“Wonnnnderful,” Blaine sang out, just as his eyes shut and the vision of himself swimming naked with eight ladies in a hot springs led him to another drug-induced sleep.
An hour later, Blaine heard the voices in the twilight of consciousness, and his eyes cracked open to slits. The blurry figures before him slowly came into focus. Sammy, Claire, and Margaret stood by his bed staring at him appraisingly, like he was beef for sale. He smiled slowly at the recognition of his friends. “Anybody home?” Sammy asked.
Claire walked up close and placed her hand on his forehead. “He does feel better,” she said in a tone of confirmation.
“Yes he do,” Blaine chimed.
“Hello, Blaine,” Margaret said excitedly. “I'm so glad to see you awake with some color in your face.”
“I'm glad to see you too, Margaret.” Blaine extended his hand to hers and gave it a squeeze.
Sammy smiled. “You do look more like the living now.”
“I been sleepin’ like the dead since you hauled me in here.”
“Claire wants to haul you out of here,” Sammy replied.
Claire spoke up. “There's no sense in you staying here any longer than need be. Tomorrow we'll move you out to my place if the doctor okay's it. I've got the room, and we can look after you proper while you convalesce. Doctor O'Malley says by tomorrow he should have a good idea about the state of your infection. If it hasn't worsened, it will be all right for you to go.”
“That'd be loverly.” Blaine looked happy to hear the plan.
Sammy pulled the buckboard in front of Doctor O'Malley's office at one o'clock the following afternoon. Claire and Margaret both got down before Sammy could get around to help them, the women having decided they were perfectly capable of getting down themselves when a mission lie ahead. Sammy and Dorian carried Blaine and laid him out on the deck of the wagon with his head on two pillows just behind the seat. Then Dorian went inside with the women to give them instructions and materials for cleaning and re-bandaging and to tell them what symptoms to keep an eye out for.
Sammy stayed with Blaine, who took the opportunity to talk to his friend. “Ya know, amigo, I'm gonna take the doctor's advice and stay off this thing. Get healed up.”
Sammy lit the cigarette he'd just rolled, then took a long drag and blew the smoke into a breeze. “I'd say that's sound thinking.”
“There's a larger point,” Blaine said, smoking on his own cigarette.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“There usually is.”
“What I mean is, you don't need to hold up on my account. Doc said a couple of weeks. If I was you, I reckon I'd ride on.”
“I appreciate you sayin’ so, but I'm not goin’ anywhere this minute. We'll see how it plays out. I need to stay awhile and help these gals get set up. You can't help ‘em right now. There's the larger point.”
“Yeah, that's a large point.” Blaine took a drag and blew it out and then got a glint in his eye as if something had just occurred to him. “Hey, how come you keep talkin’ about gals, as in two of ‘em? Ain't Margaret goin’ home?”
“Not anytime soon. She asked Claire if she could stay with her. Claire was more than happy about it.”
Blaine smiled. “Well whadaya know. We're gonna be one big happy family out at Claire's for awhile, huh?”
“Looks that way. Hope they can cook.”
“Yeah, but back to my larger point. Anytime you wanna ride on, you just go ahead. I understand and won't take offense.”
“Okay.”
The door opened and Dorian came out with a wooden crutch. The women carried gauze and bandages and a bottle of antiseptic solution. Sammy walked around the wagon to help the women. Dorian walked over to Blaine and laid the crutch down beside him. “I only had one,” he said. Then he handed Blaine a pint bottle of laudanum. “You shouldn't need this too much longer. I don't recommend ever taking more than a teaspoon every six hours. The dosage is written on the label. If you take too much, it can kill you.”
Blaine's eyes widened. “I'll try to avoid that.”
“Just letting you know, lad. It's easy to like, and easy to get carried away. I'd let Missus Studdard dose you, and stay off that leg. I'll be around to Missus Studdard's in a day or two to look in on you.
“Thanks, Doc. Much obliged. How much do I owe you?” Blaine said, reaching into his pocket.
“Mister Winds settled your account. Good luck.”
Claire had an idea that she would set Blaine up on the settee in the den. Sammy was bunking in the loft room and Margaret slept in the bedroom with her for now. The den was directly off the parlor and had a window with a pretty view to the south. She was sure he would like it. And like it he did. But there was a screened porch on the backside of the house that he preferred more. It had a table and chairs and a cot in the corner where Robert had liked to nap on warm summer days. “It's practically outside!” Claire had stated in objection when Blaine had suggested it.
At first he didn't want to tell her the reason he preferred it, being slightly embarrassed. But he didn't want to be disagreeable with her. Not in her own house. Not over where she wanted him to stay. Not without a reason she would understand. So he told her. “No offense, Claire, but I'm not gonna use a bedpan if I don't have to. I got too much modesty to have you looking after me that way. I ain't crippled. That privy is close by. I can get back and forth fine with this crutch.”
“But it'll be cold on the porch at night and early morning,” she said.
“Naaww, why that's just fresh air. It's the middle of April. I gotta good coat and two blankets. And I can come inside anytime, can't I?”
“Of course you can. Well, if that's what you want.”
“Thank you, Claire.”
Claire fixed up his cot with pillows and extra blankets and brought him a couple of Robert's adventure novels. Blaine found it to be quite the setup and sat cushioned with his back up against the wall so that he had a panoramic view of the yard and outbuildings. He spent his days reading and talking to Sammy and Claire and Margaret as they did outside work and chores, getting the place back in shape.
The women did washing and cleaning and tilled and planted the garden. Sammy fixed the chicken coop and garden fence, retrieved Claire's livestock, and packed in food and supplies. Then he spent several days felling dead trees and using Dobe to drag them. He sawed logs and split wood, all while Blaine watched and talked and rooted him on, smoking cigarettes in a laudanum-induced haze.
Blaine was pretty handy on his crutch, using a swing-and-hop motion that kept him from ever bearing weight on his bad leg. He was careful not to use the privy or move anywhere else while the full effects of the laudanum were present. And he didn't do too much moving around because, even with no weight on it, just moving around made his leg throb. So he stayed put most of the time and enjoyed the mild weather and easy breeze of the porch as he begrudgingly endured his sedentary existence. The laudanum killed the pain and certainly made the time go by with periods of extended sleep. When he was awake, it was generally in a sort of trance in which he was unaware of time passing as the hours melted.
He did as the doctor had suggested and had Claire give him the dosage. He knew it had been the right move. With his vanishing sense of time and reality, he was quite sure he would have overdosed himself.
After a week, he made up his mind that he was done with the laudanum. He had begun to feel like a potted plant, content with sun and watering. In a rare moment of lucidity, he understood how far he'd slipped.
Claire brought him some fresh biscuits, eggs, and coffee, along with the teaspoon and the brown bottle. “No more of that,” he said to her as she prepared to pour the dose into the teaspoon. “I feel like I'm livin’ in a cloud. My brain's been pickled enough.”
Claire smiled at him. “I'm glad to hear you've come around to that thinking.”
“There's over half a bottle of that stuff left. If I don't come around to that thinkin’ right qu
ick, I reckon my brain'll end up down a wormhole.”
She sat with him while he ate, and they talked of all that had been done at her house since they returned. The garden was in, the chickens were regular with eggs, the cow was regular with milk, supplies were in, and needed repairs had been done. Sammy had sawed and chopped enough wood to last well into the following winter. “We have plenty of wood now,” Claire said. “We won't need any for heat for the next six months. Just for cooking.”
“Sammy can swing an axe like he come from the cave of the north wind. That's for sure. I'm itchin’ to do some work myself. I reckon I'd pay money to break a sweat workin’. This layin’ here day after day is gettin’ plumb miserable.”
“You'll have no problem findin’ work if you'll pay to do it. I'd bet my horse on that,” Sammy said, walking into the porch and hearing Blaine's last proclamation. He pulled up a chair and sat down.
“I'll let you two talk. I've got work to do,” Claire said, as she stood up and collected Blaine's plate.
“Thank you for breakfast, Claire”
“You're welcome,” she replied, and walked back into the house.
“You chased all the women away. Now you gotta keep me entertained,” Blaine said. He pulled out the makings. “Smoke?”
“Yeah.”
Blaine had two rolled up inside of a minute. Sammy struck the match and held it to Blaine's first, then lit his own. He took a drag and exhaled. “I've done about all that needed doin’ here, for the time being anyway.”
“Yeah, you got it shaped up fine,” Blaine said, sensing what was coming next.
“I'm ridin’ tomorrow. I need to get this little adventure movin.’ I'd like to be back on the T. before they make the drive, and I wanna have some time in Denver.”
“Yep, I know. I'd like ta be goin’ with ya, but this ain't ready yet. Won't be for another week or so, I reckon. And who knows. I might hang on here for awhile. Help out.”
Sammy smiled. “Claire's a good woman. Good lookin’ too.”
“I did notice that.”
“Hard not to.”
“I ain't thinkin’ that way, though. Could be she wants to get shut of me as soon I'm healed. Margaret's here with her now.”
“I don't think that will last. Maybe. But she'll likely wanna see her family. She posted a letter to ‘em. They might just show up here one day.”
“Yeah. They might.” Blaine took a drag and looked out at the yard. “What's your route now.”
“Nothin’ too complicated. Swing east over to Las Vegas and on north to Raton. Then over the pass and up the plains along the front range of the Rockies. There's a stage runs all the way from here to Denver.”
“Whoa! That's a long haul. You're not ridin’ that are ya?”
“Nope. But I heard there's a rail line that runs from Las Vegas up to Raton … and your horse can ride in a stock car. Dobe might like that.”
“You gonna do that?”
“Maybe. I've never ridden a train. That would be somethin’.”
“Yeah, me neither. I'd like to do that.”
“It'd be easier on your leg.”
“Once I'm healed up, the last thing I'm gonna be is easy on this leg. But I sure could make some time ridin’ a train part ways. How long you reckon you'll stay in Denver?”
“A week, maybe two. Reuben told me there's a lot to see there. I'm gonna see it. He told me to stay at the Ducayne Hotel, so that's where I'll be.”
“Well, Sammy, I hope I see ya up there. If not, I wish ya the best of luck. We sure ended up with more ‘n we figured. I don't think I'd be drawing breath now if I'd a happened on that cave with anybody else.”
“Neither one of us would be if you hadn't held up your end. If I see you in Denver, I'll buy you a bottle of whiskey and the biggest steak in town.”
Chapter 43
The night was moonless and black like coal. A dog barked several times at a passing skunk and then grew quiet again. Inside the small adobe house, the man slept deeply, snoring and exhaling a whiskey vapor that permeated the room. He did not hear the door whine ever so faintly as it slowly opened. Nor did he hear the floorboards creak as the intruder took slow, easy steps into the room and then stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
The dark did not relent. The intruder made his way toward the sound of snoring, stepping lightly until he reached the bed and stood in the pitch black beside the slumbering soul. Then he quietly took the match from his pocket. A moment later a burst of light leapt from the darkness as the stick match fully ignited.
The intruder immediately saw the gun belt hanging from the bedpost near the man's head and grabbed the six-shooter from the holster, stuffing it in his waist while his eyes scanned the room for other weapons. There was a rifle on a wall rack just to his right, and a hunting knife in a sheath on the bedside table. He grabbed the rifle with his right hand and turned to the bed as the man in it opened his eyes and made a desperate grab for the empty holster. The rifle butt cracked the man's head with brutal force and he fell back onto the bed bleeding and unconscious. The match went out, but another one lit an instant later and was used to light the lamp on the table.
Willis Burk opened his eyes ten minutes later. He was lying on the bed on his side with his hands shackled behind him. His mouth was stuffed with a rag and bound over by another that was tied at the back of his neck. There was rope around his chest and arms as if he'd been lassoed. Moving his head, he felt the sticky ooze of blood between it and the blanket, then looked down at his feet that were shackled. Blood had flowed into his eyes and he blinked rapidly to try and clear his vision. What he saw struck him as oddly familiar. Then he realized that the shackles were army shackles. He blinked his eyes repeatedly and the blurry figure across the room began to come into focus.
A man sat at the table. He looked to be writing something. Willis Burk was having some difficulty breathing through his nose and attempted to yell, but it came out only as a muted and indistinguishable grunt. Sammy looked up from the table. “Shut the hell up,” he said, and continued writing while Willis continued bleeding.
Willis grunted, but there was no one to hear him, even if he had screamed. His house sat on the eastern edge of town, a quarter mile from the other nearest building. As he lay there watching the man write, his mind twisted and turned over what this was about. He'd never seen the stranger before that he could remember, and he tried to piece together the possibilities. There were many. He knew that being bound by U.S. Army shackles was not a good sign. It led him to consider the illegal sales of army rifles, ammunition, and other army provisions to Indians and Mexican banditos. But he'd never had direct dealings with any of them. That's what his two trusted associates were for. He was insulated.
Willis Burk was a former army officer with a distinguished record who had landed a position as the civilian procurement and provisions agent for Fort Union just outside Santa Fe. His two trusted associates had been under his command as part of his platoon during the Civil War. In their present illegal activities, they arranged the sales and directed the deliveries, and Willis provided the goods to be sold. Willis ordered for the fort based on needs the fort's quartermaster submitted to him. He simply added on a little extra to the requisition form for his own enterprise before it was submitted up the supply chain. Then, when the goods arrived at the Santa Fe warehouse he oversaw, he removed his take and forged a new bill of lading before delivery to the fort. The newly-created bill of lading properly represented what was in the received shipment, so the fort got what had been ordered, and Willis embezzled the rest. Willis knew the whole operation could go south with a proper audit, but understood the lack of efficiency and oversight of the army, and of western forts in particular. And he certainly figured he'd have advance warning if any inquires began. Then he would simply vanish. His associates hadn't been compromised. If they had, he would have known about it before this man came in the night.
Sammy finished writing his note, folded it, and put in an e
nvelope. He pulled his chair over in front of the bed and sat down. “You made a big mistake sellin’ guns to renegade Apaches … and whoever else you sold to.” Willis blinked hard and narrowed his eyes. “Those Apaches murdered innocent people with army rifles. I oughta cut your throat right here. Of course, if I'm wrong about this, I'd be real sorry. But I'm not wrong … am I, Willis?”
Willis grunted.
“That's what I thought you'd say. You see, I've got a bill of lading that I took from a cave where some renegades were livin’. It's for a shipment delivered to you. Got your signature at the bottom. Part of that shipment was a case of twelve rifles—even gives the first and last serial number of the lot. It's been circled with a notation that says: To T. L. And I've got this note, too. Looks like the same writin’ as your signature. It says ‘Ten Loco, noon at Hogback Butte.’ Instructions for somebody, Willis?”
Willis laid still now, hoping his face didn't betray his worry.
“It so happens I brought one of those rifles back from the cave—and you wanna take a guess at the serial number? It ain't good, Willis. You know what I can't figure, is how the hell that bill of lading and note ended up in that cave?”
That was exactly what Willis was trying to figure out as panic beset him.
“Sure looks like you or one of your friends was careless. I'm not sure how this will all fit together to barbeque you. But you and I both know those rifles never got to the fort. How'd you cover that up? Well, no matter. I'll give ‘em what I got, and they can figure it out.”
Sammy stood up and backed up a few feet, grabbing the lead rope from the floor, the other end of which was tied around Willis Burk's chest. “On your feet!” Willis swung his shackled legs off the bed as Sammy pulled on the rope. Willis rose with the momentum of being yanked, and then hop-stepped suddenly at Sammy with his head down like a charging bull. Sammy sidestepped him and watched as Willis pitched forward and crashed face first to the floor. “That wasn't too graceful, Willis. All right, we can do this the hard way.” Sammy grabbed the rope with both hands and dragged Willis out the door and into the night.
Along The Fortune Trail Page 20