“Until your arm heals and you can use your hand again,” Jacobs said.
“Right.”
Clint knew they were both thinking the same thing.
If his arm healed.
EIGHT
Rosemary entered the doctor’s office and called out, “Hello?”
“In here,” the doctor’s voice answered in return.
She moved across the office into the examination room.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“I’m tryin’ to convince your friend, Mr. Adams, that he needs to stay still a while longer.”
“And Mr. Adams wants to go and get a hotel room and sleep in a real bed,” Clint said.
“How is your arm?”
“Doesn’t hurt as much,” he said. “Apparently, the doctor says you kept me from bleeding to death. I’m much obliged.”
“It was the least we could do,” she said. “After all, you got hurt trying to help us.”
“I guess the wheel made it, huh?” Clint asked.
“Luckily.”
“Well, now you can get it fixed properly,” Clint said.
She noticed that while Clint had his gun belt on, he wasn’t really moving his right arm that much. She assumed it hurt him more than he was saying.
“What do I owe you, Doc?”
“I’ll send a bill to your hotel.”
“I don’t know which one I’ll be in.”
“Is money a problem?”
“Not usually.”
“Then you want the Big Rock Hotel. Best place in town.”
“Might as well be comfortable while I’m recuperating, huh?” Clint asked.
“I’ll stop in on you and see how you’re doin’,” Doc Jacobs said. “If I was you, I’d plan on being here for a few days, at least.”
“Okay, Doc. Thanks.”
“I can walk over with you, if you like,” Rosemary said.
“That’s a good idea,” Jacobs said. “A pretty nurse can do wonders.”
“Fine,” Clint said. “She can catch me if I keel over again.”
“Again?” she said, looking at the doctor.
“Just some residual dizziness from the loss of blood,” Jacobs explained. “Don’t let him get on a horse anytime soon. If he faints and falls off, he could do himself a lot of harm.”
“I’ll keep reminding him,” Rosemary said.
Clint thanked the doctor again and walked out with Rosemary.
“We got the wagon to the livery. Your horse, too,” Rosemary said.
“Thanks for that. I’ll check in on him later.”
“I think it’s you who needs checking in on, Clint.”
“As long as it’s you, I won’t mind,” he said. “Just don’t send Abigail.”
“She doesn’t like you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
When they reached the hotel, he checked in, writing his name with his left hand, trying to look as if he’d been doing it all his life.
“Where are you all staying?” he asked.
“The other, less expensive hotel,” she said. “We’re on a budget.”
“Why don’t you let me take you out for a steak?” he asked.
“I really should eat with the other girls.”
“Well, I’d take them, too, but—”
“You don’t want them to see that you can’t cut your meat?” she asked. “How about if I get two steak dinners and bring them to your room?”
“If they won’t miss you too much.”
“They’re too busy fighting to notice I’m gone,” she said. “You go to your room and I’ll go get the food.”
“Okay,” he said. “Here.” He passed her some money. “Splurge. Get the best.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Clint made it to his room and sat on the bed. He wanted to get his boots off, but he needed both hands for that. Awkwardly, he unbuckled his gun belt and hung it on the bedpost.
He sat there, feeling helpless. When his left arm itched, he tried to scratch it, but he couldn’t reach it. Helpless.
Until Rosemary came back.
He’d left the door unlocked. In just a little while, she walked in with a napkin-covered tray. The smell of meat was strong.
“Ready to eat?” she asked.
“I am,” he said, “if you can help me off with my boots, first.”
NINE
She cut up his steak and they ate with their plates on the bed, seated on the floor. She had taken him at his word and splurged. There were potatoes, onions, carrots, and rolls. And she’d carried a bottle of whiskey under her arm the whole way without dropping it. He would have preferred beer, but the whiskey would do.
She had helped him off with his boots, and then helped him change into a clean shirt.
“Where are you and the other women headed?” he asked.
“California.”
“Husbands waiting there?”
“No husbands,” she said. “Not for any of us.”
“Well, you don’t know that.”
“Oh, future husbands,” she said. “Well, then the answer is . . . maybe. But probably not for Abigail.”
“Too old?”
“She hates men too much,” she said.
“And the others?”
“They’re all young,” Rosemary said. “They look forward to the future.”
“And you?”
“Not as young as them,” she said, “but certainly not as old as Abigail.”
“You got my boots off like a pro,” he said. “You’d make a man a fine wife.”
“I used to help my father off with his boots,” she said. “Until he died.”
“When was that?”
“A couple of years ago. He was the last family I had, so I decided to come west.”
“How did you hook up with the others?”
“That happened one by one,” she said. “They all have their reasons.”
“What are they?”
“I’m afraid it’s not up to me to reveal them,” she said.
“Do you know?”
“Well . . . not all of them,” she said. “I knew Delilah before this trip, but the others . . . well, we met just before we left.”
“How did you meet?”
“I advertised for companions for this trip,” she explained.
“Advertised?”
“In the St. Louis newspaper,” she said. “I wanted to make the trip, but not alone.”
“Did any men respond to the advertisement?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, “but I was only interested in traveling with women.”
“Having a man along might have come in handy once or twice,” he said. “Like today.”
“God,” she said, “was that only today? This morning?”
“I know,” Clint said, “it seems much longer.”
“It’s been a long day for all of us,” she said. She stood up and started picking up the plates. “I’ve got to bring these back to the cafe.” She pointed to the whiskey bottle, still three-quarters full. “I’ll leave that with you.”
He stood up.
“I could use some coffee before I turn in,” he said. “That cafe serve any?”
“I think I smelled some when I went in,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll walk back with you.”
He rolled down the sleeves on his shirt, making sure to button them so that the bandage on his gun arm couldn’t be seen.
That done, he awkwardly strapped on his gun belt. Instinctively, she knew better than to offer to help with that.
Rosemary returned the plates and utensils to the waiter, and then she and Clint sat down and had some good coffee. At least, he thought it was good.
“Whoa,” she said, “that’s strong.”
“That’s the way coffee’s supposed to be,” he said, sitting with his right arm on the table. He was trying to make it seem natural, but was certain people were staring at him.
�
�It’s all right,” she told him.
“What is?”
“Your arm,” she said. “Nobody notices.”
“What are you, a mind reader?”
“Well, a man like you, with your reputation, you’d have to be worried somebody will notice.”
“You’re right,” Clint said. “I probably should have stayed in the room.”
“No,” she said. “You have to seem normal, and then nobody will notice anything.”
During the walk to the café Clint had been thinking he needed to buy a left-handed rig, just until his right arm healed. Now he was having second thoughts. A left-handed holster would tell people something was wrong with his right arm. But if somebody did make a try at him, he’d never be able to get the gun out left-handed in time. Not reaching across his body. Unless he reversed the gun in the holster, wore it butt forward. That’d make it easier to grab left-handed. Maybe nobody would notice if the gun sat butt-forward in his holster.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“Just that you’re probably right,” he said. “I need to look as natural as possible.”
“How many people know you’re not left-handed?” she asked.
“Probably people who know me,” Clint said.
“There’s nothing in your reputation about being right-handed?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Then it’s only folks who know you that’ll notice something like you drinking coffee with your left hand,” she said.
“I suppose that’s right.”
“Well then, just relax and enjoy your coffee,” she said. “Maybe you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”
He found the sight and sound of her relaxing, so he decided to do what she said.
After coffee, Clint offered to walk Rosemary back to her hotel, since it was now dark.
“Maybe I should walk you,” she said.
“Didn’t we just finish talking about how everything needs to seem natural?” he asked. “That means I walk you back.”
“Okay.”
His money was in his right pocket, so he couldn’t get to it with his left. In the morning he’d have to switch it. For now, Rosemary paid for the coffee.
They left the café and he walked her to her hotel.
“You can get your wagon fixed in the morning and be on your way,” he said.
“I think we’ll take a day or two here, get some rest before continuing on,” she said. “Can I look in on you in the morning?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’d like that. Goodnight, Rosemary.”
“Goodnight, Clint.”
He waited until she went inside, then walked back to his own hotel.
TEN
Clint woke in the morning lying on his back. He didn’t move. If he stayed still for a while, there was a chance his right arm would move when he decided to try it. But until he tried, everything was okay.
He moved his left first, ran it over his face, dug a thumb and forefinger into his eyes to clean them out. Then he took a deep breath and tried to move his right arm. He was able to move it, and that was encouraging, but then he tried to move his fingers.
Nothing. A little pain, but they didn’t move.
“Crap,” he said. “Goddamnit!”
He sat up in bed, dragging his right arm with him. He got up, poured some water in a bowl from a pitcher and, one-handed, washed as well as he could.
He managed to get himself dressed, and then came to his boots. It had been a bitch getting them off the night before, but he’d finally done it. Getting them on one-handed was easier. All he had to do was get his foot in, and then stand up. When that was done, he strapped on his gun then turned the gun butt forward. He reached across his body a few times to grab it and managed to do so without dropping it.
He’d never gone to the livery the day before to check on Eclipse, so he decided that was the first thing he’d do, even before breakfast.
He left the room.
The sheriff woke in one of his cells. He spent a lot of nights there, because there was nothing waiting for him at home. He lived alone; what was the point of going there? When he went there he took the badge off, and when he took the badge off, he was nobody.
So he slept in one of his cells, and kept the badge on. He’d only stabbed himself in the chest with it a couple of times.
He went into his office and put on a pot of coffee. He had slept well, and was feeling good this morning. He had Clint Adams in his town. That was enough to perk anybody up. Clint Adams was a famous man, and trouble followed men like that. Cal Evans had been sheriff of Big Rock for five years, and in all that time nothing exciting had happened.
Until now.
He poured himself a cup of coffee. After he was finished, he’d go over and see how Clint Adams was doing. If word got out that the Gunsmith couldn’t move his right arm, there would suddenly be a lot of excitement in this town.
A lot of it.
When Clint walked out the front door of the hotel, he did so with some trepidation. He stopped just outside, took a deep breath and looked around. No gunmen waiting for him to come out. That was encouraging.
But there was a man walking toward him, and he was wearing a badge.
“Mr. Adams,” the sheriff said. “Nice to see you up and about.”
“Have we met?” Clint asked.
“Briefly, yesterday,” the lawman said. “I helped the ladies get you into the doctor’s office.”
“Much obliged, then, Sheriff.”
“Where are you off to?”
“Wanted to go over to the livery and check on my horse,” Clint said. “Maybe even see if the lady’s wagon was being fixed.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“Not at all.”
They started to walk.
“I notice you’re wearing your gun with the butt forward for a cross draw.”
“I had hoped it wasn’t that noticeable.”
“Well, the doctor told me about your situation,” the sheriff said. “No better today?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“That’s got to be a concern for a man like you,” the sheriff said.
“It is.”
“Can you shoot left-handed?”
“Very well,” Clint said.
“That’s good, but I don’t expect there’ll be any trouble. Not in this town,” the sheriff said. “Hasn’t been any for five years.”
“That’s good to hear.”
They got to the livery and stopped in front.
“Fella named Leroy should be takin’ care of your horse,” he said. “He’s good with animals.”
“That’s good.”
“My name’s Cal Evans, Mr. Adams,” the lawman said. “You need anythin’ while you’re in town, you just let me know.”
“I’m much obliged, Sheriff,” Clint said, “but all I need is for word about my arm not to get around.”
“You can count on me, Mr. Adams.”
ELEVEN
Clint entered the livery and introduced himself to Leroy, a big black man of indeterminable age with a very easygoing manner.
“Dat big black horse is yours?” he asked. “Dat’s one fine horse.”
“Yes, he is,” Clint said. “The sheriff assured me that you’d be taking good care of him. I just haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
“I understand,” Leroy said. “A horse like that is special. He’s in the back stall.”
“Oh, and that wagon the ladies brought in yesterday?” Clint asked.
“I put a new carter key on it,” Leroy said. “Good as new.”
“You bill my horse and the repair on the wagon to me,” Clint said.
“Whatever you say, mister.”
“Thanks.”
Clint walked to the back stall, found Eclipse standing comfortably. He looked as if he was freshly brushed, and he had plenty of feed.
“You haven’t even missed me, have you, big boy?” Clint asked, strokin
g the horse’s massive neck.
Eclipse nodded his big head emphatically.
“Yeah, okay,” Clint said, “you’re okay. I just had to make sure.”
He left the stall, exchanged nods with Leroy, and left the livery.
Sheriff Evans left Clint at the livery and walked back to the center of town. Having Clint Adams in town was exciting, but if all he did was recover from his injury, it wouldn’t do anything for the town, or for the sheriff. Evans had to figure out some way to make Clint Adams’s presence work for him.
Clint went back to his hotel and into the dining room. He ordered a breakfast that would be easy for him to eat with one hand—a stack of flapjacks. While he was eating, Doc Jacobs came in and approached his table.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked.
“Hey, Doc,” Clint said. “Have a cup of coffee.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “I’ve been up all night with Mrs. Francis. Finally delivered twins.”
“I admire you for being able to bring new life into the world, Doc.”
“Wasn’t me,” the sawbones said. “It was her. I just helped.”
“Yeah, well, without your help I’m sure it would’ve been a lot harder.”
“Yeah, maybe.” The doctor drank some coffee. “How are you feelin’?”
“Well, except for not being able to move any of the fingers on my right hand, I’m fine.”
“You look okay,” Jacobs said. “When I walked in, I never would have known you were injured.”
“That’s good.”
“But if you have to go for your gun—”
“I decided not to advertise by wearing a left-handed rig, so if I need to, I’ll cross draw.”
“Will that be enough?”
“In most cases, yes,” Clint said. “Unless I’m facing an experienced gun.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’m dead.”
“You say that calmly.”
“Oh, there’s nothing calm about dying,” Clint said, “but it’s going to happen sooner or later.”
“Well, yes, death is unavoidable but how we die is sort of up to each one of us, isn’t it?”
“Not me,” Clint said. “I see my death happening one way. The same way Bill Hickok died, Ben Thompson died, and Jesse James died.”
Cross Draw Page 3