.” He pointed to the west. “There’s a cabin about a day’s ride. It’s hard to find but there should be tracks. It’s where those of us who fight shy of the law lay low sometimes.”
“The four of you are wanted men?”
Grimes licked his thin lips. “I thought it’s Ben Sharkey you’re after.”
Ash had another decision to make. These men were outlaws, as he’d suspected. He’d be doing Texas a favor if he took them in. It would delay his hunt, though, and the little time he had left was too precious to squander. “I’m leaving. Stay where you are.” He started to back into the dark.
The man on his knees looked up. His chin was slick with blood, his mouth a ruin. Hate blazed from his dark eyes. “You’re not going anywhere, you son of a bitch!” With that he clawed for a six-shooter.
Ash shot him in the face. He did it without thinking, as instinctively as breathing.
The man thrashed on the ground and kicked a few times and was still.
“Anyone else?” Ash asked.
“You had no call to do that,” said the one who had argued with Grimes. “You had no call at all.”
“Let him leave,” Grimes urged.
Ash continued backing away. When he deemed it safe he turned and ran to the roan. He shoved the Winchester into the scabbard and forked leather. Reining around, he turned west.
Loud voices betokened a heated argument. Grimes and that other man were still at it. They seemed to be disputing over whether to come after him.
Ash held to a trot until he was sure they weren’t. Belatedly he took stock of his feelings. He had killed another human being. He thought he would feel shock or be deeply upset but he wasn’t. He felt a sort of elation.
All lawmen wondered whether they had what it took to squeeze the trigger. Some didn’t, even when their lives were at stake; they couldn’t find it in them to take another life. Those who had bedded down their first man, as the saying went, were considered the best of the tin wearers.
Ash gave a slight start. He kept forgetting. He wasn’t a lawman anymore. The killing he had just done was murder. Granted, it was in self-defense, but it was still murder.
Ash didn’t care. He would do whatever he had to in order to put an end to Ben Sharkey. Maybe that was wrong, he told h
imself, but he didn’t care. All he had to do was touch his chest to be reminded of why.
Toward midnight Ash stopped. He stripped the saddle and saddle blanket and made a cold camp. As much as he would like some coffee, the glow of a campfire could be seen for miles and Apaches had sharp eyes. He untied his bedroll and spread out his blankets and soon was on his back with his hands folded on his chest, eager to rest his weary body.
He was lying there, doing absolutely nothing, when he had another attack.
One moment he was fine; the next it felt as if a bull had stepped on his chest and was bearing down with all its weight. The pain was terrible. When it got even worse he took deep breaths, in and out, in and out, as Doc Peters had recommended.
It was supposed to help but it hardly ever did.
Ash hated the attacks. He waited for the torment to subside but this was a bad one. It went on and on until finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He managed to sit up and groped for his saddlebags. The morphine and hypodermic were in a kit made of black leather. He could hardly see to open it. Fortunately he always kept the hypodermic ready for quick use. All he had to do was expose his forearm, locate a vein and jab the needle in. The needle used to sting but he had become so accustomed to injecting himself that he barely felt the prick.
Delicious rapture spread up his arm and down his body. Gratefully, Ash sank back, the kit in his lap, the needle still in his arm. The pain, the awful pressure, were gone.
Ash touched a fingertip to his chest and smiled. For a while everything would be fine. More than fine. He used to like to drink brandy and whiskey on occasion and enjoyed the good feeling they gave him, but that was nothing compared to this.
Ash remembered visiting a Chinese opium den once while searching for a thief, and recalled seeing people lying in states of stupor. At the time he’d wondered why they would do that to themselves. If opium was anything like morphine, now he knew.
Ash smiled and gazed at the stars. Soon his quest would be over. Afterward he might do as Doc Peters suggested and sit on a rocking chair for the rest of his few remaining days. Just so long as he had enough morphine to last until the end came.
Fatal Justice Page 4