The Gallant Outlaw

by Gilbert, Morris

  Lanie took a canteen, wet one of her handkerchiefs, and began bathing his face. “He looks—awful,” she whispered in anguish.

  Lobo spoke up, his voice filled with frustration, “I always feel so blasted helpless in a situation like this! If we only had a doctor!”

  Lanie turned to him, her face strained. “I’m not sure a doctor would help now.” She dampened the handkerchief and tenderly touched the ashen face of the still form.

  Lobo stalked around in circles, pounding his hands together as if looking for some way to ease the old man’s torture. His voice reflected his feelings of futility, “Well—I guess—we’ll stay here until he comes to. Or maybe I’ll ride on ahead, see if I can bring out a doctor.”

  “No, don’t leave us!” Lanie cried. She was more afraid of the country and their current predicament than she had let on; but now her face revealed the fear that lurked within her, and Lobo knew that leaving would be out of the question.

  “All right, Lanie,” he reassured her; “we’ll just camp here and see how he does.”

  ****

  As the afternoon passed, the burning, raw heat changed into a cooling breeze. A small fire crackled cheerily and blew aromatic drafts around the group as the mesquite brush burned. No one had any appetite, though Lobo had fixed a meal. They sat, silent and forlorn, staring disconsolately at the merry flames.

  Wesley drew close to Lorenzo. Stone’s movements were clumsy and slow, pain etching his face as he looked down at the still form. He had not once moved. Mutely he stared at the man’s blank face, then inched back to his place without a word.

  His own wound was painful. The bullet had torn through the flesh of the upper arm, leaving a ragged exit hole. But it had not broken the bone; so if infection didn’t set in, Wesley knew he would be all right. But the wound had sapped his energy greatly. After the long chase, he did not think he could take any more. Hopelessly he thought, I’ve just come to the end—I can’t go on anymore!

  Lobo’s sharp gaze rested on Wesley. Lobo had seen men like Stone before; a final, numbing exhaustion would set in, and they would seem to distance themselves from the concept of life and death. It just didn’t matter anymore to them. And they would die.

  Lanie seemed to be in shock; her face was deathly pale, her eyes enormous and unfocused.

  Lobo’s shoulders sagged. Quietly he said, “I dunno what to do. We can’t go on, and we can’t stay here.”

  Silence lay heavy and thick, like a stifling cloak, on the group. No one moved or said anything for a long time. Minutes stretched on endlessly. Lobo got up and fed the fire, then turned and walked away into the gathering darkness, holding his rifle loosely in his hand. The desert night slowly surrounded them, but no one went to sleep.

  About ten o’clock Lobo returned and Lanie and made a pot of coffee. It was black and bitter, but the hot liquid was refreshing and seemed to break the twilight trances over them. “Better eat something,” she said listlessly and fished a baked potato out of the glowing coals, cracked it open, and began to pick the steaming white pulp out, not even bothering to salt it. She was not hungry, but she had learned that she had to eat to keep going. Lobo ate too, but Wesley couldn’t gather the energy to down anything.

  Hours passed. Finally Wesley leaned back and fell asleep. Overhead the skies were clear. Lobo pushed his hat above his forehead, leaned back on the saddle he had thrown on the ground, and looked up. As always, he wondered about the stars: who made them, how they all stayed in place, what they were made of. He was lost in his reverie.

  Suddenly a faint sound came from Lorenzo Dawkins. Like a cat Lobo sprang to his feet; almost as quickly Lanie was there. The wounded man lay close to the fire under a light blanket. Stone woke up and crawled over to them.

  “Can you hear me, Lorenzo?” Lobo asked, kneeling beside him.

  At first there was no answer. Then Lanie saw the old eyes slowly open and recognition dawn in his face. She cried out, “Lorenzo, Lorenzo! Can you hear me? Are you in pain?”

  Dawkins gazed up at her and licked his lips as he whispered in a weak croak, “Water . . .”

  Lanie ran to the supplies and returned with a canteen. Lobo held the frail figure upright. “Can’t move my arms,” Lorenzo muttered. “Can’t move nothin’.”

  “Here—” Lanie knelt at the old man’s side and held the canteen to his lips.

  Lorenzo managed to drink awkwardly, most of the water running down his chin. Finally his head dropped back and he sighed. “That was good.” He stared at Lobo, then at Stone and Lanie. “Well, I guess I’ve torn it this time, huh?”

  “You’ll be all right,” Lobo said stoutly. “We’ll get you to a doctor, and he’ll fix you up.”

  His bluff made no impact on Lorenzo Dawkins. He shook his head and said in a voice of wonder, “Can’t move nothin’ ’cept my head! Ain’t that somethin’? Feel like my whole body’s gone to sleep.” His eyes began to droop, and they were afraid he was drifting into unconsciousness again, but then his eyes widened. He looked at Lanie and whispered, “Sorry about your sister, Missie.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Lanie reached up and gently brushed a lock of his white hair back from his forehead, then lightly wiped his forehead with the handkerchief she had dampened. “We’ll find her, Marshal, and you’ll be all right,” she said in a soothing voice.

  “Nope. Not this time,” Dawkins whispered mildly.

  Lobo exchanged a quick glance with Lanie and said gruffly, “Oh, sure you will, Dawkins. You’ve taken bullets before. We’re gonna get you—”

  “Nope,” Dawkins said again, a certainty in his voice. “This is it for old Lorenzo, son.” There was a peacefulness on his face and in his eyes that surprised them all. He began to talk, and he spoke slowly, forming the words with great care and effort. “This time,” he said, “I’m on the receivin’ end.” Lanie’s eyes welled up with scalding tears, and, inexplicably, the dying man was filled with compassion for her. “Don’t you cry now, Missie,” he chided her gently, breathing heavily. “Don’t you cry for ol’—ol’ Lorenzo Dawkins.”

  “I—I c-can’t help it,” Lanie said, biting her lip. “It’s all my fault! I never should have dragged all of us out here in the first place!”

  “I was here ’cause I wanted to be here, Missie.” His voice was growing weaker. “I been out on lots of hunts that I wasn’t proud of, but this time I was proud. Wish we coulda done it.” There was silence, and for one moment Lanie thought he was gone. She held her breath and leaned closer to him, tears streaming, her eyes fixed on his face.

  Slowly Lorenzo began to speak again. “I ain’t been the man I shoulda been. Hard to be a Christian in this line of work. I tried to be fair and honest—but I’ve had to handle some rough characters, and that takes rough ways. Don’t it, Lobo?”

  “That’s right, Lorenzo. But everybody who knows you knows you’re a good man,” Lobo said gently. He felt helpless kneeling by him. Lobo loved the old man. He had known him and respected him for a long time, but now he saw the life slipping away, like sand sifting through an hourglass. Lobo knew that Lorenzo Dawkins was almost gone.

  They waited. The moon crept slowly across the sky. The stars twinkled and burned quietly against the velvet black curtain of night. The desert silence reigned, broken from time to time only by the cry of a night bird or the howl of a coyote—all sounds of nature, all sounds of the familiar world each person was living in. Yet now each one felt strange and alien to the cries. As the old man’s life flickered weakly and seemed to be fading away, all of them were struck dumb by the awesomeness of the moment. Finally Lorenzo Dawkins roused and whispered, “One thing—one thing . . .” He faltered, but then his voice returned, stronger than before. “One thing—I done. Long time ago. I took Jesus as my Savior. I ain’t been faithful to Him always. But I always loved Him, and I always studied His Word. And now, I guess, when I go to meet my God, all I’ll be able to say—is—Jesus paid for me—for all my sins.”

  His voice trailed of
f, but his eyes opened wide and brightened, and suddenly he smiled, a fine strong smile. Then he looked straight at Lobo, the mysterious smile warming his face, and said, “Son, I’m going. . . .” Lorenzo seemed to slump; then faintly they heard, “Praise . . . Praise . . .” The fading blue eyes closed.

  “He’s gone,” Lobo said, almost angrily. “One of the best men I ever knew. Shot by a no-account dog!”

  Lanie heard his bitter words, but she was too filled with grief to focus on their meaning. In the few days she had known Lorenzo Dawkins, she had learned that he was a good man. He had been unfailingly kind to her and truly caring. Now he was gone. One moment he had been with them, living, breathing, sharing the stage where they all acted out their parts. Now in one brief moment of time, he had stepped from that stage and had gone to a new place, to another world, another land. Lanie wanted to cry out, but she could not. Great scalding tears ran down her face, and a knot formed in her throat. Carefully, tenderly she laid Lorenzo’s head down, crossed his frail arms over his chest, stood to her feet, and walked away to stand in the darkness alone. There no one could see the river of grief flowing down her desolate face.

  A while later she heard light footsteps and knew Lobo was coming up behind her. “We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready, Lanie,” he said quietly. “We still need to get Wes to a doctor, you know. And we need to get Lorenzo—in this country, it needs to be quick . . .” His voice trailed off awkwardly. Turning her around with a desperate gesture, he saw the tears making silver tracks down her smooth cheeks. “I—I know how hard it is, Lanie. You loved the old man, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered in a stricken voice, “I did.”

  Lobo sighed softly in the darkness. “Me too. Known lots of men, but never one more faithful than Lorenzo Dawkins. He was the kind of man I’d like to have been—but the cards just didn’t turn up that way.”

  Lanie looked up at him, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “It’s not too late, Lobo. Maybe all this happened so you can see—what it’s like. It’s made me see. I called myself a Christian, you know. But I couldn’t go out to meet God like Lorenzo did! I’d be scared to death.”

  He searched Lanie’s upturned face, his expression puzzled and questioning. Lobo was disturbed by her confession, but he could think of no word of comfort or strength that would ease Lanie’s grief and fear. He muttered, “I can tell you one thing. I’m coming back, and I’ll get Perrago. I’m gonna put a bullet right between his eyes, and I’ll get your sister!”

  Lobo’s voice was hard and adamant and cruel, and Lanie protested, “No, don’t talk like that.”

  “Why? It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “I want Betsy. But if you turn out to be a man who does nothing but kill, it’s—it’s all for nothing, isn’t it?”

  Lobo’s features were shadowy and dim, but an intangible aura of hatred seemed to surround him, and his voice chilled Lanie. “I don’t know any other way to get the job done.”

  Lanie stood there, unable to think clearly, unable to argue with him; she didn’t have any other answers. And yet she saw that if this man went on this way, letting the bitterness build up in him, he would become just like the outlaws that rode with Perrago. But words refused to come to her, and soon weariness overtook her. “Come on, Lobo,” she said, her shoulders drooping, “let’s don’t talk about it now. We’ll go back to Fort Smith and then we’ll see what can be done once Woman Killer arrives with news.”

  She turned and slowly walked back to the fire, her steps dragging, and blindly looked into the glowing red coals for a while. Lobo was reattaching the travois, holding Lorenzo’s body, to Lobo’s horse again. Lanie straightened up and walked over to him as he finished. “Can we move on now?” she asked. “Even if we ride slowly, I’d like to start.”

  “Sure, we can.” Lobo nodded at Wesley. “We’re gonna head out now. Get you to a doctor. How’re you doin’?”

  “Fine. I’m all right.”

  They mounted their horses, and at a word from Lobo they were on their way. The three made their way through the darkness of the wasteland—all lost in their own thoughts. The farther they went, the blacker the pall seemed to become as it hung upon Lanie Winslow’s heart. She still grieved for her sister, but now she knew that the price that had been paid was terribly high—and it wasn’t fully paid yet.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “He’s My Kind of Man!”

  “Well, devil throw smoke!” Bronwen Winslow exploded, putting both hands on her hips, thrusting her chin out, and staring at her husband as if he had just announced he had decided to flap his wings and fly to the moon. She grew angry very rarely, but when she did, the strong Welsh temper flared like a torch, and her green eyes sparkled in a most ominous manner.

  “Now, Bron—” Zach Winslow said in a placating fashion, “this is just something I’ve got to do! I’ve moped around here like a whipped dog long enough! I can’t sit around on my rear end in this wheelchair, doing nothing, while my girls are out there in trouble!”

  “Go and scratch, Zach Winslow!” Bron snapped impatiently. She folded her arms across her chest and stared at her husband, and when she spoke again, her voice carried a cold chill. “So you’ll be leaving me and your family alone! Is that it? And you in a wheelchair—”

  Zach rolled over and put his arms around her. She sat stiffly, refusing to yield herself to his embrace. “You know I’ve got to do it, don’t you, Bron?” he murmured against her fragrant hair.

  For one moment Bronwen held out. Then she grabbed the front of his shirt with both of her hands and looked at him, tears shining in her eyes. “It’s stubborn you are, Zach Winslow!”

  “You knew that when you married me, Bron,” he said gently. He drew her closer and kissed her, then held her tightly. The two clung to each other, her hands clasping his neck. In truth, Bronwen Winslow had seen this coming. Ever since Lanie and Wesley Stone had left, her husband had been like a caged lion—restless and fidgety. It had almost driven her insane, knowing that sooner or later he would have to do something. Bron knew him so well. Drawing back, she looked into his eyes and smiled. “Well, go get him, then—and bring the bones hot from his body!” Zach laughed suddenly at her bloodthirsty words. “You haven’t changed a bit, woman! Not since the first time I saw you!” he declared. “I thought you were the stubbornest woman in creation, and nothing’s happened to make me change my mind!” “Ah, well,” Bron shrugged, “no matter if I get lonesome and sad. You’ll do what you have to do.” Then she smiled again and dashed the tears from her eyes. “I knew you would be doing it sooner or later, Zach. When will you leave?”

  Guilt crossed his face and he said casually, “Oh, I’ve got tickets for the nine o’clock train in the morning.”

  “It’s an old liar you are!” Bron grumbled, and playfully struck his broad chest with her fist. “Didn’t say a word about it, did you now? Telling me you’re going to the office!”

  “I’m always afraid of you more than anything else,” Zach grinned. Then his voice dropped with emotion as he went on. “Afraid of hurting you, or displeasing you, Bron.” He took her hand, held it for a brief moment, bent and kissed it. “I have to do it. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Do I know you?” she whispered. “I only wish I could go with you.”

  “Someone has to stay here and take care of the boys, my dear.” “You can’t go alone. Someone needs to go with you. How about Tom? He’ll be having a fit here if he can’t, Zach,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe you ought to take him.”

  Slowly, the idea formed and took hold in Zach’s mind. He was a methodical thinker, always stopping to consider his options carefully—except when the action started; then he seemed to explode. “You may be right. He’s fifteen now. You could take care of the other boys by yourself, then?”

  “Am I a rat with green teeth?” she retorted heatedly.

  “No!” Zach replied in a knee-jerk reflex.

  “Well then!” Bron said with supr
eme satisfaction. Zach was still trying to work out the incongruity of her statement as she went on smugly. “And haven’t I been taking care of you? And aren’t you more trouble than the rest of them put together!” Bron hated being separated from Zach and spoke out of the unwelcome twinge of fear she felt. Never before had they been apart for very long, but this time might be much longer than she’d like. She took a deep breath and said, “I’ll help you pack.” Then she turned to go.

  He caught her, pulled her back, and kissed her again. She threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. “Oh, Zach,” she breathed, “it’s hurting I am—but only a little. I’ll be all right. You go find Betsy and bring her home.”

  “All right,” he said sturdily. “I’ll do it.”

  At that moment, he looked like the young man he had been when she had first seen him. A young soldier just out of the army—hard and tough; determined to make no friends and to know no woman. Abruptly she said, “Remember? You were set to be a hermit. And I disrupted your life, along with all the needy people from the mission.”

  He smiled and ran his hand over her hair. “That you did,” he said ruefully, “and it’s the best thing that ever happened to me!” They were quiet for a moment, remembering. Then he said huskily, “I’ll miss you, Bronwen.” She clung even tighter to him, enjoying his nearness and the familiar sense of closeness they shared. After a few moments Zach spoke again, and his voice took on a distant quality. “You know, Bron, I think we made a mistake when we left the West to come to Chicago. The boys need elbow room, and the city’s sure got none of that. I wish we’d never left Montana.” “Do you now?” Bron replied with some wonder. “I think of those days too.” Visions of the past rose in both their minds, and they thought of the mountains of Montana, so far away but so clear in their memories. “We’ll go there,” Bronwen whispered, “and see it again. As soon as we get our girl back.”