“I’ll get some rags,” Ellen volunteered.
“He’s going to die,” Jared repeated.
The boy’s pessimism was starting to annoy Salty. “I’m going to do everything I can to keep that from happening.”
Roger’s skin was getting a chalky tinge Salty had seen too many times as a presage of death. His heartbeat was growing weaker, too. Salty wasn’t a doctor, so he couldn’t guess what might be going on inside Roger’s body; he could only try to remove the bullet and hope the man could heal.
“This is the sharpest knife I have.” The knife Sarah held out looked big enough to carve a ham.
“I’ve got one.” Dobie reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocket knife with a long, thin blade.
“I need some way to clean it.”
“Why?” Ellen asked.
“During the war, doctors figured out that washing everything seemed to help prevent infection.”
It took several minutes to build a fire and heat the water, minutes that gave Salty too much time to question what he was about to do.
Sarah placed her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “Stop questioning yourself,” she said. “You’re the best chance he has.”
“How can we be sure of that?”
“We can’t be sure of anything. We can only do the best we can.”
That didn’t feel like enough.
“Jared, come wash your hands,” Salty said.
“Why?” Sarah asked.
“Because his fingers are a lot smaller than mine. The less cutting I have to do, the better Roger’s chances for recovery.”
Neither Sarah nor Jared looked happy, but neither voiced any opposition. Finally the water was hot and Salty had washed his hands, Jared’s hands, and the knife. He couldn’t put it off any longer. Roger’s condition continued to worsen. His heartbeat was weak, his breathing erratic. He was so white he appeared entirely drained of blood.
“I’m going to do as little cutting as possible,” Salty said to Jared, feeling guilty about asking for his help. But the boy was Roger’s best chance. “As soon as I feel the bullet, I want you to reach in and try to pull it out.”
Jared looked nearly as white as his father, but he nodded.
The first incision was the worst. After that, it got easier. Thankfully there wasn’t much bleeding. Salty inserted an index finger into the wound. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach to know his finger was inside another person’s body, how everything inside felt soft, warm, and moist.
Pushing aside the disquiet, he searched for the bullet. After a few tries, he found it. It appeared to be lodged in soft tissue rather than bone. “It’s in deep,” he warned Jared. “Reach in and over to the right. See if you can feel it.”
Jared hesitated only briefly. With a gentle steadiness like his mother’s, the boy eased two tiny fingers into the wound. “I feel it,” he said.
“See if you can wiggle it loose.”
Jared wore a look of deep concentration. “I can move it,” he announced, “but it’s not coming out.”
“You’ll have to reach in and pull.”
“There’s something hard in the way.”
“Keep trying.”
The hardness was likely a rib. If Jared couldn’t get the bullet out with his fingers, Salty would have to try to get it out with the knife. He didn’t want to do that because he would risk doing more damage.
Jared reached deeper into the wound, though trying not to enlarge it. “It keeps slipping out of my fingers.”
“You’ll get it,” Salty said.
Everyone else held their places around the bed, their gazes intent on the scene before them, their bodies tense with apprehension and expectation. A lot more hung in the balance than the successful removal of a bullet.
“I got it!” But Jared’s concentration remained focused until he withdrew the bullet and held it up.
“Is he supposed to bleed that much?”
Ellen’s question drew Salty’s attention back to the wound. It had filled with blood, which was running down his side.
“He’s bleeding internally,” Salty said. “There’s nothing we can do for him, unfortunately, just bandage him up. You did a good job,” he told Jared. “Better than I could have done.”
The boy looked at the wound then turned bleak eyes to Salty. “But he’s going to die anyway. Isn’t he?”
Salty looked at the wound. It looked bad, but for some reason he didn’t want to give up hope.
“You don’t need me,” Arnie said. “I think I’ll go.”
“Me too,” Dobie said. “Come with me,” he told Jared. “I’ll help you wash up.”
“You’re messy too, Salty,” Ellen pointed out.
Salty looked down at the blood-covered knife in his hand. Sarah said, “Go with Jared and clean up. Ellen can stay with me.”
In the kitchen, Jared was letting Dobie wash his hands. The boy watched in silence while Salty washed his hands and the knife. Dobie glanced down as though unsure whether he should speak.
“What is it?” Salty asked.
“Do you want us to start digging a grave?”
Salty wondered how old you had to be before death stopped being something that happened to other people. For him, the incalculable waste of war had done nothing to inure him to it. It seemed particularly inhumane to talk about burying Roger while he was still alive, and in front of his child, but life seldom waited for the dead. “Not yet. Sarah should be the one to decide where he will be buried.”
“Then I’m going back to sleep.”
“You ought to go back to bed, too,” Salty said to Jared. “There’s nothing more you can do.”
“I want to sit with Mama and Ellen.”
“We can all sit together,” Salty said.
Little had changed when they returned to the bedroom. Sarah still held a blood-soaked pad to Roger’s chest. Ellen remained at her mother’s side. Roger looked the same.
“Want me to take over for a while?” Salty asked.
“I already offered,” Ellen spoke up. “She wouldn’t let me.”
Salty wanted to speak but was afraid anything he said would be wrong. Sarah hadn’t wanted Roger to die, even though his return had complicated her life and her children’s. Salty wished the children weren’t going to witness their father’s death, but it seemed an inevitability. At least they’d had a chance to see him again. He had come back and claimed them. Maybe that was enough to balance against his abandonment.
Salty had been so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t notice Roger stop breathing. He only noticed when Sarah sat up, lowered her head and whispered a short prayer.
“Is he dead?” Ellen asked.
Her mother nodded.
“Do you want me to lay him out?” Salty asked.
“No. I should be the one to do it.”
“Can I help?” Ellen asked.
“No,” Sarah said. “This isn’t something you should have to handle.”
“Come on,” Salty said to Ellen. “It’s long past your bedtime.”
Sarah cast Salty a weak smile of thanks. “Come back when you’re done.”
It didn’t take long for Ellen and Jared to get back into bed. Salty hovered over them for a few minutes, stroking their hair and calming them. They were taking the death rather well. Salty supposed they hadn’t known Roger very well. He also supposed it was for the best.
He was back about five minutes later with Sarah. “What can I do?”
“Sit with me and listen while I talk.”
He did.
Sarah purged. She talked about how she hadn’t wanted to marry Roger, how she’d begged her father to no avail not to force her. She talked about Roger as a spoiled youth, when he was an irresponsible adult, when he was a thoughtless husband. She
also talked about how her independent streak had run counter to everything Roger wanted in a wife, how her attempts to change had failed because she didn’t want to change. She talked about his unhappiness with Jared, about his family’s rejection of her and her children. She talked about the anger she’d felt for him, anger that increased with each growing hardship.
She then talked about realizing how Roger couldn’t change any more than she could. The marriage had been as wrong for him as it was for her. She explained her feelings of rage when he returned, about her guilt that his death had removed the greatest impediment to her happiness. She talked about being sorry he’d never got to know his own children, yet was also relieved they would never know his true character.
Finally, she fell silent. Salty didn’t know whether he should say something or stay quiet. This was uncharted territory for him. No woman had ever poured out her heart to him. Not in this way.
Unable to do nothing, he reached for her hand. It was rough from hard work but warm and supple in his grasp. With a sigh Sarah looked up at him and smiled then allowed herself to lean against him. They sat like that for some minutes, Salty wondering if she had more to say.
When she finally did speak, she seemed to have regained her composure. “I’m going to lay him out now. When I finish, I want you to take him to the sitting room. We’ll bury him in the morning.”
* * *
Ellen yanked at her dress.
“Stop before you tear it,” Sarah scolded. She and the children were ready to leave the house. The men had already placed Roger’s body in a box next to the open grave.
“Why do I have to be dressed up?”
“People always dress up for funerals. It’s a sign of respect.”
“Why should we respect him?” Jared asked. “He was mean.”
It was a hard question to answer. She felt like a hypocrite asking her children to honor the man who’d abandoned them. Maybe it wasn’t Roger’s fault his parents had pampered him because of his looks, leading him to believe he deserved things just because he wanted them, or maybe he should have had the strength of character to overcome that fault. She couldn’t say. All she knew for sure right now was that she wanted her children to think the best of their father, at least in all ways that would affect how they thought about themselves.
“People don’t always do what they should when they’re alive. We just have to trust your father did the best he could.”
“Maybe he did,” Jared conceded grudgingly, “but Salty would never have been like that.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she admitted. “Now, we can’t keep everybody waiting.”
It had taken most of the night to decide where to bury Roger. Sarah had settled on a spot inside the band of trees that circled the house. That would honor his position as part of the family, but he would be also separated from the new family she was forming.
Once outside, they walked together, Ellen on one side and Jared on the other. Ellen would grow up to be a lovely woman, but Jared was going to be a heartbreaker. She found it ironic that the child Roger had rejected should end up being even more handsome than his father. She was proud of both children. They had inherited the best of both parents without the flaws.
They all gathered at the grave. Salty, Arnie, and Dobie stood opposite her and the children. She knew she had to say something, but Sarah was still searching for the right words. The silence lengthened.
Roger didn’t look so handsome now, but there was a humanity to him that had been lacking before. Maybe the war and two years in the goldfields had taught him some of the lessons he’d failed to learn earlier. After all, he had come back to them. Maybe he’d intended to make good on his marriage vows and hadn’t really been grasping at straws financially. Maybe the reason he’d been so angry was surprise at finding another man in his place.
She cleared her throat. It was time.
“We’re gathered here to remember the life of Roger Winborne, son of Anson and Jessica Winborne, first husband of Sarah Pettishall Winborne, and father of Ellen and Jared Winborne. He was a delight to his parents and a favorite of many who knew him.” That wasn’t too much of an exaggeration. He had gotten along fine with anyone who wasn’t married to him. “He was a good soldier who survived the war to return to his family. He died trying to protect their home.”
She debated saying more, but her mind was blank. Roger looked so calm and peaceful, so ordinary, not like the man she remembered. He seemed to be indicating that he understood, that it was time for him to rest, that it was time for them to move on. Perhaps in death he was giving her the understanding he’d been unable to provide in life.
“Are you ready to bury him?” Salty asked.
“Yes.”
Salty and Dobie fitted the top to the coffin and nailed it shut. They were preparing to lower it into the grave when they were interrupted by the arrival of several riders. Wallace’s foreman was in the lead. He eyed the coffin with an odd expression.
“What are you doing here?” Sarah asked.
“Mr. Wallace rode out last night, said he was heading over this way. He never came home.” He indicated the coffin. “That wouldn’t be him you’re fixing to bury, would it?”
Twenty-four
“That’s my pa,” Ellen told the foreman. “Mr. Wallace killed him.”
The foreman cast a scornful glance at Salty. “It looks to me like your pa is doing just fine.”
“Mr. Benton is my second husband,” Sarah told the foreman. “Roger Winborne was my first. He was the father of my children.”
“The lady we all thought was a widow woman suddenly has two husbands?”
Sarah had been so focused on the foreman she hadn’t realized Salty moved until he stood between them. “If you have questions, ask them in a civil manner and we’ll answer. If you can’t do that, you can ride out of here right now.”
The foreman regarded them with a fixed expression for a moment then relaxed into an apologetic smile. “Sorry if I’ve been rude, but we’ve spent the morning searching the ranch without finding my boss or his horse.”
“I don’t know where Mr. Wallace is, but he was here last night, all right—attempting to scatter our cows and horses. Roger, Sarah’s first husband, tried to stop him. Three of us saw Wallace shoot him. We didn’t try to stop him from getting away because we were more concerned with Roger. He died a short time later.”
“I never heard much about your first husband,” the foreman admitted to Sarah. “Where’s he been all this time?”
Salty started to protest, but Sarah put her hand on his arm to stop him. “People have to know the truth, regardless of how awkward it might be,” she said. Turning to Wallace’s foreman she explained, “When my husband didn’t come home from the war, I thought he’d died. Yesterday, he came back. It was quite a shock.”
The foreman didn’t say anything. He kept looking at the coffin, though, and Sarah knew what was on his mind.
“Salty, please open the coffin to show Mr. Wallace’s men that we’re not burying their boss.”
Salty uttered a pithy curse but took the hammer from Dobie and pried the lid off the coffin. “All of you come look,” he said to Wallace’s men. “I don’t want any question about who’s in here.”
“I’ve never seen Roger Winborne,” the foreman pointed out.
Two of Wallace’s other men apparently had. They dismounted and walked over to the coffin. It took only a single glance for both to agree it was Roger.
“And you say Mr. Wallace shot him?” the foreman asked. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he do that?”
Jared pushed forward. “He was stealing our cows.”
“He thought we were stealing his,” Sarah said.
“Why would he think that?” the foreman asked.
“You heard what he said the other week,” Salty reminded him. “He was
angry about the whole situation. We gathered up some unbranded cows today—from our land—and put them into the corral with the horses. Wallace was apparently trying to drive them out. Our dog alerted Roger. Wallace shot Roger when he tried to pull him out of the saddle. I can only assume Wallace hasn’t come home because he’ll be arrested for murder.”
“He’s telling the truth, Gary,” Dobie said to the foreman.
“I was a little ways behind those two,” Arnie said, “but I definitely saw Wallace shoot Roger. When he saw us, he kicked Roger and took off.”
“Don’t expect me to do anything about it,” Gary said. “I won’t turn my own boss in for something I didn’t see. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“I don’t like the idea of working for a murderer,” one of Wallace’s men said.
“Me neither,” said another.
“You don’t know he’s done any murdering,” a third man said. “You only got these folks’ word for it.”
Dobie addressed the last speaker. “You know I don’t lie, Tully.”
“Why should I believe a quitter?” Tully demanded.
“I quit working for Wallace because he ordered us to brand any cow on his land even when we knew it didn’t belong to him.”
Salty turned to Gary, raising an eyebrow.
“I never did that,” the foreman said. “Whenever I saw one of your unbranded cows wander on our range, I hazed it back.”
“Tully told Wallace about it,” Dobie said, pointing a finger at the cowhand. “Gary had to make up a story to keep from getting fired.”
“Talking is getting us nowhere,” Sarah said. “You need to find your boss and we need to bury Roger. Why don’t you send for the sheriff?”
“If you want to set the law on him, you ought to be the ones to send for the sheriff,” Tully growled. Sarah sensed Gary felt the same.
“That seems fair,” she decided.
“I don’t mind going to Austin,” Dobie volunteered. “I might even manage to meet a sympathetic senorita,” he added, winking.
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