Sprole slowed his pace a bit and allowed his swinging arm to brush his jacket aside and clear a path to his holstered .44.
The figure was moving at a brisk walk before, and could have been going in one of several different directions. Now that Sprole had focused on it, he could tell the figure was coming straight toward him.
No longer caring about appearances, Sprole placed his hand on his .44 and took a solid dueling stance with his feet planted shoulder-width apart and his body turned sideways so as to present a narrower target. Like any bounty hunter worth his salt, Sprole knew plenty of men who wanted to see him dead. Every outlaw, no matter how cruel or heartless he was, had friends and family. Some bounty hunters themselves weren’t much better than the men they tracked for a living and wouldn’t be above gunning down their competition if they thought it might put them one step closer to a hearty reward. Knowing how many killers were slithering around in these parts and the sizeable prices on their heads, Sprole knew the figure could have been any number of unwelcome visitors from his recent and distant past.
The figure drew closer, perhaps taking a moment to size the bounty hunter up. Blood rushed through Sprole’s veins in expectation of a fight, only to freeze there for a moment when he finally got a look at the figure’s face.
“That you, preacher?” he asked.
Having walked past a torch posted to illuminate the corner of Third and Main streets, Paul Lester rushed toward the bounty hunter. His hair had been tousled by the wind, and his face was pale, leaving him looking several years older than normal. “Where’s the sheriff?” he asked.
“He just left. Why?”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. Probably home. He said he wanted to get some sleep. What’s wrong?”
“It’s the prisoner,” Paul said. “The one being kept at Doc Chandler’s office. He’s gone.”
Chapter 9
Where Sprole had been hesitant to approach Paul before, he rushed at him now. “What do you mean he’s gone?” he asked while grabbing the preacher by both shoulders.
Paul was quick to pull away when he told him, “Get a hold of yourself! You won’t do anyone any good if you carry on that way.” Leaning forward, he asked, “Is that whiskey on your breath? Have you been drinking?”
“I already got a talking-to from the sheriff and I won’t stand still for another one. What’s this about the prisoner being gone?”
“It’s like I said,” Paul replied while straightening the sleeves of his thick white cotton shirt. “He’s not there. I’ve been sitting by his bedside for most of the day, but had to tend to some of my other duties. When I came back just now, he was gone.”
“Why were you going back there at this hour?”
“I’ve been talking to him all day long, trying to learn anything that might help find the rest of his gang.”
“Did he tell you anything?”
“Would you really like me to try and recollect everything he said?” Paul asked. “Or would you rather try to find him before he gets too far away from town?”
Sprole shifted his gaze toward the end of Third Street as if he could see all the way to Doc Chandler’s office. Sniffing the air, he narrowed his eyes and said, “He’s not getting far tonight. Not on foot anyways. Apart from the stable near the sheriff’s office, how many other places in town are there where he could get to a horse?”
“There’s a livery at the other end of Third and any number of horses kept by folks at their homes, behind the hotel, or anywhere else.”
After cursing under his breath, Sprole said, “You say he was at the doc’s office last you saw him?”
“That’s right.”
“How long ago was that?”
“No more than two hours ago,” Paul said. “But the doctor’s been there as well. He probably saw him sometime after I left.”
“You don’t know for certain?” Sprole asked.
The preacher shook his head. “I saw he was gone and just asked if the doctor had moved him. Once Doc Chandler told me he’d stepped out just before the prisoner escaped, I rushed to find the sheriff.”
Sprole’s mind raced a mile a minute. His heart pounded an excited rhythm against the inside of his ribs, causing every one of his senses to become sharp and hungry for any hint of his prey. “All right, this is what we’re gonna do. You know where the sheriff lives?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Sprole said. “Go fetch him and bring him to the doctor’s office. I’ll head there right now and have a look around. Unless he got a hold of a horse, that outlaw’s probably holed up somewhere in town or real close.”
“And what if he did get a horse?”
“Then he probably still didn’t make it very far. There’s not much of a moon out tonight, which means he’d have to know every inch of this terrain like the back of his hand to build up any kind of speed.”
“Maybe you should—”
Sprole was already hurrying down the street. “Go on, preacher. You want to be a part of this so badly, here’s how you can pull your weight. If I find a reason to leave that office, I’ll let the doc know so you and the sheriff can come after me.”
If Paul had anything to say to that, Sprole didn’t stand still long enough to hear what it was. As he picked up speed tearing up Third Street, his eyes soaked up every hint of movement along the way. A few stray dogs lurked in the alleys, and a drunk slept against a dry goods store. Sprole slowed just long enough to make sure the drunk wasn’t the man he was after and then hurried the rest of the way to Doc Chandler’s office.
As he drew closer to the narrow building, he drew his .44 and moved so his boots made as little noise as possible crunching against the dry ground. His eyes darted back and forth between the office’s front door, its windows, and either side of the building itself. Before stepping up to the door, he ducked into the alley beside the office and made his way to the other end.
There wasn’t much to see along that shadowy corridor between the office and Chandler’s neighbor. Apart from a short stack of small crates and some old newspapers rustling in the breeze, there was just a pair of large rodents scurrying toward a loose board at the base of the building next to the office. Sprole timed his steps so the sound they made blended with the scraping of the rodents’ feet. Even if it wasn’t enough to fully mask his approach, the sound could confuse anyone who might be listening for a hint that someone was coming down that alley.
Sprole could sense the desperation of the escaped prisoner as if it were a wisp of perfume drifting through the air. His fingers flexed around his .44 in anticipation of putting it to work. When he reached the back of the office, he looked in both directions to see if anyone was waiting there for him. Chances were slim that the prisoner would be so close, but the gunman had been laid up in a sickbed after being knocked out twice and was probably bleeding again after forcing his way out from his cuffs. Wounds like that had a tendency to stack up, making it even less likely that the fugitive had gotten very far at all.
Grinning at the thought of the prisoner lying somewhere in plain sight, Sprole dropped to one knee so he could get a better look at the ground. As he’d already pointed out to Paul, there wasn’t much light and unfortunately there also weren’t enough tracks in the dirt to give him a hint as to which direction the prisoner might have gone. The chase was young, however, and Sprole knew better than to get disheartened now. He circled around the building, made his way down the other alley, and pushed open the front door so he could walk inside.
Upon entering the dimly lit room, Sprole found himself at the wrong end of a shotgun.
“Drop that gun!” the shotgunner barked.
Sprole didn’t even begin to panic as he lowered his .44 and inspected the floor near the front door. “It’s just me, Doc. David Sprole. I’m working with th
e sheriff. Remember?”
Dr. Chandler angled the shotgun down just enough for him to get a better look at the man hunched in front of him. “Oh, that’s right!” he said while setting the shotgun against the wall. “Sorry about that. One of the deputies left that weapon. Didn’t think I’d ever pick it up, but after today’s events, I’ve been nervous. I trust you heard about what happened?”
“The preacher told me you lost your patient. Any idea how long he’s been gone?”
“Has to be less than an hour,” Chandler replied. “Father Paul was here all day. He left after feeding the patient his supper and then came back to tell me he had other matters to tend to. He was here for a while and then left. I checked on the patient one more time before I had to go across the street for some supplies. I have an arrangement with the owner of that shop and he lets me—”
“How long were you gone?” Sprole interrupted. “That’s all that matters now.”
“Right. Of course. I couldn’t have been gone for more than fifteen minutes. The patient was sound asleep and chained to his bed just as he’d been all day. Considering how much he struggled against those shackles, I know they were strong enough to hold him.”
Sprole made his way toward the back of the room where the prisoner had once been. Now all that was left to mark the gunman’s time there was a mess of rumpled sheets and two sets of shackles. Sprole took his time approaching the cot so he could soak up any important details that could have been left behind. “If them shackles were so strong, then how did he get away?”
The doctor stopped walking and tucked the shotgun’s stock under one arm like a hunter. “I honestly don’t know.”
Having arrived at the cot, Sprole picked up the iron cuff that had formerly been secured around the prisoner’s wrist. “This ain’t busted, which means he didn’t break loose from his chains. He unlocked them.”
“What?” Chandler gasped as he hurried forward to get a look for himself.
“Who has a key to these?”
“The sheriff, of course, and me. I insisted on being given one in the event that I had to perform a procedure or get him away from the bed.”
The suspicion in Sprole’s eyes matched the tone of his voice when he looked at the doctor and asked, “Why would you have to do that?”
“What if he needed to be moved for some sort of procedure?” Chandler replied defensively. “What if there was a fire? I don’t have to explain myself to you! What I do is in the best interests of my patients no matter who they are or what they might have done!”
“I ain’t turning the screws on you, Doc. I’m just trying to figure out what happened. If he got a hold of a key, that’s a whole different story than if someone came along to pick the lock.”
“I doubt those locks could be picked,” the doctor chuckled.
“Then you don’t know much about my line of work. Where’s your key?”
Dr. Chandler seemed supremely confident when he patted the breast pocket of his shirt, which lay beneath a plain black vest. “I kept it right here where I could be certain it was . . .” Suddenly his confidence fell away like so much dried mud. “Oh, dear lord.”
“Your key’s gone,” Sprole sighed. “Was his hand still bleeding the last time you checked it?”
“Yes,” Chandler replied as if he’d just taken a punch to the stomach. “He was always difficult and . . . pawed at me or tried to push me away.”
Sprole stepped up to the doctor and tugged at the front of his vest. Once he got the scant amount of light in the room to shine on the vest at the proper angle, he could see there was smeared blood near his pocket. The few smudges on his shirt were much easier to find. “Looks like he picked your pocket, Doc.”
“I’ll be damned,” Chandler groaned. “But . . . that could also have happened when I was working. I’ve done a lot of stitching today, including you and a horse!”
Turning his attention back to the cot and the floor on either side of it, Sprole asked, “What kind of condition was the prisoner in the last time you saw him? Was he bleeding badly? Was he strong enough to run?”
The doctor was clearly flustered while continuing to pat himself down as if the missing key would somehow turn up elsewhere on his person. “What’s all of that matter now? The damage is done.”
“But the hunt has just started,” Sprole said with a grin. “How far could he make it tonight in the condition he’s in?”
Stopping with his hands still pressed flat against his pockets, the doctor furrowed his brow and mulled a few things over before replying, “All the struggling he insisted on doing was a strain on his stitches. I tried to redo them once, but he wouldn’t have it. I just kept changing his bandages, and to be honest, even that was a chore, so—”
“Doc,” Sprole snapped. “Was he up to speed or not?”
“In small doses,” was the doctor’s response. “When he got himself worked up, he could go for a while, but between the loss of blood and the knocks to the head, he wasn’t in any condition to ride. Even on foot, I’d say he’d be stumbling more often than running.”
“Now, that’s the sort of thing I wanted to hear,” Sprole said. “What about the bleeding?”
“That was mostly under control. If he broke another stitch or two, there could be some, though.”
Standing in front of the bed now, Sprole dropped to one knee and touched the floor with a fingertip. He rubbed that finger against his thumb, and then scooted to another spot. His eyes took on an excited sparkle as he hurried to the window. After a quick examination of the sill, he dabbed another spot and then held his hand out for the doctor to see the crimson stain he’d found. “Looks like he busted a stitch or two after all.”
“Oh my,” the doctor sighed. “Considering everything else he’s been through, he could be passed out somewhere to bleed out even more.”
Sprole slid the window open and drew his pistol before sticking his head outside. “I should be so lucky,” he grunted while waving a hand outside to test the waters. It was unlikely that a man in the prisoner’s situation would stay in one place for very long after catching such a lucky break and even less likely that he’d stick around to stage an ambush. The blood wasn’t dried all the way, so it hadn’t been too long since the man had gotten away, and if he was still outside watching that window for some reason, his nerves were most likely frayed. Even though he’d already circled the outside of the building earlier, Sprole looked out there again before climbing through the window.
“What are you doing?” the doctor asked as he rushed toward the open window.
Having already dropped to the ground beneath the window, Sprole crouched down to examine the dirt. “Considering he’s still bleeding, how far would you say he could have gotten?”
“There’s no way for me to know how badly his stitches have been compromised. I’d need to examine him to know for certain—”
“Take a look at your floor to see how bad he’s bleedin’!” the bounty hunter snapped. “Just make a guess so I’ll be able to round him up.”
The doctor looked at the sill and shook his head. “If he tore through all of his stitches, I suppose the bleeding could be much worse.”
“Now you’re thinkin’,” Sprole said as he let his eyes adjust to the darkness so he could search for more drops.
“Most likely, he’s feeling light-headed. He was unsteady on his feet before. All of this exertion would have made that worse. He was probably fairly excited when he started running.”
“I’m looking for a short answer, Doc.”
“He couldn’t have gone far without either falling over or needing to rest. I’d say he’s somewhere fairly close by.”
“So he couldn’t have grabbed a horse and ridden out of town?” Sprole asked.
Judging by the expression on the doctor’s face, Sprole might as well
have suggested the wounded man had won an election for the presidency. “Heavens no! He was barely able to remain upright the last time I saw him earlier this evening, owing to the knocks he took to the head. Being jostled on a horse—”
“Thanks,” Sprole said as he walked toward a dark spatter on the ground nearby. “That’ll do just fine.”
The last time he’d examined the grounds outside the doctor’s office, the blood drops hadn’t caught his eye. Without knowing what he was looking for, the dark patterns could very well have been mud or any number of things. As Sprole bent toward the little dark spots on the ground near his feet, his senses stretched past all the impediments being heaped upon them. The darkness seemed just a little brighter. The cold didn’t bite into his flesh as it had when he’d walked to the Red Coyote Saloon. Even the whiskey he’d drunk when he’d been at that place wasn’t clouding his head as it had before.
He was in his element now.
A predator with the scent of fresh meat in his nostrils. The animal he was after was not only on the run, but wounded. That made the hunt even sweeter.
“Hey, Doc!” Sprole shouted.
The doctor hesitantly approached the window, wincing as if a gun battle were already under way. “Y-yes?”
“Bring me a lantern.”
While all too eager to leave the window, Chandler was even more cautious when he returned and extended his hand outside. He gripped the handle of a small lantern that had previously been sitting on his desk. Sprole took it from him quickly, not wanting to move his eyes from the spot he’d found. He scowled through an angry grimace that came to him when his eyes adjusted to the light source. With the lantern in hand, he could now see the patch of ground much better.
His intense expression shifted to one of pure glee when he caught sight of the imprints that had been made in the earth. They were deep and long, like two wide grooves that had been cut by a pair of fence posts. Sprole looked to either side of them and found smaller lines to the left of the pair of wide ones. Looking back up to the window, Sprole had no trouble imagining the escaped prisoner climbing down from the window in such a rush that his feet skidded in the dirt to leave those two wide imprints. When he’d stumbled, the wounded man had reached out with one hand to push himself up again, using desperate fingers that carved out those smaller scrapes.
Ralph Compton Brimstone Trail (9781101612637) Page 9