PALMER NEVER GOT A chance to sleep. Only a thimbleful of minutes after he left for the barn, I heard several horses approaching. The dog rushed to look out the door, growling. I joined him and saw six men riding down toward the cabin. And I would have recognized the fancy buggy up at the top of the bluff as belonging to Mrs. Mortimer even if we hadn’t been expecting her to return.
I bolted the door then hurried to the table where Palmer’s belt and pistol still lay. The gun was heavier than I’d expected. I held it out in front of me, aiming at the spinning wheel, to see if I would need both hands to fire it. I decided I would. Once I got used to the feel of the weapon, I moved to the window above Rosalind’s bed the way I had seen Victor do, sidling up to it so I could see out without showing myself.
The newcomers fanned out as they rode down the slope, not sticking to the track. Three of them I recognized as cowhands who worked on Mrs. Mortimer’s ranch, which meant the other three must be the hired guns. They got about halfway down the hill before I heard Victor shout, “Stop where you are. You’re trespassing.”
One of the hired gunmen motioned for the others to stop but moved a little ahead of them before he reined in his horse. “As far as we’re concerned, this land belongs to Mrs. Mortimer,” he called back.
I would have disliked that man even if he hadn’t been here to do Adelaide Mortimer’s dirty work. His long face had too much jaw and nose and not enough anything else.
“Not yet, it doesn’t,” Victor yelled.
“Seems to me it’s her word against yours. Why don’t you come out and talk it over with her, peaceful-like.”
“I’m warning you, get off my land or I’ll shoot.”
The man with the long face laughed. “You and the midwife against six of us?”
Palmer’s voice floated down from somewhere, cool and confident. “Hello there, Job Dixon. Last I knew, you were over in Colorado doing work for the railroad. I heard someplace you had some strong reasons for avoiding this part of the country.”
The man looked up, and I knew Palmer must be in the barn’s hayloft, speaking from the opening cut there to swing hay bales in through. “Luke Palmer, that you?”
“It is.”
“You working for this sheep farmer?”
“No. I’m through selling my gun.”
The man called Dixon grinned. I’d been wrong—he didn’t just have too much chin and nose, he also had too much mouth. “Then we’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I didn’t say I was through using it.”
Dixon scowled. “You can’t get all six of us at once. Be sensible. Come on down before this starts, and I give you my word you can ride out of here before any shooting starts.”
“I don’t have to get all six of you myself. I’ve got friends too. Why don’t you be sensible and ride off this place before you get shot for trespassing?”
One of the other gunmen growled, “We didn’t count on going up against Luke Palmer. She said it’d just be an old man and his daughter.”
I glared at him for calling Victor Owens “old,” though of course he couldn’t see me. Why, Victor wasn’t any older than me, and I wasn’t nearly ready to be considered “old.”
Palmer laughed. “Mrs. Mortimer has a real bad habit of neglecting to tell her employees all the facts.”
Dixon said, “This is your last chance, Palmer. I don’t fancy being the one to end you, but you can be sure one of us will unless you come on out here right now.”
“I like it where I am,” Palmer replied.
“Your call.” Dixon clucked to his horse and began riding back up the hill. For a minute I thought he’d decided to leave after all. The other five men did the same, but they didn’t ride all the way back up the bluff. Instead, they turned around again a little before they reached the top, and I realized they’d just been moving out of range of Victor’s and Palmer’s guns.
Dixon cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “Me and my pals aim to stay here until you get sensible. Might take a few days, but eventually you’ll have to leave the barn. And when you do, here we’ll be.”
I knew then that Mrs. Mortimer had won. If Palmer couldn’t come back to the house, he couldn’t operate on Rosalind. She would die a slow, horrible death from infection. Or Palmer would try to sneak over here in the night; but even if he made it safely, that awful man Dixon was right: We couldn’t stay bottled up here forever. And what if someone took sick and needed me?
I decided I would call out to remind Victor of all that, but before I could, there came a piercing whistle from the direction of the barn, one low note, one high note, and then another low note.
Victor’s dog scrambled up on Rosalind’s bed and jumped out the window before I could quite comprehend what he was about.
“You there, Blue! Bring them down!” Victor yelled.
I wondered if the poor man had taken leave of his senses. The men outside must have thought so too, for I could hear their laughter. As I watched, the dog ran off up the bluff and over it. He yipped a few times, and then sheep began bleating unhappily. They sounded for all the world like old women protesting the necessity of taking their rheumatism medicine. The bleating grew louder, rowdier, and soon a sheep or two drifted into sight over the rise. Then more and more of them. Blue yipped and growled somewhere behind them. And then a veritable flood of sheep poured over the bluff from where they’d been grazing up near the road. They pounded down the slope, surrounding Mrs. Mortimer in her buggy, engulfing the six men on their horses.
The horses shied at the sudden onslaught of wool-covered intruders bent on escaping the little dog driving them. The men tried to hold their horses steady, but their mounts were swept up in the rush, and they had no choice but to move on down toward the buildings.
Mrs. Mortimer fared even worse. Her horse bolted down the slope at an angle, the buggy lurching along behind it. As I watched, one front wheel hit an old tree stump and the buggy flew up into the air. When it landed on its side, Mrs. Mortimer tumbled out of it. I couldn’t see her anymore for all the woolly bodies in the way.
A rifle shot rang out, but either it went wild or Palmer meant it as a final warning, for none of the men outside fell from their saddles the way I’d expected them to. Dixon and the other two gunmen began firing at the barn, but their horses lurched and shied, so that I was hopeful they could take no real aim. However, that made them difficult to hit as well. Though Victor and Palmer fired back, all their shots missed, as far as I could tell.
Victor called more instructions to his dog, but I couldn’t hear them clearly over the sound of all those sheep. I’d thought they were headed for the barn, but as they reached it, the dog steered them on down toward the stream. That creature seemed to have multiplied into two or three dogs, for one minute I would see him in one place, and the next he would be on a different side of the herd. Always snapping at disobedient sheep, his sharp barks reminding them to go where he aimed them and not get any silly ideas about trying to get inside the corral or barn.
As the riders drew closer, Mrs. Mortimer’s regular cowhands began shooting too. It got so I couldn’t tell which shots came from where. The Owens cabin and barn are both set broadside to the river, the barn back just a bit instead of right in line with the house. That meant I couldn’t see the barn unless I stuck my head out of the window and looked around the house, and I was loath to do so lest someone notice me and aim a few shots my way.
First one rider and then another passed beyond where I could safely see. I began to wonder if Palmer and Victor were ever going to hit one of the attackers, or if they were missing on purpose. Or if real gunfights went this way, with more noise and movement than killing. This being the first in my experience, I had no way of knowing.
Then I heard a cry of pain and chanced looking out the window far enough to see Dixon slide sideways off his horse. When he hit the ground, his horse bolted, leaving him lying there, sheep running on both sides of his body. I couldn’t tell if he was de
ad or just wounded and did not think it wise to keep my head out the window long enough to find out. It was just as the last of the sheep streamed past that I heard a noise at the back of the house. It sounded like fabric ripping, a noise so out of place that I knew I needed to investigate at once.
I rushed to look out the window in the cabin’s opposite wall, just to the right of the spinning wheel. There at the side of the house, holding a pistol of her own, stood Mrs. Mortimer. A strip of her skirt fluttered from the picket fence where she’d climbed over it. Whether she planned to fire in through that window at Rosalind and me or if she intended to sneak on past to the barn, I did not know. But I lifted Palmer’s pistol and pointed it at her. “Stop where you are, Adelaide Mortimer,” I said good and loud.
She jumped, but she did not drop her gun. “Emma, this is not your fight,” she said.
I laughed. “It most certainly is my fight. You made it mine when you attacked my friends. When you hired strangers to come here and kill them.”
“But you wouldn’t shoot me. I know you wouldn’t.” She tried to sound confident, but I have been around enough people trying to be brave to know when they are pretending.
“I’d rather shoot you than look at you. And unlike Mr. Palmer, I have no qualms about shooting a woman.” I realized suddenly that the gunshots had stopped. “The fight is over, and you have lost,” I told her. Unlike most people, I have had enough practice feigning certainty to convince most anyone that what I say is so. Far too often I’ve had no knowledge of how to treat an ailment, but simply telling a patient they would be fine soothed them enough to buy me time to think of something helpful. I prayed that my trust in Victor’s and Palmer’s abilities to dispatch their adversaries was not misplaced.
Mrs. Mortimer hesitated. To help her decide, I put my thumb on the pistol’s hammer and pulled it back to cock it. But it had a stronger spring to it than I’d anticipated, and the hammer slid out from under my thumb before I could pull it all the way back. The gun fired with a great thudding noise, shoving me backward from the recoil. I dropped it in my surprise, as startled as if someone else had fired it at me. But I wasted no time returning to the window to see if I had killed Mrs. Mortimer half by accident.
She had her hands over her face; her pistol lay in the dirt at her feet. I could see no blood anywhere, and with unexpected relief I concluded that the bullet had gone wild. I snatched up Palmer’s gun from the floor and aimed it at her again. “You stay there,” I told her. “You know now I mean business, so you stay right there.”
From in front of the house, Victor yelled, “Miss Emma! Are you all right?”
The sound of his voice relieved me mightily, and I called back, “I am, but I’d be most appreciative if you’d come guard Mrs. Mortimer for me.” I did not take my eyes off her, lest she try to retrieve her gun and trade me a bullet for the one I’d sent her way.
Victor appeared around the corner of the house, picked up Mrs. Mortimer’s pistol, then led her back the direction he’d come.
I lowered my weapon with some relief and hurried to look out the door.
The gunman called Dixon lay where he’d fallen. One of his fellow gunmen leaned against the barn wall, clutching his left arm. Blood soaked out from under his fingers, but not so much that I worried he would die from its loss anytime soon. The third gunman and one of Mrs. Mortimer’s hired cowhands stood in the yard with their hands up, Palmer’s rifle trained on them from his vantage point in the hayloft. Mrs. Mortimer’s other two regular men were nowhere to be seen.
“Where are the others?” I called to Palmer.
“They skedaddled when they realized they were in range of this rifle. Did Mrs. Mortimer shoot you?”
“No,” I said proudly. “I fired at her. She tried to sneak up on us around the back of the cabin, but I stopped her with no difficulty whatsoever.”
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought Palmer chuckled.
Chapter 10
VICTOR TIED UP ADELAIDE Mortimer, her remaining gunman, and her cowhand. I tended the other gunman’s wounded arm in the shade of the barn, trying to ignore the body lying not far away. Palmer had put his own blanket over the dead man, and I could tell he regretted the man’s death, even though Dixon had come here with the intent to kill us. I wanted to ask how it had all happened, but I knew the story would keep.
I’d just finished tying off the bandage when I heard hoofbeats at the top of the bluff. Not again, I thought.
Palmer grabbed Mrs. Mortimer and yanked her toward the house. “If that’s more of your men, you tell them to leave or they’ll have to try collecting their wages from a dead woman.”
Before Mrs. Mortimer could reply, three horses showed along the top of the bluff. Only two of them bore riders, and the third was a familiar buckskin. Victor said, “Friends of yours, Palmer?”
“They are now.” Palmer loosened his hold on Mrs. Mortimer’s arm. “Looks to me like the sheriff from down in Lincoln, bringing my horse and looking into this like he said he would.”
As it turned out, we needed nearly an hour to give the sheriff a clear explanation of the situation. When it came time for me to relate how I had captured Mrs. Mortimer, I omitted the detail of firing the gun, accidental or otherwise, not wanting to seem either a braggart or foolhardy. He did not press me for more details than those I freely gave.
While the sheriff took charge of our prisoners, his deputy heaved Dixon’s body over the back of the dun horse Palmer had borrowed. I offered the loan of my buggy to transport Mrs. Mortimer back to town, where they intended to hold the prisoners until they could travel to Lincoln aboard the next day’s train. But that woman said she would rather ride a strange horse than sit in my buggy, so they put her on the dead man’s horse and took her that way.
Once they had gone, I hurried inside to check on Rosalind, having neglected her shamefully in the excitement. She still slept, but I thought her forehead felt cooler, though I could not be certain. The red streaks on her arm had retreated at least an inch. I wondered if Palmer’s treatment had helped enough, or if we still faced a grisly operation.
When he and Palmer came back inside, Victor asked, “How is she?” His voice was husky with worry.
“I can’t tell.” I stood up and motioned for Palmer to take my seat. “See what you think.”
Palmer examined her arm. He said nothing for some minutes but took her pulse, felt for fever, and sniffed the wounds. At last he said, “I didn’t think there was any hope, but . . . I do not think we need to amputate. I . . .”
I confess I interrupted him by grabbing Victor by both arms and whirling around him in a circle. “We have won!” I crowed.
Victor surprised me then. He wrapped his arms around me and gave me the most sincere embrace I had ever received from a man. “Thank you,” he choked out.
I patted his back in what I hoped was a comforting way. “You’re quite welcome.”
He stepped back and looked at Palmer. For a moment I thought he might grab the gunman and hug him as well, but instead he held out his hand. “My sincere thanks,” he said.
Palmer shook Victor’s hand without a word. Then he stood and gestured for Victor to take his place beside Rosalind. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll try getting some sleep.” He moved to the doorway but paused there and looked back just in time to see Victor lean over and kiss Rosalind’s cool forehead.
At her father’s touch, her eyelids fluttered opened. “Pa?” she whispered.
Palmer smiled then, a look so joyous it momentarily chased away the regret I still read in his expression.
“I’m here.” Victor’s voice had crumbled with emotion. “I’m right here. Are you thirsty?” He reached for the ever-present cup of willow bark tea.
Rosalind opened her lips again but didn’t say anything. Victor slid one arm under her shoulders so he could lift her enough that she could drink easily. She managed a few swallows before her eyes closed with weariness. Victor lowered her head to the pillow again.
I followed Palmer outside, wanting to let Victor and his daughter have some peace for a minute or two. Dusk had crept up on the cabin while we were tending Rosalind, and I spied the first two stars peeping over the bluff at us. “A strange day,” I commented.
“It’s ended far better than I ever dared hope.”
“So it has.” I searched for something else to say. “Are you hungry?”
“I will be.”
“I’ll fix something for all of us. Come get it once you’ve slept.” I went back inside while he headed for the barn and the rest he’d earned three times over.
Chapter 11
WE SAT NEAR HER far into the night, all three of us, drinking coffee and watching Rosalind sleep. Enjoying the relief. The red streaks on her arm retreated steadily, and her fever did not return. The dog kept his post beside her bed, but his head lay on his paws, and once or twice I thought I heard him snore. Even he knew that the angel of death had passed over the cabin.
As I sat there between Victor and Palmer, I couldn’t help thinking that Victor had been right: Mrs. Mortimer couldn’t have everything. She could never have this companionable silence with these two handsome men.
I glanced at them both in the firelight. Both so fierce and yet so kind. We’d gone down a hard trail together, a trail I had not foreseen when I rode out to this cabin only a few days earlier. I’d meant to keep the man who now sat on my right from hurting or killing the man on my left, never dreaming that it would be Rosalind who would need saving instead. Or that she would be saved by the man we’d thought our enemy. What an oddity life can be!
Finally Victor spoke. “What are your plans now, Mr. Palmer?”
Palmer shifted in his chair. “I don’t rightly know.”
“We could use a doctor in these parts. No offense to you, Miss Emma.” Victor smiled at me, the corners of his mustache lifting in a rather becoming way. Of course, everyone looks particularly nice by firelight.
Five Magic Spindles: A Collection of Sleeping Beauty Stories Page 6