by Jeff Rovin
Molly laughed lightly.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Always thinking about others.”
“That’s what doctors do.”
Molly reached out and took his left hand, held it gently in hers. “Not everyone is a patient, Dr. Stockbridge.”
He squeezed back lightly, then excused himself and went over to the cook. The man was dead, but he had known that already. Stockbridge just did not want to stay with Molly then, there, like that. Seeing the joy of the Keelers, and hearing their heartfelt thanks, feeling their love as he walked past, Stockbridge felt old stirrings, longings, pain.
He needed time alone. Not just to grieve but to think.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As soon as the Keelers were settled in the surrey, Juan turned back up the hill—on foot.
“You Keelers have more need of horses than I do,” Juan said. “I will be fine. I do not need another big mouth to feed, and to tell you the truth, I do not like the smell.”
“At least take this,” Rachel said, and gave him the rifle to replace the one he had lost. He thanked her and looked longingly at Molly.
“What I said about horses does not apply to you. You will come to visit?”
“As often as I can, though may I make a suggestion?”
“Sí?”
“Come down for a bath now and then,” she said. “On the house.”
“I don’t know what that means, ‘on the house.’ But if you offer it, I think I like it.”
“You’ll like it,” Stockbridge said. “It means free.”
“Then that is good, because I have no pesos. Not a one.”
Molly took the horse, and after some discussion about whether to remain here the night, the group decided against it. Stockbridge told the Keelers his thoughts about the disposition of the house.
“I will consider that in earnest,” Ben said, “and I—we—appreciate the gesture.”
“Wouldn’t you want it?” Mrs. Keeler asked Stockbridge, looking from him to Molly.
“There’s not much doctoring I could do from way out here,” Stockbridge answered.
“Maybe you’ll move into town, then?” Lenny asked. “We don’t have a doctor.”
“Your ma’s a pretty good nurse,” Ben said.
“Well, there you have it,” Stockbridge said. “I’d probably go broke with all the fine women who live hereabouts.”
They rode back to the homestead, additional horses in tow, arriving with the first light of dawn breaking behind them. Molly left them with the horse and retrieved the surrey, which Nikolaev would expect to have returned.
On the way, they passed the mounds that Stockbridge knew and Molly suspected held the remains of Red Hunters McWilliams and Pound.
“Look, Pa,” Lenny said as they passed, “lightning-struck cactuses.” Then he continued with a boy’s restless curiosity. “You see a lot of lightning up in the mountains.”
“Up there it’s too high,” Ben replied. “It’s below you.”
“Gosh. Just like that fella we read about in that book, Ma—what was his name?”
“Zeus? The Greek god?”
“No . . .”
“Thor,” Rachel said, “the Norse god of thunder.”
“Yeah!”
Stockbridge felt a plug rise in his throat as he thought of all the talks like that he had missed . . . and would never have. He thought of a different god, the one who had let him down. The blockage broke as bile rose. That was the way of it. Missing his family followed by hate.
What a way to live a life, he thought.
The six of them reached the homestead without needing to stop at the watering hole. In a group, and then individually, the Keelers thanked both Molly and Stockbridge. They saved their special appreciation, though, for another parting moment with John Stockbridge.
“I can never put into words what I feel,” Ben Keeler said, his strength returning quickly, thanks to his family.
“Sharing this reunion has been thanks enough, in a way I can never express,” Stockbridge assured him.
“I love you,” Rachel said next, hugging Stockbridge.
His embrace was warm and reflected her own.
“I love you more,” Lenny said, hugging him tighter.
Stockbridge’s embrace was followed by an affirming pat on the young man’s shoulders. “Don’t forget to start a new book when you’re able. I expect to buy one from you in the store someday.”
“It will be about you,” Lenny promised.
“And Molly and Juan, too. I was just the man who made the most noise.”
It was Mrs. Keeler’s turn then. She faced Stockbridge, put her hands on his arms, and looked up into his eyes. “That kind of ‘noise’ is what moves mountains and people, for the better. Don’t ever stop, John Stockbridge. Please don’t stop.”
“I’m not sure I can,” he admitted.
Ben and the children left to find a place for the new horses. Mrs. Keeler went back inside—her step lively and a song in her throat—while the doctor and Molly rode off, side by side, into the rising sun. They stopped at a stream to tend to the horses—and their own thirst, which by now was pronounced.
It was fitting, thought Stockbridge, that the nourishing water was a branch of the Oónâhe’e River.
The remainder of the ride back to Buzzard Gulch was short and untroubled. They stopped at the sheriff’s office to recount what had happened. Tom Neal was still on his first cup of coffee when the two walked in. He had his impaired foot on the desk, his full attention on the narrative.
“First, Dr. Stockbridge, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Neal said. “Second, I believe what you and Molly have told me. I can’t say I’m sad or surprised. The way those boys left here yesterday morning, they was asking to die. I’ll go out later, get some folks to come with me—see about burying whoever’s left to bury.” He then looked Stockbridge down, up, and midway. “Yes, it’s certainly quite something to meet you, sir. You ever think about deputy work?”
“No, Sheriff, that’s one thing I do not think about.”
“Shame. With Raspy looking to grow his business and others muttering the same, we could use someone who don’t have to do more than parade along the street to keep undesirables from coming here.”
“I think you’d find I attract them, Sheriff.”
“Like mud to a stagecoach. I hear you. See who can beat Dr. Vengeance. But on the plus side, think of the folks who would come out of their way to spend money here.”
“It’s all very tempting,” Stockbridge said, “but for another man.”
The two left to begin the last stretch of their ride, from the sheriff’s office to the Pap Hotel. It was also, for both of them, the most difficult, especially because of Sheriff Neal’s parting words.
Seeing them to the front door and limping over to the hitching rail, he watched Molly climb into the surrey, then turned to Stockbridge and said, “You know what Buzzard Gulch could use more than a deputy?”
“A gambling parlor to compete with Gunnison?” Molly said to head him off from where he was going.
“No, ma’am. A doctor. We got to go to the aforementioned town for that. Not too bad a ride if someone’s having a baby—which they haven’t here in about a year now, I think. But grievously long if they’re belly-shot or hurt some way the barber can’t handle. When he isn’t also bartending, I mean.”
“I think you can probably do better than someone who just killed six men,” Stockbridge said as he mounted.
“I don’t know. You tell a kid to behave while you check his ears, I think he’d listen. You know something else? I think Molly would make a real good nurse. She already seen most of the town without its shirt.”
The woman had lost the buggy whip somewhere along the way, or she would have used it.
They had left the blanket at the cave, or she would have thrown it. Instead, she turned away and started down the street.
Stockbridge felt a more-than-subtle change in Molly on that final stretch of dirt. He had been wondering if her strong outside would break, just a little, maybe when the dangers and violence of the previous day were finally over. This sudden quiet did not seem to be that. She was sitting straight in the seat of the surrey, attentive to the road. Hers was not the posture or face of a woman who had been tapped dry.
This was something else.
Stockbridge kept his silence. He did not know what to say.
* * *
* * *
And a Russian.
When Stockbridge had been going down the list of those who made up local America for Promise Cuthbert, he had neglected to mention Raspy Nikolaev, a figure whom the doctor had not yet met. John Stockbridge discovered that the man was like a dust storm: big, inexorable, and unforgettable. Nikolaev was a welcome force of nature, since parting with the others had been difficult for the doctor.
The Russian emerged from his hotel, smoking a morning cigar and scowling hard at the condition of his carriage. His expression softened when he noticed the condition of Molly Henshaw, then changed altogether when he laid eyes on and recognized John Stockbridge and his Parker Brothers from the Line & Telegram.
Nikolaev was gentleman—and businessman—enough not to linger on the surrey or the physician. Instead, the cloud of his displeasure passing, he helped Molly from the surrey and kissed both of her dirty cheeks.
“You are okay?” he asked.
Molly nodded tightly. Now she dared not speak or even part her lips. Nikolaev’s eyes softened. He looked over at Stockbridge, who remained in the saddle.
“I am Rasputin Nikolaev, proprietor,” he said, bowing. “You are Dr. John Stockbridge?”
“I am.”
“Will you come in for breakfast, sir?”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll resume my travels.”
Molly hadn’t looked at him since they left the sheriff’s office. But now she made a point of turning away.
“What of Promise Cuthbert?” the Russian asked. “When I saw him last—”
“The captain has taken his last bath,” Molly said.
“I see. I can imagine what kind.” The Russian did not look at Stockbridge. He did not have to.
“It wasn’t like that,” Molly said softly. “Not at all.”
“I see,” Nikolaev said again. “I’m sorry. Whatever it was must have been awful.”
Molly nodded and started toward the hotel.
“Thank you, Molly,” Stockbridge said to her back.
Molly stopped. “You are welcome.”
Stockbridge felt a tug on his heart—even Nikolaev put a protective arm around her without quite knowing why. Stockbridge tipped his hat to the man and resisted the urge to race away at a gallop.
Instead, he pulled the reins around and retraced his steps back down the street. As Stockbridge rode he felt something settle upon his chest suddenly and with an uncustomary weight. It was something other than the emptiness he had felt for so long.
He proceeded slowly, half expecting to hear Molly call his name.
Do I want that? he yelled inside his head.
Just before he reached the sheriff’s office, Stockbridge stopped. He stood there looking out at the plain that would take him past the homestead, onto the mountain trail, through the Rockies—
Maybe I’ll find Ben Keeler’s legendary pass, then go through it and beyond to the blue Pacific, he thought.
Do I want that? he asked himself.
He remained there like a statue in a town square. Then, against every bit of iron plating that had been hammered over him over the past few years, and fighting his own muscles, Stockbridge turned his head around.
Rasputin Nikolaev was standing in the street holding the sobbing Molly Henshaw to his big chest.
“Shit,” Stockbridge said.
He could still ride on. Neither of them saw him.
“Shit.”
With a yank on the reins, Stockbridge turned the horse that was not even his back toward the woman who was. He did not quicken his pace but rode slowly. He did not want her first sight of him to be that of a knight charging in the lists.
Nikolaev was the first to see him. He looked up and smiled. He held the secret a little longer before turning Molly around by her heaving shoulders. The woman’s face changed like Denver weather, going from tears to laughter in a single beat of her heart.
Molly remained where she was standing until Stockbridge stopped beside her and extended his right arm, the one that always held the shotgun, which he had shifted to his left.
“I believe I need a woman for this,” he said.
Laughing, she reached up, and he pulled her onto the horse, hugged her close to him in front. Stockbridge looked down at the beaming Russian.
“Thank you, Mr. Nikolaev.”
“For what?”
“For not putting up a fight.”
“Against Dr. Vengeance?”
Stockbridge grinned. “He’s retired, sir. It’s Dr. Stockbridge now.”
“We could use a good doctor!” the Russian said.
“So I’ve heard,” Stockbridge replied as he turned the horse around.
“Wait! Molly, your things! Will you be back for them?”
“I—I don’t know!” she called back.
“But—you need clothes!”
“I know where I can get her some furs,” Stockbridge yelled over his shoulder as he rode from town toward the homestead and the future.
About the Author
Ralph Compton stood six foot eight without his boots. He worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist. His first novel, The Goodnight Trail, was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for best debut novel. He was the USA Today bestselling author of the Trail of the Gunfighter series, the Border Empire series, the Sundown Rider series, and the Trail Drive series, among others.
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