Her injured left arm ached like blazes, but she was barely aware of the pain. She had been acting purely on instinct when she grabbed up the fallen gun and began firing it at the masked attackers. The recoil of the shots had jolted her arms, causing the wounded one to throb. She didn’t care. All she could think about was Jeff Buckston, and whether he was going to live or die.
He was still alive right now, and she was grateful for that. Anyone with such a gory head wound ought to be dead. But after Glover had bounded up onto the porch and determined that she wasn’t hurt, he had slipped a hand inside Buckston’s shirt and reported a fairly strong heartbeat.
Then he had looked at her and asked, “What do we do now, Miss Laura?”
The enormity of it had almost overwhelmed her at that moment. With Buckston out of action, the men would look to her for leadership now. She was the owner of the Lazy F, after all. But she didn’t know what to do.
Still, she had always had common sense, and she had been able to fall back on it then, ordering Glover and Acey-Deucy to carry Buckston inside and put him on the divan in the parlor, and then she had told one of the other hands who came up to the porch to have the men do their best to keep the fire from spreading beyond the two buildings that were already burning. “Salvage what you can later from the bunkhouse and the barn,” she had ordered, “but I don’t want to lose any more buildings.”
“Yes, ma’am!” the cowboy had said as he hurried off to carry out the commands.
Now Laura knew she would have to just trust the men to do the best they could with the fires, because she had more pressing business in here. After Glover and Acey-Deucy had placed Buckston on the divan, she leaned over him and asked, “Can you tell how badly he’s hurt?”
“Hard to say for sure with all the blood on his head,” Glover replied. “Could be he’s just creased, though. The fact that he’s still alive is a good sign. If that slug had gone on through, or if it was still rattlin’ around inside his brain pan, I reckon he’d be dead by now.”
The matter-of-fact way in which Glover spoke of such hideous possibilities made a chill go through Laura. She told herself that this was still a violent land, and those who were going to live here had to grow accustomed to dealing with the effects of that violence. She had to be strong, in other words.
“Acey-Deucy, we need some hot water,” she said, forcing her voice to sound crisp and businesslike. “Some clean rags, too. Hop to it.”
“Yes, Missy Laura,” the cook said as he scrambled toward the kitchen.
Laura lifted the gun in her right hand and looked at it. “Do you have some shells that will fit this weapon, Mr. Glover?”
“Yes’m, I do.”
She held it out toward him. “Would you reload it for me, please? My left arm hurts, and I’m not sure I can manage to do that right now.”
She thought she saw a hint of a smile play across Glover’s face as he took the gun and said, “Yes’m, I’d be right glad to reload for you.”
While he was doing that, Laura moved the sling around and got her left arm back in it, wincing a little as she did so. She slipped her right hand inside the left shoulder of her dress and reached down to check the dressing around the wound. It didn’t seem to be wet.
“How’s that arm o’ yours doin’, ma’am?” Glover asked.
“It hurts like hell, but I don’t think it’s started bleeding again. It’ll be fine.”
“I expect it will.” The cowboy closed the loading gate on the .45 and extended it butt-first toward Laura. “I left the hammer restin’ on an empty chamber. Less likely to shoot yourself that way.”
“I’m not going to shoot myself,” she snapped. She might not be a native Westerner, but she wasn’t totally incompetent.
“No offense meant, ma’am,” Glover said mildly. “That’s the way most folks carry ’em out here. Just a precaution, you understand.”
“Oh.” She felt a little embarrassed. “Well, thank you, Mr. Glover.” She took the gun from him, looked around for a second, and then set it on a small table beside the divan where Buckston lay, still unconscious. The Colt would be within easy reach there if she should need it.
She wondered if from now on she would always have to make sure there was a gun close at hand.
Putting that worry aside, she leaned over Buckston and slid her hand inside the open throat of his shirt. She felt a little awkward touching a man’s body like that, but it was for medical purposes, she told herself. She rested her palm over his heart and felt the beating. It seemed strong enough, if a little irregular.
She straightened and said, “He’s going to be all right. I know he is.”
Acey-Deucy hurried in with a basin of steaming water in his hands and several clean rags draped over his arm. Laura told him to set the basin on the floor next to the divan, and then she knelt there as well. She took the rags from the cook, soaked one of them in the hot water, wrung it out, and then used it to swab at the blood around Buckston’s head wound. The rag turned crimson. After a few minutes Laura tossed it aside and picked up a fresh one. She worked quickly but carefully, cleaning away the blood so that they could get a look at the injury. Glover and Acey-Deucy leaned over her shoulders, watching intently.
Finally, Laura had enough of the blood cleaned off so that she was able to use her fingers to part Buckston’s thick hair and reveal the long, still-bleeding gash in his scalp. “Just like I thought,” Glover said. “That slug didn’t do nothin’ but give him a good hard lick on the side o’ the head. It bled so much because that’s what head wounds do. They’re worse’n just about anything for lookin’ bad when they really ain’t.”
“You mean he’s going to be all right?” Laura asked.
“Hard to say. Sometimes when a fella gets a real hard clout on the noggin like that, it sorta scrambles up his brains so that he ain’t ever the same again.”
“Oh, my God,” Laura breathed, filled with horror at the thought that Buckston might be permanently impaired.
“But I suspect ol’ Buck’ll be just fine,” Glover went on. “He’s got a pretty hard head. Prob’ly have a ring-tailed howler of a headache when he wakes up, but that’ll be all.”
“I hope you’re right about that, Mr. Glover. I pray that you’re right.” Laura dabbed away the blood that had seeped from the wound as they were talking. “I’ll stay with him and try to stop the bleeding. Then I assume all we can do is wait for him to wake up and see how he is.”
“Yes’m. That’s about the size of it.”
“Go on back outside and see how the men are doing with those fires. Acey-Deucy will be here to help me if I need anything.”
“Yes’m.”
Laura took a breath. “And Mr. Glover . . . thank you.”
“No need to thank me, Miss Laura,” the cowboy said with a grin. “I was just doin’ what the boss told me to do.”
With that he nodded and went out, and Laura resumed tending to Buckston’s wound. She didn’t want to press too hard on it since she didn’t really know the extent of the injury, but she kept some pressure on the wound in hopes that it would slow down and maybe eventually bring the bleeding to a halt.
Buckston showed no signs of coming to over the next few hours. Laura finally managed to stop the bleeding. She soaked a rag in whiskey and tried to clean the wound that way, but Acey-Deucy suggested pouring the liquor right on the gash. “Burn like blazes,” he said, “but it get the job done, Missy Laura.”
She took his advice, carefully pouring the fiery stuff right on the wound. Buckston stirred a little, and she knew that even in his unconscious state, he was feeling the pain. But he still didn’t wake up.
Laura put a clean dressing on the wound, and Acey-Deucy lifted Buckston’s head a little while she tied the bandage in place. Then he pulled one of the rocking chairs over next to the divan so Laura could sit down and still keep an eye on the wounded man.
Laura wasn’t sure what time it was—long after midnight, certainly—when Glover came in
and reported that the crew had been able to put out the fires and save part of the bunkhouse. The barn was a total loss, though.
“And we got two men dead,” Glover went on in grim tones. “Smalley and Catlett. Half a dozen more o’ the boys got ventilated, but I don’t reckon any of ’em are liable to die. Some of ’em will be off their feet for a while, though.”
“Did we lose the wagon?” Laura asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good. In the morning you can use it to take the men we lost into town and arrange for their funerals. In the meantime, do you need any help doctoring the ones who are wounded?”
“No, ma’am, I reckon not. There are several of us who have quite a bit of experience when it comes to patchin’ up bullet holes. We can tend to it. You just stay here and watch over Buck, if that’s what you want to do.”
“All right.” She paused. “How long do you think he’ll be unconscious?”
“No way o’ knowin’. He might wake up five minutes from now, or it might be sometime tomorrow.”
“Or never,” Laura said hollowly. “I’ve heard of such things happening.”
“Yes’m, so have I. But it ain’t gonna happen here. I got faith in Buck.”
Laura hoped that would be enough . . . but she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it.
Glover went back outside. Laura continued sitting beside the divan, and although she wouldn’t have believed it was possible, she dozed off some time later, along toward morning. She slept there in the chair as exhaustion took its toll on her, and when she was jolted suddenly out of her slumber by some sort of commotion, she had no idea how much time had passed. The sunlight slanting in through the windows of the parlor told her it was morning, though. Her eyes went to the divan as terrible memories of what had happened the night before flooded into her brain. Jeff Buckston still lay there, unmoving except for the steady rising and falling of his chest. He was alive, but remained unconscious.
With a shake of her head, Laura realized that it had been angry shouts from outside that had roused her. Now heavy footsteps thumped on the porch, and Caleb Glover flung open the front door and hurried in. His hands were tight on the rifle that he carried, and his face was set in equally taut lines.
“Mr. Glover, what is it?” Laura asked as she started up out of the chair.
“Riders comin’ in, ma’am,” he reported tersely, “and one of ’em is Ed Sandeen.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“Sandeen,” Laura repeated. Instinctively, she looked at the table where she had placed the Colt the night before. She reached over and picked it up.
“Yes’m, and about half a dozen o’ his riders,” Glover said.
“Then he didn’t come to fight, or he would have brought more men.”
“Prob’ly. He must want to parley, Miss Laura.”
She nodded. “I’ll talk to him. I want to hear his explanation for what happened last night.”
“Whatever he’s got to say, chances are it’ll be a lie,” Glover warned.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Glover, I know that.” She looked at Buckston one more time, then marched briskly toward the front door. Glover stepped aside for her and let her go first onto the porch.
She stopped at the top of the steps and turned a level gaze on the riders who had just reined their horses to a stop in front of the big house. Not surprisingly, Ed Sandeen was in the lead. He was the type of man who always had to be out in front, no matter what he was doing. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, a string tie, and a dark gray Stetson. His boots were polished to a high shine and his mustache had been trimmed recently. He looked handsome and distinguished, no doubt about that. Laura wasn’t just about to let such a thing affect her judgment, though.
The men arrayed just behind Sandeen were some of his hired gunslingers who had been masquerading as cowboys. One of them was Vern Riley, who was almost as big a dandy as Sandeen and hadn’t even been trying to keep up a façade of being a working puncher. Instead of a Winchester, he carried his usual shotgun in a saddle sheath.
Sandeen smiled, took his hat off, and nodded politely to Laura. The other men settled for ticking a finger against the brims of their hats. As Sandeen held his hat over his heart as if in a gesture of sincerity, he said, “Good morning, Laura. You look as lovely as ever today.”
“That’s a bald-faced lie, Mr. Sandeen,” she said, not returning the familiarity with which he had addressed her. “I was up most of the night, I have my arm in a sling and blood on my dress, and I’m sure I look terrible.” She glanced toward the barn that had been destroyed by fire and the bunkhouse, which had been heavily damaged, and had to suppress a gasp of surprise. This was the first time she had seen the destruction in the light of day. She glanced over her shoulder at the house and saw the bullet holes pocking the walls. She looked at Sandeen again and went on. “But not as terrible as my ranch.”
Sandeen stopped smiling and put his hat back on. He nodded and said, “I heard you’d had some trouble up here on the Lazy F. As your nearest neighbor, I thought the right thing to do would be to ride over and see if you need any help.”
Laura wondered if that was his way of claiming not to know anything about the attack on the ranch. For that matter, how could he have heard about it this early in the morning?
She addressed that question to him. “Who told you we’d had trouble?”
“One of my night herders noticed a red glow in the sky last night, and this morning he told me that he thought there had been a big fire in this direction. I sent a man up here to have a look, and when he came back, he told me that one of your barns had burned down and that the bunkhouse had been damaged, too. Was it an accident?”
Laura’s mouth tightened. She swept the hand holding the revolver toward the wall of the house behind her and noticed that as she did so, several of Sandeen’s men tensed, as if they thought gunplay might be about to break out.
“Take a look at those bullet holes,” she said. “Does that look like an accident to you, Mr. Sandeen?”
The cattleman’s forehead creased in a frown that darkened his face considerably. “I really wish you’d call me Ed, Laura. You did at one time. And to answer your question, no, it looks like your spread was attacked. Do you have any idea who was responsible?”
You, she thought, but she said, “The men were all masked. I didn’t see their faces, so I couldn’t recognize them.” She glanced at Riley and the other gunmen. It was possible some of them had been among the masked raiders. She would never recognize a man simply by the horse he rode, and in the dim light, with all the shooting going on, the last thing she would have been doing was studying the enemy’s clothing.
“That’s terrible,” Sandeen said. “It’s a shame there’s no real law in these parts, so that someone could put a stop to such outrages. It was probably rustlers, or some other outlaws, trying to intimidate you.”
“Perhaps,” Laura said coolly.
Sandeen leaned forward slightly in his saddle. “I’d like to help you in this time of trouble, Laura. I’ve lived on the frontier a lot longer than you have, and now that your uncle is gone . . . now that you’re alone in the world . . . you could use the advice, and dare I say, the guiding hand, of someone more experienced.”
She took a deep breath and said, “Maybe you’re right.”
Behind her, Glover let out a little grunt of surprise, so quietly that no one except Laura heard it.
Sandeen was smiling again, probably sensing an opening, a weakening on the part of Laura’s defenses. “Maybe if I could come in, we could discuss what you should do next. Maybe even have a cup of coffee while we talk.”
“All right,” she agreed. “Come on in.”
As she turned toward the door, she saw Glover frowning at her. He made a low rumbling sound, as if he were trying to warn her, but he didn’t actually say anything.
Sandeen dismounted quickly, throwing his reins to Riley. As he followed Laura into the house, he said, “If I may be s
o bold as to say so, we’ve been close in the past, Laura, and I’d consider it an honor and a privilege if you’d allow me to protect—”
He stopped short at the sight of Buckston lying on the divan with the bandage tied around his head. His eyes widened in surprise.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Sandeen,” Laura lied, “but I don’t need you to protect me.” That much was true, and so was what she said next. “My men and I can take care of ourselves. Mr. Buckston will be back on his feet soon, and in the meantime . . .” She hefted the revolver in her hand and went on. “I’m giving the orders on the Lazy F.”
Sandeen frowned. “But . . . but you’re just—”
“A woman? Was that what you were going to say, Mr. Sandeen? Yes, I’m a woman, but I’m also Howard Flynn’s niece, and blood runs true in the Flynn family. I won’t do anything that I think would disappoint my Uncle Howard, and that includes letting you waltz in here with your smooth talk and take over without firing another shot.”
Sandeen’s voice was chilly as he said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about those masked men you sent over here last night to burn some of my buildings, kill some of my men, and terrorize me into going along with whatever you wanted.”
“That’s crazy!” he said angrily. “I never—”
“You asked if I recognized any of the raiders,” she cut in. “I got a good look at one of them, and I knew him right away . . . your hired gunfighter, Frank Morgan.”
“Morgan! But—” Sandeen stopped himself. “You’ve got it all wrong, Laura. I didn’t have anything to do with those men who attacked your ranch. I’m sorry it happened, and despite your offensive and insulting comments, I’ll repeat my offer to help you out in this time of trouble.” His voice hardened until it was like flint. “But this is the last time. If you don’t accept my offer, then whatever happens from here on out will be on your own head.”
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