Spur Giant: Soiled Dove

by Dirk Fletcher

  "Dylan has had a stroke," Doc Irving said. "His left side is paralyzed and he can't talk. In cases like this, the paralysis often goes away quite rapidly and the ability to speak often returns. Not a lot we can do for him right now but to keep him warm and comfortable."

  Teasdale's right hand clutched at the doctor's arm. Doc Irving looked at him and the hand made writing motions.

  "Yes, get a pad of paper and a pencil. Dylan wants to write something. This way he can still communicate with us."

  Emily Chandler brought a pad and pencil. She was a big woman, heavy, with long black hair and a weathered, unattractive face.

  Teasdale took the pencil and Emily held the pad and he wrote slowly but plainly.

  Hurt, damn hurt!

  Doc Irving nodded. "I know, Dylan. I'm giving you some laudanum that will ease the pain. You have another nap now and you'll feel better when you wake up."

  The man on the bed looked pale and thin. Louisa May came into the room, saw the others leaving and went with them. She was a pretty woman, younger than her sister, and now concern shaded her face. She went to her husband Nate.

  "What did the doctor say?"

  "What we figured. He had a stroke. Can't tell how bad it will be or when the paralysis might go away. Just have to wait."

  In the living room near the big stone fireplace, the two men sipped at whiskey cut with branch water. The two women whispered where they sat on the couch.

  "Looks bad," Doug said.

  Nate nodded. "He's better now than when I found him on the floor in his bedroom early this morning. Figured he tried to get up to come get some help and fell. Seems better now. His mind looks to be in good shape, he just can't talk."

  "Stroke, isn't that when something gets scrambled in the brain?"

  "Blood vessels break, something like that. But strokes come in all kinds and sizes. Little ones just go away in a few days, I've heard. Bigger ones can take longer. Real big ones will kill the strongest man."

  "He's gone downhill fast," Doug said. "Six months ago he was wanting to fight me. Damn, look at him now."

  "Gonna happen to all of us sooner or later."

  Doug shook his head. "Not to me. I don't plan on living a long life and having to suffer that way. Better to go out in your prime with a six-gun or a knife in your hand. Looking at that old man, a quick end in a shootout seems a lot better."

  "He isn't dying. My mother had three strokes and she's still alive. Strokes don't always kill a person."

  "But they can, usual do from what I've heard," Doug said. "Maybe not the first one."

  "No way to talk, Doug Chandler. Let's show a little respect."

  "Hell, I'm being practical. Can you run the damn ranch? What happens if he does die? Somebody's got to take over. Sure as hell ain't gonna be me. I'm no cow turd kicker. You don't know the business yet. Hire a manager? What the hell we do if the old man dies?"

  Emily moved over and stood beside Doug. When she heard the last few words he said, she bent and began beating his chest with her fists.

  "He isn't going to die. He isn't. I won't let him die. A lot of help you've been around here, Doug. Where you been for the last week and a half? You been with that little whore in town again, ain't you?"

  He caught her hands and held them, then pushed her away.

  "Shut up, Emily, shut up!" He drew his hand back.

  "Or else you'll beat up on me again, like you did two weeks ago? Big strong man."

  Emily pulled back and began crying. Louisa May caught her around the shoulders and held her as the two women walked out of the room.

  "You're a real bastard, you know that, Doug," Nate spat.

  Doug grinned and then laughed. "Hell, Nate. I remember you're the guy who said you tried out Louisa May's pussy up in the haymow one Sunday afternoon before you married her. She wasn't much good at fucking but then her old man did have a half-million dollar ranch. You said that, remember?"

  "I've learned a few things since then, Doug. I'd say that you haven't learned a damn thing in five years."

  "Shit, has it been that long? How have I been able to stand it? Maybe I won't stand it much longer. If the old man dies, I own half this damn ranch. You remember that, it's a fifty-fifty split in the will."

  Doug stood and walked back into the living room. "Just remember that I don't have to live here or with that cow of a woman and her two brats to own half of the Triangle T.Hell, I can live in Little Rock or New Orleans or New York City, and I still own half the ranch."

  "You're worse than a bastard, Chandler. I don't know why I even came to tell you about Father Teasdale."

  "How long before he'll be better, if he gets better?" Doug asked.

  "I don't know. We'll talk with Doc Irving."

  The doctor came from the upstairs bedroom then and walked up to the boys. "I can't get your hopes up. I've seen cases like this before, and the stroke seems to be quite strong. It's been at least twelve hours now, and there should be the start of some improvement. I want you to watch Dylan closely, and keep a record of any changes, good or bad. If he gets back some of his speech, that will be a good sign."

  "How long before he might show some change?" Doug asked.

  "This isn't something the body can hurry," the doctor said. "It could be in a day or two, or it might take two weeks."

  "I can't stay around the ranch that long," Doug said. "I have some important business."

  Doc Irving looked at him hard for a moment, then shrugged. "Up to you. This man is seriously ill. There's a chance he'll be this way for some time. There's a chance that he'll improve and be able to walk and talk again. But there's also a chance that at any time he could have another stroke. They almost always are more serious the second or third time and those can be fatal.

  "I'll leave you a supply of laudanum. One teaspoon every twelve hours, or more often if he complains of serious pain. Now, I have to get back to the Billbrays. They have a baby due in the next few hours. I've done all I can for you folks."

  The doctor took his black bag and moved to the door. The two men went with him to the back door, then let the screen door close and looked at each other.

  When the doctor stepped into his buggy, Nate began. "Never have liked you much, Doug. But on this one we need to stand together to help the girls. That man is their father. I know how I felt when my dad was so sick."

  Doug scowled in disbelief. "This used to be just business with you, Nate. A good way to get some real money, to settle down. We saw things almost exactly alike."

  "We don't anymore. I love that old man in there like he was my father. I won't let you do anything more to hurt him." Nate stood away from Doug and his hand was near the six-gun on his hip.

  "Hey, you're wearing iron. You never used to want to own one, let alone learn how to shoot."

  "I learned. I can use it. One more warning. You so much as slap Emily again and I'll hunt you down and shoot you where you stand. Is that damn well plain?"

  Doug laughed. "So you're dicking both the sisters now. Probably in the same bed at the same time. Hell, I couldn't care less. Help yourself. Use Emily all you want. You just see that you raise any pups that she drops. As for me, I'm getting out of here first thing in the morning. I'll stay the night."

  Doug grinned. "Now that does bring up an interesting idea. You're so all fired hot for Emily-"

  "Shut up, you son-of-a-bitch. I've never touched that woman." Nate's face flushed red, his eyes bulged and he took a step toward Doug. "You filthy bastard. I should run you off the place right now. If you sleep here tonight, you better sleep in the barn with the other animals."

  "Not a chance. I'll make up with Emily in five minutes and have her bloomers off in ten. You watch if you want to. You might learn something."

  Nate turned and stormed out of the house.

  Doug grinned. He always had Nate's number. He wasn't about to use his six-gun, he was too yellow bellied. Doug shrugged and went back up the steps to look at the old man.

  Na
te's wife, Louisa May, sat by his bed, a cool cloth on his brow. He wrote something on the pad and gave it to Louisa May. She was the beauty of the family. Small and cuddly, soft blonde hair like her mother's had been, a beautiful face and a sweet little body that Doug had dreamed about having for years. Maybe he would the day before he left the county and headed out for good. Yeah, just maybe.

  She looked up and saw him and an automatic frown came over her pretty face. "Father doesn't want to see you, Doug. I think you better go. It's not too late to ride into town. That's what Father told me to tell you."

  Doug grinned, ignoring her remarks. "I got to thinking, Louisa May sweetheart. I never have seen you naked. Damn but I'd like that. We could get all hot and sweaty and make wild crazy love. How about right now? I'm sure your pa wouldn't do anything about it."

  Louisa May reached in her reticule and pulled out a small two-shot derringer.

  Doug chuckled. "You want me to think you know how to use that, let alone hit me at six-feet? Not a chance." He moved toward her and her face turned white. When he was only three-feet away, she fired.

  The little gun going off in the closed room echoed like a stick of dynamite. The round dug into Doug's left shoulder and pushed him back a step. He brayed in pain. The round went in but it didn't come out. Damn .22, he guessed.

  "Christ, woman, you shot me." It was more a surprise than an accusation.

  Louisa May looked calm. She nodded. "Indeed I did, Mr. Chandler. It wasn't as hard as I thought it might be. I shot a rattlesnake a week ago. This makes two. Get out of this room, get out of this house and off this ranch, or I'll aim for your forehead the next time. It's small, but that little piece of lead can kill you. Now go."

  Blood dripped from his arm. The pain built and built and he swore at her.

  Before he could move, Nate stormed into the room. He checked the old man on the bed first, then stood beside Louisa May who still held the derringer aimed at Doug.

  "I shot him," Louisa May said.

  Nate nodded. "Too bad you didn't kill him. Get out of here, Doug. Right now." Nate drew his six gun in a journeyman fashion and Doug was surprised.

  "You even learned to draw? Damn, you might be worth killing yet."

  "Out!" Nate spat.

  Doug had never seen that deadly look in his eye before, or heard that determination in his voice. Doug knew when to fold his hand. He backed up to the door, holding his bleeding shoulder tightly with his right hand.

  "I'll be back. I still own half of this ranch. I'll be back with a lawyer and we'll see who shoots who then." He stood at the door shaking his head. "Bastards. All four of you. I thought I could wait out the old man. Almost did. Damn you all to hell! I'll be back for my half of the ranch one of these years. You'll never know when I'm coming. You'll be looking over your shoulder every day from now on."

  He turned then and walked down the hall and the stairs. He stopped in the kitchen and barked at the cook to tear up some dish cloths and tie up his bleeding arm. Then he rode.

  He had to get to town and have Doc Irving dig the slug out of his arm. Then he had one more small errand to take care of. It was a $25,000 errand. Doug smiled just planning it. He didn't know why he didn't do this before. He was thinking small then. Now he was thinking big. He checked his carpetbag. It was still tied behind his saddle and hadn't been opened. No reason it should be. He gritted his teeth against the pain now throbbing in his shoulder and rode faster. He had to get to town in a hurry and didn't care if he killed the horse to do it.

  It still took Doug almost two hours to get back to town. By then it was dark and he rode to Doc Irving's house and office and knocked on the door. His wife came and looked out. She was small and so fat she was almost round.

  "Sorry, the doctor isn't seeing any more patients tonight," she said gently with a smile. "You come back tomorrow about eight and he'll see you."

  "Martha, is that a patient?"

  "Yeah, Dr. Irving. Doug Chandler. I need a bullet dug out of me. Sorry to bother you."

  Ten minutes later Doug had bitten a piece of cedar in three pieces as the doctor probed for the small .22 bullet. It had scraped an arm bone and would hurt like crazy, the medic said.

  "Least it didn't break the bone. I've got it wrapped up good, but we'll have to watch for infection. You come back in two days and let me change the dressing and take a look at it."

  Doug said he would and gave the doctor a fivedollar bill. The medic looked up in surprise.

  "For your house call and the digging," Doug said. "I always pay my bills."

  Doug left the office and headed for the saloon down the street. He changed his mind when he passed the Diner's Delight cafe. He had a big supper, then got a bottle of whiskey at a saloon to deaden the pain of his wound. Back at the little house, he drank a water glass full of the whiskey and didn't feel a thing. The pain was still there. The anger in Louisa May's eyes was still burning in his memory.

  He'd burned down some bridges tonight out at the ranch. Damn sure. What the hell now? Amy Hellman would be good to help him forget his troubles. Damn, the way she could wiggle that little ass of hers! He shook his head. Business first. It wasn't too late.

  He hoped the old man didn't have one of his whores there. He checked his six-gun and pushed it back in leather. Doug took the bottle with him as he walked the four blocks over and then up the hill to the mansion where Gregory Lowell lived. The lights were on, and there wasn't a buggy out in front. Good, the rich man's whore wasn't there. He didn't want any witnesses. He checked the door when he arrived but it was locked. He pounded the knocker on the brass plate and waited.

  The butler opened the door a crack, saw who he was and let him in.

  "Where's the rich man?"

  "He's in the library, sir, right this way."

  "I know the way. I don't want you to come."

  The tall black man who looked like he could snap a man's back with his bare hands nodded. "I understand, sir." He stood there as Doug walked through the lighted house to the library.

  He found Gregory Lowell behind his desk working on an account book. Lowell looked up when he heard the door open. The oil lamp blinded him from seeing who it was until Doug was almost at the desk.

  "Ali, Chandler. I thought you might be on your way elsewhere by now. I understand your collection of your ransom went smoothly."

  "True," Doug said. "Another few dollars. I figure that your claim will go through on schedule. Is it launched already?"

  "Of course. I wired my broker two days after the robbery as soon as the post office found my empty envelope. It should be coming through within the month, they said."

  "Bully for you, Lowell. I've changed my mind. You paid me two-hundred dollars to set up the robbery and bring back the bonds to you. I should have charged you more."

  Lowell smiled, took a six-gun from a drawer and placed it on the desk top near his right hand. "I know how men can change their minds, Mr. Chandler. However, a deal is a deal. You agreed to make an extra two-hundred dollars for a robbery you were already going to do. Let's leave it at that and stay on generally wary, but friendly terms."

  "Can't do that. I'm about to leave town and I need another $50,000. I'd figure some of those bonds will cover it. Then they really will be stolen and you'll still come out $50,000 ahead. Seems like a good deal to me."

  Lowell stood shaking his head. "No, Mr. Chandler. That's absolutely out of the question. The matter is closed. I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I'm working on some important and private matters here. Let's not have any trouble over a most profitable operation for both of us. You must have taken in almost fifty-thousand yourself."

  "Did that, Lowell. Don't figure you deserve to make no hundred-thousand when I only made fifty. I want half of those bonds you're working with there."

  Doug had never seen a stock certificate or a bearer bond of any kind, until he got them from the mail sacks his three men brought back. He'd studied them carefully. At last decided to turn them over to L
owell who knew what to do with them. He should have kept them all and told Lowell they hadn't been in the registered mail. Now the bonds lay on the rich man's desk.

  "Half of them, Lowell. I'm not in the mood to argue. I could take them all, but I know your position here. It's the best deal you're going to get."

  "Impossible. That's my money, my bonds, not yours." Lowell's face had gone murky, as if most of the blood drained from it. His hand shook as he touched his cheek. He looked down at the sixgun.

  "Don't even try it, Lowell. If you're dead none of them bonds are going to help you. Play it smart and hand me half of them, right now."

  To emphasize his point, Doug drew the Colt from its holster in a fast motion and trained it on Lowell.

  "Oh, my," Lowell said. He took a long breath, then another one and put his hand on the desk as he started to sway. He caught himself. "A little dizzy," he said. Then in a move Doug didn't think the man could make, he grabbed the six-gun, cocked it and got off a shot as Doug brought up his own revolver from where he had let the muzzle tilt toward the floor.

  Lowell's shot boomed into the room followed closely by a second thundering explosion of Doug's Colt. The noise rumbled in the room bouncing from wall to wall.

  Doug felt Lowell's bullet slam past him and hit the wall behind. His own round drilled into Lowell's chest and jolted him backward over the chair and slammed him against the bookcase wall. He sagged a moment, then slid to the floor. Doug figured he was dead by the way he fell.

  Doug darted forward, grabbed the bonds, folded them and pushed them inside his shirt. He buttoned the shirt and turned toward the library door as he heard footsteps running that way. Doug knelt behind the desk eyeing the library's door. A moment later the butler came racing up holding a sawed off shotgun in his hands. He saw no one, then Doug lifted over the desk, brought up the revolver and fired.

  Just as he did, the butler pulled the trigger on the scatter gun. The buckshot shattered a dozen glass doors covering the bookcases behind the desk, cut grooves across the top of the cherry wood desk, and turned the library into a smokefilled room of death.