They had been moving slowly northward, with Celia riding alongside the wagon. Now the old man pulled on the reins and brought the wagon to a halt. He set the brake, wrapped the reins around the handle and turned to face Celia. Shrewd blue eyes studied her while the man stroked his straggly beard with one hand.
“Eh, lass, you mean it? Let me see the color of your money.”
Celia pulled a rawhide pouch rattling with gold coins from her saddlebags. She was carrying her father’s share of the robbery takings. The rest of their funds were in Roy’s saddlebags. She loosened the string on top, pulled out a handful of gold coins, lifted her fist and let the coins clatter in a glittering stream back into the pouch.
“There’s a thousand dollars in here, for the trade goods,” she told the old man. “Start unloading.”
The man hopped down, peeled away the tarpaulin. Celia ran an assessing gaze over the load. “Get rid of the tools...just leave me two of each kind...shovels and forks and picks...whatever you’re carrying... What’s that big thing? A plow...? Take it out... Leave all the fabrics and the foodstuffs... No, leave the whiskey...and I want to keep any household goods, pots and pans...”
She left the man to deal with the task of unloading and rode back to fetch Dagur and the two outlaw horses. When she returned, the old man halted his labors with a thoughtful look at Roy draped across the saddle. “You should have told me,” he said quietly. “Had I known it’s to take your man’s body for burial, I could have turned back on the trail and taken you to the ferry for nothing.”
Celia’s mouth tightened. She wanted to acknowledge the kindness, but her mind recoiled at the man’s assumption they were headed for a burial. “He’s still alive,” she replied, perhaps a little too sharply. “I want to travel fast. Help me lift him into the wagon.”
One side of the wagon bed was empty now. Celia spread out the wool blankets and unraveled a bolt of canvas to go on top, to create a soft mattress. While she worked, she bombarded the trader with questions. She’d driven a buggy a few times, when she and her father had rented one from the livery stable. She’d not found the task complicated, but a wagon with a two-horse team might pose a greater challenge.
She learned the horses were called Ben and Nevis, after a mountain in Scotland, and the way to make them go was to say walk or trot or canter—the last only in a great hurry, and with a light load. Easy made them slow down and whoa brought them to a dead stop. For turning, they obeyed left and right. Repeating a command made it stronger, so for a tight turn she might say left, left, left, and speak firmly. It sounded simple enough, Celia thought, suppressing her misgivings.
When she was done preparing the bed, they pulled Roy from the horse and carried him to the wagon. He seemed more comfortable lying on his stomach, so Celia settled him like that, with his head turned to the side, his injured eye facing up. The bleeding appeared to have cleaned the wound and she carefully arranged a length of cotton over his head, creating a canopy that would protect him from dust.
To finish with, she untied the two outlaw horses and swapped the money pouch she had handed over to the trader against the larger one she took out of Roy’s saddlebags. “I don’t have the time to count the money but I’m sure there is at least two thousand dollars in there.”
The trader balanced the bag of gold coins in his hands. “Perhaps I’ve overcharged you a mite...”
Celia was busy tying Dagur and Baldur to the rear of the wagon. She gave the horses a quick pat and a soothing word, and then she circled to the front of the wagon and climbed up to the bench.
“No, you didn’t,” she told the old man. “The payment is also to forget that you ever laid eyes on me. And you should get rid of those horses and saddles as soon as you can. The men that used to ride them had a bounty on their heads.”
Saying no more, Celia called out trot, and the horses set off at a brisk pace. The team was well trained, and Celia found directing the wagon a manageable task. For a while, the old trader, Fergus McLean—Never seen Scotland but I like to think of meself as a Highlander—rode alongside, giving instructions. When he deemed she had mastered the skill, he returned to the pile of trade goods discarded by the trailside, with the aim of loading the most valuable items onto his spare horse and caching the rest to be retrieved later.
By the time Celia passed the sign for Lees Ferry and the trail dropped down to the river, she was confident enough to control the wagon on the steep slope. The small, fertile valley bustled with life. A large party of settlers traveling south must have just arrived, for she counted four wagons waiting to cross, with teams of oxen pulling them and milk cows and pigs and goats tied to the rear.
After almost three weeks surrounded by surly, heavily armed men, the signs of ordinary life overwhelmed Celia. Chickens clucked in their cages. Children raced about, yelling and laughing. Women stood gossiping in groups while men sought counsel from each other.
Celia parked her wagon at the end of the line, hopped down and rushed to the water’s edge. The air was cool and moist, smelling of mud. The current appeared sluggish on the surface, but as she studied the whirling water, she could see the power of the river.
A man, around forty, dressed in homespun, halted beside her. “Howdy, ma’am.”
She gave him a curt nod in greeting, jerked her chin toward the ferryboat about to dock on the other side. “How long does it take to get across?”
“Don’t rightly know. We only just got here and haven’t been watching. Maybe a quarter hour. Maybe more if the current is strong or the animals are slow to load.”
“Are you all together, the four wagons?”
“All the way from Salt Lake. Headed to Phoenix.”
“Who is your leader?”
“That would be Theo Hardman. Over there.”
Celia strode off to where the man pointed. Half a dozen males, some of them elderly, some barely out of their teens, all dressed in homespun and wearing wide-brimmed straw hats, stood in a circle, debating. Not waiting for them to pause in their conversation, Celia boldly cut in.
“Mr. Hardman?”
“That would be me.” Past fifty, sturdy as an oak, the man stood with his legs braced, his hands clutching the suspenders she could see beneath his unbuttoned coat. His face was ruddy, his hair and beard iron gray. Celia got the impression of an indomitable will and the stubbornness of a mule.
“I am in a hurry,” she began. “My husband is sick and I wish to get him to a doctor as soon as possible. I’m willing to compensate your party for the delay if you let me cross first. How much do you think would be appropriate?”
“Well, now, the day is aging. Our hurry is as great as yours.”
“I’ll pay you twenty dollars for each wagon if I can go first.”
“Listen, young lady...” Officious, the leader blustered, rocking on his heels, even though Celia could see the eager glint of acceptance in the eyes of the other men.
“What ails your husband?” a slender, clean-shaven man asked. “My cousin Sarah knows a bit of nursing. She has delivered a dozen babies and never lost one yet.”
“Don’t see how midwifery is much use for a man who is ailing,” someone commented, drawing a chuckle from the rest of the group.
Celia used the ripple of amusement to do some quick thinking. After having cared for two dying parents, and with all her book learning, she was bound to know as much as this Sarah might know. And it would be better if no one saw Roy and could describe him, knew he had passed this way, still clinging to life.
“No,” she said slowly. “I wouldn’t recommend it. What ails my husband looks like some kind of a lung fever...it might be contagious...no point in taking a risk for you all to catch the disease...”
“Theo, if the man has a fever, best to let them go first, protect our children and womenfolk.”
Celia listened to the murmured comments, but the leader, in t
hrall of his power, refused to budge. Her mouth tightening into a grim line, Celia hurried back to the wagon. She moved the tarpaulin aside, lifted out a bolt of calico, with a pattern of pink roses on a cream background. Thank heavens the load had contained a large quantity of fabrics.
“Ladies,” she cried out. “My husband is sick and I am in a hurry to get across. I’ve offered twenty dollars for each wagon if you let me go first. Should your men agree, there is also a bolt of yard goods for each woman.”
The ladies glanced in her direction. No one moved. Celia raked her gaze over them. All were dressed in brown or gray or black, plain colors. She held up the calico with pink roses. “This material would make lovely curtains. And I have thick green wool for winter suits, and white muslin for nightgowns. A full bolt for each woman. You can divide them up and each get several different kinds of fabric.”
The tallest of the women moved. Not toward Celia, but toward the men huddled in debate. Another followed. Like a flock of angry geese, the women pushed their way into the circle of men. Voices rose, the sharp ring of feminine pleas that grew into indignation, cutting across the more muffled masculine arguments. With satisfaction, Celia watched the elderly leader grow sullen and the women’s faces glow with triumph.
Like a victorious army marching from the battlefield, the women hurried over to Celia’s wagon, and she handed out the bolts of fabric. When the ferry docked again, Celia steered her wagon past the others, onto the craft, the heavy gait of Ben and Nevis echoing on the timber planks. She gave another twenty dollars to the ferryman to take her through on her own, leaving the rest of the space unoccupied.
While the flat-bottomed vessel made its way across, fighting the whirling current, Celia climbed up to the wagon bed and tended to Roy. She washed away the matted blood, poured whiskey over the bullet wounds and dressed them with a clean strip of muslin.
His damaged eye was beyond her medical expertise, and she dared not touch it, apart from making a mild saline solution and trickling it over his eyelid, hoping it might flush out any dirt and reduce the risk of infection.
His insensate state made her ministrations easier as she did not need to worry about causing him pain. The moment the ferry reached the shore, Celia scrambled over to the driver’s seat, picked up the reins and set off in the race to give Roy a chance to stay alive.
* * *
Shadows lengthened over the barren landscape. Celia’s arms ached from the effort of controlling the wagon team. Her body had grown stiff from sitting on the hard bench and her muscles sore from jolting over the rutted trail. She no longer stopped every now and then to check up on Roy. Alive or not, she would get him to a doctor. Worrying about his condition would only slow her down.
When darkness fell, the horses whinnied in protest as she urged them on. Celia pulled to a halt. She searched through the pile of trade goods, found a lantern and a bottle of kerosene. She filled the reservoir, lit the lantern and climbed down.
After taking a moment to revive the tired Ben and Nevis with lumps of sugar and crooning words of praise, she set off walking in front of them. Holding the lantern high to illuminate the trail, she led the way, the kerosene vapors stinging her eyes.
By the time a glimmer of yellow squares that could only be windows broke the veil of blackness ahead, Celia was stumbling on her feet. For the last mile, her greatest fear had been that she might trip over, and the horses would pull the heavy wagon right over her.
“Trot,” she yelled. “Ben, trot. Nevis, trot.”
She set off running, the reins tightening in her hand as she surged ahead. Behind her, the clop of hooves grew louder as the horses picked up speed. By now, she could see the outline of buildings ahead, could hear the tinny sounds of music from a saloon.
The town was not much, just a widening in the trail with a few timber buildings on either side. Beyond them, she could see white shapes, like a herd of huge animals squatting on the ground. Closer by, she could see they were canvas tents.
A boomtown. A place so new most buildings were still temporary, timber skeletons with canvas walls. She came to a halt by the first permanent building, a small frame house that had no light in the window. There were people outside the saloon at the opposite end of the street, but she did not want to waste another second.
The pounding broke the quiet of the night as she hammered her fist on the door. “Wake up. I need a doctor.”
A light came on inside. A hatch opened in the door and a shotgun barrel poked through. A raspy, gruff voice spoke. “What do you want?”
“A doctor. Emergency. I have an injured man.”
“The last house on the left.” The gun barrel vanished, and curious pair of hazel eyes surrounded by a wrinkled face appeared in the hatch. Like the voice, the features were strangely genderless. It could have been either a man or a woman of advanced years.
“Watch out when you pass the saloon,” the person advised Celia. “If the drunken men see you, they’ll drag you onto the dance floor. By the time you get them to listen, your emergency might no longer be one. The undertaker is opposite the doctor, just in case.”
Not pausing to reply, Celia hurried to the horses. She surveyed the street ahead. Enough light spilled out from the saloon to illuminate the crowd milling outside. She saw a dozen men, heard their drunken voices. No women. She rearranged the reins, climbed up to the wagon bench and urged the horses into motion, her command harsh to demand one final burst of speed from the tired team.
“Ben, canter. Nevis, canter.”
Obedient, the horses surged ahead and hurtled past the crowd. Celia brought the wagon to a stop by the last house on the left, a two-story building, so new the timber still smelled of pine resin. She set the brake, wrapped the reins around the handle, and then she was banging on the door.
According to her experience, doctors in remote Western towns fell into one of two categories: Older men, fallen on hard times, bitter from failure, banished from more lucrative opportunities, perhaps due to a medical error or drunkenness. Or young, newly qualified men, eager for adventure, seeking to establish their own practice, something lack of funds would not allow them to achieve in more civilized places.
When the door opened, a lean, sandy-haired man of no more than thirty appeared on the threshold. In her mind, Celia said a prayer of thanks. Shirtless, barefoot, only dressed in dark wool trousers, the man held up a light, blinking sleep from his eyes as he stared at her.
Celia took a deep breath. Relief at the competent air of the doctor fanned the spark of hope within her into a bright flame. “I have an injured man in the wagon. Two bullet wounds, and a stone chip pierced his eye. He is alive but unconscious.”
Not waiting for a response, she set off toward the wagon. The doctor turned back to place the lamp on a small side table in the hallway and then he followed her. Celia climbed up first, and the bare-chested medical man vaulted into the wagon after her. She folded aside the canvas hood that had protected Roy’s face and edged out of the way to let the doctor inspect him.
“I can help you carry him inside. I’m stronger than I look.”
The doctor shot her a glance, his lips twisting into a wry smile. “You barely look more alive than he is. Stay out of the way.” He crouched beside Roy, examined him with competent hands, talking calmly and listening to her replies.
“How long ago did this happen?...Less than twelve hours?...That’s good...Nice dressings...Excellent, I can see the bullet in his leg went right through and missed the bone...Did you clean the wound?...Whiskey? That’s fine...Saline solution?...I understand...”
Every time he said “good” or “fine” Celia felt her hopes ratchet up another notch. The doctor had been working his way along Roy’s body and was now bent over his face. He glanced up at Celia over his shoulder. “I won’t examine his eye until I’ve disinfected my hands. Are you sure you are strong enough to lift him? I could shout o
ut and get men from the saloon to help.”
“No...” Celia bit her lip. “He’s been living on the wrong side of the law. The fewer people see him the better...” She drew a shaky breath. “It won’t make a difference to how you care for him, will it? He is a good man at heart.”
The young doctor spoke very quietly, not looking at her. “I believe all men are good at heart. If a man goes bad, it is because something robbed him of the chance to be good.” Carefully, he rolled Roy onto his back. “You take his feet. I’ll take his shoulders.”
They heaved the inert body into the air, slid him down from the wagon bed and carried him into the house. When Celia fretted over jolting him, the doctor smiled.
“Don’t worry so much. He’s been bouncing in the wagon for hours. A little jolt now will make no difference.” Inside the hallway, he lifted one bare foot and kicked open the door on his right. “Through here. The treatment room is at the back.”
They passed a waiting area with chairs lined against the wall and lowered Roy onto a metal gurney. “My greatest pride,” the doctor said. “A gurney that rises and falls—an examining table and hospital bed combined.”
He went to a pitcher and basin in the corner of the room, poured water into the basin and began washing his hands with a cake of carbolic soap. “Now, scoot. I want to look at his eye and it won’t be a pretty sight. I don’t want any fainting or feminine tears.”
“I can help.”
The doctor contemplated Celia while he spread soap along his forearms. The corners of his mouth twitched. “All right,” he said. “Why don’t you go and sit in that armchair.” He jerked his chin to indicate a big, overstuffed recliner in the opposite corner of the room. “It will take me a minute to get ready,” he added as he turned back toward the basin.
Celia collapsed into the chair, her head slumping against the padded backrest. She could hear the doctor talking in his calm, even voice. Her eyelids fluttered down. She would rest. Just for a second. The doctor’s words faded into the distance. And, just as the medical man must have intended, unable to fight the exhaustion, Celia drifted off to sleep.
The Outlaw and the Runaway Page 22